War and Peace: Original Version

War and Peace: Original Version Leo Nikolayevich Tolstoy An alternative version – the one Tolstoy originally intended, but has been hitherto unpublished – of Russia’s most famous novel; with a different ending, fewer digressions and an altered view of Napoleon – it’s time to look afresh at one of the world’s favourite books.‘War and Peace’ is a masterpiece – a panoramic portrait of Russian society and its descent into the Napoleonic Wars which for over a century has inspired reverential devotion among its readers.This version is certain to provoke controversy and devotion in equal measures. A ‘first draft’ of the epic version known to all, it was completed in 1866 but never published. A closely guarded secret for a century and a half, the unveiling of the original version of ‘War and Peace’, with an ending different to that we all know, is of huge significance to students of Tolstoy. But it is also sure to prove fascinating to the general reader who will find it an invigorating and absorbing read. Free of the solemn philosophical wanderings, the drama and tragedy of this sweeping tale is reinforced. His characters remain central throughout, emphasising their own personal journeys, their loves and passions, their successes and failures and their own personal tragedies.500 pages shorter, this is historical fiction at its most vivid and vital, and readers will marvel anew at Tolstoy’s unique ability to conjure the lives and souls of Russia and the Russians in all their glory. For devotees who long for more, for those who struggled and didn’t quite make it to the end, or for those who have always wanted to know what all the fuss is about, this is essential reading. War and Peace Original Version Leo Tolstoy Translated by Andrew Bromfield Introduction by Nikolai Tolstoy Contents Cover (#u962b2934-ba4d-5975-95ef-b57b014a225d) Title Page Introduction A Note on the Translation Table of Russian Weights and Measures List of Illustrations Part I I “Eh bien, mon prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now… II Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room began filling up little by little. III Anna Pavlovna’s soir?e was in full swing. On various sides… IV This new person was the young Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, husband… V Anna Pavlovna requested the vicomte to wait while she showed… VI The end of the vicomte’s story went as follows: VII “The entire nation will die for its Emperor, for the… VIII Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charming soir?e, the guests… IX Reaching the house first, Pierre, as if he lived there,… X A woman’s dress rustled in the next room. As if… XI The friends were silent. Neither said a word. Pierre kept… XII It was after one in the morning when Pierre left… XIII Prince Vasily kept the promise that he had made to… XIV Silence fell. The countess looked at her guest with a… XV Of the young people, aside from the countess’s elder daughter,… XVI When Natasha came out of the drawing room and started… XVII The countess felt so tired after the visits that she… XVIII In the drawing room the conversation was continuing. XIX “My dear Boris,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said to her son… XX Boris, thanks to his placid and reserved character, was never… XXI When Anna Mikhailovna and her son left to go to… XXII Countess Rostova and her daughter and an already large number… XXIII It was that moment before a formal dinner when the… XXIV Natasha was clearly unable to sit still. She pinched her… XXV The card tables had all been set up, parties sat… XXVI Meanwhile Natasha, running first into Sonya’s room and not finding… XXVII Natasha whispered to Nikolai that Vera had just upset Sonya… XXVIII While at the Rostovs’ house they were dancing the sixth… XXIX While these conversations were taking place in the reception room… XXX Pierre knew this large room, divided by columns and an… XXXI There was no longer anyone in the reception room apart… XXXII At Bleak Hills, the estate of Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky,… XXXIII Princess Marya went back to her room with the sad,… XXXIV The grey-haired valet was dozing in his chair, listening to… XXXV When the twenty minutes remaining until the time for the… XXXVI “Well now, Mikhail Ivanovich, our Buonaparte is having a hard… XXXVII Prince Andrei was leaving in the evening of the next… Part II I In October 1805, Russian forces were occupying the villages and… II “He’s coming!” a signalman shouted at just that moment. III The regiment broke up into companies and set out for… IV On returning from the review, Kutuzov went through into his… V The Pavlograd Hussars Regiment was stationed two miles from Braunau. VI Kutuzov withdrew towards Vienna, destroying the bridges on the rivers… VII Two enemy shots had already flown over the bridge, and… VIII The remaining infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, funnelling in tightly… IX After crossing the bridge, one after another the two squadrons… X Pursued by a French army of a hundred thousand men… XI Prince Andrei went on to the house of the Russian… XII The following morning he woke late. Reviewing his impression of… XIII The Emperor Franz approached Prince Andrei, who was standing in… XIV That same night, having taken his leave of the war… XV On the 1st of November Kutuzov had received, via one… XVI Between three and four in the afternoon Prince Andrei, having… XVII “Eh bien,” Prince Andrei said to himself, “the Army of… XVIII Prince Andrei halted his horse at the battery, surveying the… XIX Prince Bagration, having ridden up to the very highest point… XX The attack by the Sixth Chasseurs made it possible for… XXI The infantry regiments, caught by surprise in the forest, were… XXII Tushin’s battery had been forgotten, and it was only at… XXIII The wind died down and black clouds hung low over… XXIV “Who are they? Why are they here? What do they… Part III I Prince Vasily did not brood over his plans, any more… II After Pierre and H?l?ne’s wedding, the old prince Nikolai Andreevich… III The Rostovs had had no news about Nikolai for a… IV On the 12th of November Kutuzov’s active army, camped near… V The day after Boris’s meeting with Rostov, there was a… VI The day after the review Boris, dressed up in his… VII That very day there had been a council of war… VIII On the 15th of November the allied army advanced from… IX Before dawn the next day, Denisov’s squadron, in which Nikolai… X The following day the sovereign remained at Wischau. His physician-in-ordinary… XI After nine in the evening Weierother moved on with his… XII It was after one in the morning when Rostov, sent… XIII It was nine o’clock in the morning. The fog extended… XIV The plan for the Battle of Austerlitz had been drawn… XV At the beginning of the battle Prince Bagration, reluctant to… XVI By five o’clock in the evening the battle had been… XVII Prince Andrei was lying on Pratzen Hill, still at the… XVIII At the beginning of 1806, Nikolai Rostov went home on… XIX The following day, the 3rd of March, after one o’clock… XX The following day at Sokolniki Pierre, as absent-minded as ever,… XXI Recently Pierre had only seen his wife at night or… XXII Two months had passed since Bleak Hills received news of… XXIII “Ma bonne amie,” the little princess said after breakfast on… XXIV The impression of the first war with Napoleon was still… XXV Despite the sovereign’s strict attitude to duellists at that time,… XXVI Two days after clarifying things with his wife, Pierre went… XXVII The matter between Pierre and Dolokhov was hushed up and,… XXVIII In 1807 Pierre finally set off on a tour of… XXIX After his three-week sojourn in the country, concerning which he… XXX In 1807 life at Bleak Hills had changed little, except… XXXI Although the final debt of forty-two thousand, taken on to… XXXII The sovereign was in residence at Bartenstein. The army was… XXXIII Boris had found himself a position with the Emperor’s staff… XXXXIV After the Friedland disaster, Nikolai Rostov had been left as… Part IV I No one mentioned “Buonaparte”, the Corsican upstart and Antichrist, any… II With the exception of a short visit to St. Petersburg,… III On arriving in St. Petersburg in 1809, Prince Andrei ordered… IV Prince Andrei was a novelty in St. Petersburg. His claim… V In the evening, after leaving the countess’s drawing room, Pierre… VI The Rostovs’ financial affairs had not been restored during the… VII Natasha, having lived in solitude in the country for the… VIII Prince Andrei arrived in St. Peterburg in August 1809. At… IX The day after his visit to Count Arakcheev, Prince Andrei… X There were many reasons that had led Pierre to this… XI On the 31st of December, the eve of the New… XII The following day Prince Andrei woke up and smiled, without… XIII For four days Prince Andrei did not go to the… XIV The morning after her bed-time discussion with her mother, when… XV Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky and his daughter spent that winter… Part V I The Biblical tradition has it that the absence of labour… II It was the 12th of September. There were already early… III About five male house serfs, both big and little, came… IV In the late autumn another letter was received from Prince… V The Yuletide season arrived. Besides the festive liturgy, at which… VI Natasha was the first to set the tone of Yuletide… VII The love between Prince Andrei and Natasha and their happiness… VIII At the beginning of winter, Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky and… IX In 1811 a French doctor acquired rapid fashionability in Moscow. X Pierre’s suppositions concerning Boris were correct. Boris could not make… XI The Rostovs arrived in early February. Natasha had never been… XII That evening the Rostovs went to the theatre. Natasha had… XIII In the year of 1811, life in Moscow was very… XIV The brightly lit drawing room at the Bezukhovs’ house was… XV After his first meeting with Natasha in Moscow, Pierre had… Part VI I In the spring of 1812, Prince Andrei was in Turkey,… II The count was in despair. He wrote to send for… III “My brother sovereign!” Napoleon wrote in the spring of 1812… IV On the 11th of June at eleven o’clock in the… V The Russian Emperor and his court had already been living… VI As he despatched Balashov, the sovereign repeated yet again his… VII The gloomy soldier Davout was the complete opposite of Murat. VIII After Balashov had spent four days in solitude, boredom and… IX After his meeting with Pierre in Moscow, Prince Andrei went… X Prince Andrei reached army Central Headquarters on the 13th of… XI While Prince Andrei was living on the Drissa with nothing… XII Before the start of the campaign, when the regiment was… XIII More than a year had passed since Natasha had rejected… XIV As promised, Pierre came to dinner straight from Count Rostopchin’s… XV On the twelfth the sovereign arrived in Moscow and from… Part VII I What had to happen was bound to happen. Just as… II After Prince Andrei’s departure, the old Prince Bolkonsky’s daughter observed… III Among the countless categories of all the phenomena of life,… IV While this was taking place in St. Petersburg, the French… V “The bird returned to its native fields” galloped to the… VI Between four and five in the evening that day, long… VII On taking command of the armies, Kutuzov remembered Prince Andrei… VIII On the 24th of August the French Emperor’s chamberlain, de… IX The Shevardino redoubt was attacked on the evening of the… X After the sovereign left Moscow, when that first moment of… XI On that clear evening of the 25th of August, Prince… XII At six o’clock it was light. It was a grey… XIII Prince Andrei was in the reserves, who had been firing… XIV After the Battle of Borodino, immediately after the battle, the… XV The following day Napoleon stood on Poklonnaya Hill and looked… XVI The two princesses (the third had married long ago) had… XVII In St. Petersburg, after the sovereign’s arrival from Moscow, many… XVIII On the 1st of October, on the feast of the… XIX In the middle of September the Rostovs and their transport… XX After the enemy’s entry into Moscow and the reports denouncing… XXI During this period, when all the French wanted was to… XXII Pierre was with this depot among the prisoners. On the… XXIII One of the first people Andrei met in the army… About the Author and Translator Praise Credits Copyright About the Publisher LEO TOLSTOY Photograph, Moscow, 1868 (#ulink_60b02ed4-1e4e-5de7-9fbc-813e9344b806) INTRODUCTION Ben Jonson is said to have criticized Shakespeare when told that ‘hee never blotted out line’, and Sir Walter Scott was similarly an author who wrote with extraordinary rapidity and accuracy. Leo Tolstoy, in contrast, regularly rewrote and restructured much of his work, on occasion spending years immersed in elaborate correction. It is not surprising, therefore, that War and Peace, the longest major Russian novel ever written, occupied the greater part of the decade 1863 to 1873. He had been mulling over the potential of an historical novel some years before that, but his earliest drafts for the book dating from 1863 show that it was then that he decided to write a work whose setting would be the dramatic events associated with Russia’s wars against Napoleon. Two years later he published the first section in the literary journal Russkii Vestnik under the title 1805, and the second entitled War appeared a year later in 1866. Although Tolstoy’s prime concern lay with exploration of human character, he was fascinated by the grand drama of historical events. He had experienced war in the Balkans, the Caucasus, and the Crimea, and from a cheerfully unreflecting Russian patriot he became increasingly concerned to discover the underlying rationale of a phenomenon which perversely legitimated lying, spying, murder, cruelty, and rapine on a grand scale – vices which civil society is at pains to suppress. Conventional historians of the day recounted events in terms of grand strategy carried out by commanders executing complex manoeuvres, which proved successful or unsuccessful according to their talents and those of their adversaries. Tolstoy – who had known at first hand the smoke, din, fire, terror, and heady intoxication of battle – saw in contrast only the interplay of confusion, chance, and a multitude of disparate factors far beyond the capacity of individuals to control or even understand. All this is well known: what is less so is the extent to which Tolstoy pursued painstaking researches as an historical novelist. His best biographer, the Englishman Aylmer Maude, suggested that War and Peace was not an historical novel in the true sense, since the age in which his story is set remained within the memory of his parents’ generation. But this is to do Tolstoy an injustice. His notes and correspondence illustrate the remarkable extent to which he sought to reconstruct the past, whether pacing the battlefield at Borodino or investigating recondite details ranging from the extent to which men still wore hair powder in 1805 to the fact that the copse in which Pierre Bezukhov and Dolokhov fought their duel was pine rather than birch. One of Tolstoy’s major problems was that of establishing the precise nature of his genre. As he explained to Katkov, the editor of Russkii Vestnik, in January 1865: ‘the work is not a novel and is not a story, and cannot have the sort of plot whose interest ends with the d?nouement. I am writing this in order to ask you not to call my work a novel in the table of contents, or perhaps in the advertisement either. This is very important to me, and I particularly request it of you’. Those sections which appeared in 1865 and 1866 were but the introduction to a much larger work, which by the end of 1866 he believed he had completed. Over the previous six months he had written 726 pages of manuscript, which he felt brought the work to a satisfactory conclusion. His pleasure in writing was intense, and as he explained later he ‘generally enjoyed good spirits’, and on days when his work had gone well, he would gleefully announce that he had left ‘a bit of my life in the inkstand’. It is this version which comprises the present work, which was first made available to the Russian general reader seven years ago, and is here presented for the first time in English. The title Tolstoy proposed was All’s Well That Ends Well, from which it may be correctly inferred that it had a happy ending. There can be no doubt that he intended this version to be published, for which he engaged as illustrator a talented artist named Nikolai Sergeievich Bashilov. Tolstoy and Bashilov enjoyed a close and constructive collaboration. Thus when the author explained that he had based the character of Natasha in large part on his sister-in-law Tatiana, the artist’s task was the easier since he was her uncle. Sadly, Bashilov’s increasing illness made it ever harder for him to meet insistent deadlines imposed by the author and publisher, and at the end of 1870 he died while undergoing a health cure in the Tyrol. Consequently the early editions of the novel remain unillustrated, and it was not until 1893 that an able successor to Bashilov was found in the form of Leonid Pasternak, father of the novelist Boris. War and Peace ‘as we know it’ was published in six volumes in 1868–69. By that time Tolstoy had extensively revised All’s Well That Ends Well, radically altering its conclusion and carrying the story forward in part as a reminder that life does not come to a gratifying halt with marriage. Two years later he wrote disparagingly: ‘I’ve stopped writing, and will never again write verbose nonsense like War and Peace. I’m guilty, but I swear I’ll never do it again’. However he had not reached the end of his creative activity, and in 1873 set about further extensive restructuring. ‘I’ve started to prepare a second edition of War and Peace and to strike out what is superfluous – some things need to be struck out altogether, others to be removed and printed separately’, he wrote to a literary friend in March. ‘And if you can remember, remind me of what is bad. I’m afraid to touch it, because there is so much that is bad in my eyes that I would want to write it again after refurbishing it’. Even this was not the end of the story, for when his wife came to issue a fresh collected edition of his works in 1886 it was the 1868–69 version that she chose. Whether this was Tolstoy’s choice remains unknown, but he can scarcely have disapproved. This illustrates the extent to which he envisaged his creation as a living entity subject to continual modification, and confirms the desirability of making public the first version he completed. Whether the final ‘canonical’ edition represents an improvement must be left to readers to judge, and the present publication at last provides means of effecting the comparison. Those who have never read War and Peace will be able to enjoy experiencing Tolstoy’s first heady production of that wonderful work, and those who have will undergo the stimulating experience of being able to compare it with its predecessor. Apart from the truncated conclusion, attentive readers will note many differences of detail and emphasis. My own interest was particularly aroused by subtle variations in the treatment of Dolokhov, the bold and on occasion cruel lover of Pierre’s faithless wife H?l?ne. Based on Tolstoy’s cousin, the noted duellist and adventurer Feodor Ivanovich Tolstoy, whose larger-than-life personality clearly fascinated the novelist, he erupts as another fictional counterpart into the marvellous short story ‘Two Hussars’, where in the space of twenty-four hours he turns upside down the sleepy life of a provincial town. The writer was fortunate in possessing a family and friends preeminently adaptable to the most exotic of fictive requirements. As he wrote to his cousin Alexandra, a lady in waiting to the Empress, during the writing of All’s Well That Ends Well: ‘you possess that Tolstoyan wildness that’s common to us all. Not for nothing did Feodor Ivanovich have himself tattooed’. His words might have as aptly been applied to the larger-than-life author himself. Nikolai Tolstoy, 2007 A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION Like most literary classics, War and Peace has generated a long and distinguished tradition of English translations. But while most are based on the ‘classical’ 1500-page text, the present translation is based on an earlier, shorter text that is now being translated into English for the first time. This shorter Russian text was brought out in 2000 by the Moscow publisher Igor Zakharov as ‘the first complete edition of the great novel War and Peace’. His edition, however, was in fact derived from an earlier edition which, although unknown to the world at large, had long been familiar to literary specialists as the first draft, recovered by the Tolstoy scholar Evelina E. Zaidenshnur. This text, together with a 60-page commentary, had been published as a scholarly monograph in 1983, in vol. 94 of the Academy of Sciences journal Literaturnoe Nasledstvo (Literary Heritage), although much of the material had appeared earlier still in the 90-volume Jubilee edition of Tolstoy’s Collected Works. Evelina Zaidenshnur’s reconstruction was an extraordinary achievement, the fruit of fifty years’ painstaking paleographical detective work in the massive archive held by the Tolstoy Museum in Moscow. This work had culminated in the first, full working version whose last page contains the word: ‘Konets’ or ‘The End’. Known to have reached completion in December 1866, this draft had soon been dispersed in the process of rewriting that began shortly after. Zaidenshnur’s text was a mosaic of manuscripts retrieved from across the archive and reassembled through the careful matching of Tolstoy’s original handwriting, ink and paper and close examination of his numerous notebooks, diaries and letters for clues and references to the work in progress. Zaidenshnur’s edition offers us a coherent narrative which, despite its occasional roughness and sketchiness and obvious differences, is often as polished and fine as the later, canonical version. Inevitably, however, in the long process of deciphering several thousands of pages of impenetrable scrawl, crisscrossed with cancellations, messily overwritten and with scribbled additions ballooning into the margins, there were errors and oversights in transcription. Words were misread, sentences misplaced. Nevertheless, as befitted a scholarly enterprise, the text included multiple variants in brackets (cancelled words as well as alternative readings) and the entire project was described in meticulous depth. It was this essentially academic text, shorn of its scholarly apparatus and its variants, somewhat rewritten and with none of its original French, that was re-issued in 2000 by Zakharov as ‘the first’ War and Peace, and promoted as ‘half the usual length, less war and more peace, no philosophical digressions’, and so on. Although the English translation that follows is based largely on that edition, frequent reference has also been made to Zaidenshnur’s edition as well as the later ‘classical’ text. Claiming this as the ‘original’ War and Peace, might, as one reviewer remarked, ‘cause purists to wince’. This version is not, however, intended as substitute for the canonical version so much as its complement, rather as a brilliant sketch, or series of sketches, stands in relation to the final canvas of a great masterpiece. Complete if unpolished, this version still offers authentic delights, especially to those readers new to Tolstoy (and for whom there await all the greater pleasures of the longer text). Many familiar scenes – the Rostovs’ banquet, the hunt, the dancing, for example – are already here, although they will later be placed in settings of altogether grander, more universal proportions. Devotees and scholars (above all those unable to read the original Russian) will value this version meanwhile for the rare insights it offers into the ‘creative laboratory’ of a consummate artist. Close comparison will point to the scattered phrases in the one that blossom into major themes and characters (such as Platon Karataev) in the other. Or reveal how elements in the early draft are cast aside, redeployed, or amplified in the ruthless process of reshaping, refining and rearranging that duly occurs on the large scale and the small. Sympathies switch from one figure to another; attributes migrate; names are reassigned; a single character splits into two, while several meld into one; new faces enter, others depart. And while the storyline takes significant new turns, so the weave of its telling grows increasingly intricate. The creation of War and Peace, as R.F. Christian and K. Feuer have shown, was dynamic in process – there was no exact plan, it evolved in the writing: Tolstoy’s unfolding philosophy would shape his narrative as much as the narrative would shape his philosophy. After several false starts (which would all leave their traces), new ideas would be tried out continually as each draft was refashioned. The difference in treatment is most apparent in the endings, where the hastily outlined ‘happy’ ending of this first full version gives way to closing scenes that subtly recapitulate the grand themes which resonate throughout the mature work – life and death, peace and war, and so on – and suggest continuity rather than conclusion. This early draft, then, catches the work at a crucial stage in its development, just when Tolstoy was poised to expand his core text into what would finally emerge as the War and Peace that we know. In accordance with the convention of the day Tolstoy, even before his draft was complete, had already submitted the opening parts for publication, and three instalments, under the overall title 1805, appeared in 1865 and 1866 in the journal Russkii Vestnik (Russian Herald). However, conceiving his work as a single entity, Tolstoy abandoned serial publication. The end of his first full draft was reached in December 1866, but dissatisfied with its scope, Tolstoy withdrew to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana, took a break over the new year holidays and then embarked on three further years of intense research and rewriting, during which he would gradually transform what was now more or less a family chronicle (and which he considered calling All’s Well That Ends Well) into the monumental epic that would be entitled War and Peace. Over the next few years Tolstoy travelled to battle sites, devoured memoirs and histories, and talked with old soldiers who could still recall the events of their youth. His finished text, amplified and elaborated, would be almost twice its original length. Although the full-length version was initially published in six volumes between 1868 and 1869, it would undergo yet further extensive revision before appearing in 1873 as the single, four-volume set that Tolstoy had originally envisaged. This second edition of 1873 is regarded by some as the most authoritative. However, Tolstoy continued to make changes in subsequent editions, adjusting details of style, translating the many passages of French into Russian, rearranging the text and removing the more intrusive of his philosophical digressions to a separate section at the end. The divisions into volumes, parts and chapters differed with each edition. Moreover, by the 1880s, Tolstoy had lost interest in the publication of his own work and handed his copyrights to his wife, Sofia, and she failed to ensure that earlier amendments were incorporated into later editions. Thus among the six editions that came out between 1868 and 1886, no two are alike, and a consensus has never been reached as to which of them is best or definitive. Further complications dog the question of an ‘authorised’ version. Tolstoy’s wife had copied the entire work out seven times in the course of its composition, but along the way had acted as editor, making her own changes, and censoring and suppressing whatever could be deemed offensive or dangerous. Others had a hand in this too, but – odd as it may seem today – this was done with Tolstoy’s agreement. His attitude should be placed in context. In Russia, because political and philosophical ideas were denied open public debate, they found expression in literature and poetry, and while this resulted in a uniquely rich body of work freighted with powerful allusions, the poets and writers themselves were turned into potential subversives with state censors routinely scrutinising their every word. Hence we find Tolstoy telling his editor P.I. Bartenev on 6 December 1867: ‘I give you carte blanche to cross out everything that strikes you as dangerous. You know better than I what is possible and what is not.’ And again on 8 December 1867: ‘… I am beginning to fear that censorship or the printers could give us nasty trouble. I place my only hope about these two matters in you.’ Tolstoy’s very earliest attempts, during the 1850s, at what would become War and Peace were clearly engaged with the politics of his own day. His initial central figure was an ageing Decembrist revolutionary (an older Pierre Bezukhov) returning to Russia from exile after serving his sentence for participating in the unsuccessful uprising of December 1825 (from which came the name ‘Decembrist’). To portray him in depth, however, Tolstoy saw that he needed to understand his hero’s youth. This had been shaped by the year 1812, when Russia had rejoiced at the disaster of Napoleon’s failed invasion. Yet that year could not be separated from 1807 and 1805, when it had been Russia’s turn to be shamed by Napoleon, this time in direct military defeat. Thus Tolstoy’s focus had kept pushing ever further back from his own time to that of his grandfather, and in the end his narrative would deal with those early years alone. What came to concern him were not historic events in themselves so much as the continuity, the cyclicity, of ideas: although centred on Russia’s confrontation with Napoleon, the book’s main sweep of action is framed by the unseen French revolution which has taken place before the story opens and the Decembrist uprising which will take place after it ends. Both are signalled in the ardent aspirations of the young: first in Pierre who has returned from post-revolutionary Paris, then in Andrei’s young son, who eagerly eavesdrops on political talk that heralds the forthcoming change. Tolstoy’s contemporaries (as well as the censors) could easily catch these implications and read this apparent work of history as a comment on their own times. In his great transformation, Tolstoy’s point of departure had become his point of arrival. The more he researched the intricacies of the past, the more Tolstoy came to distrust accepted histories with their false view of great men and great events. As his perspective lengthened, so it widened from the life of a single individual to encompass the interwoven fates of whole families and the destinies of nations. The scope likewise broadened beyond his own social class of princes and emperors to include all Russian society down to the peasants and common soldiers, whom he would duly regard as the bedrock of wisdom and patriotism. With his mass of personal evidence and detailed reminiscence, Tolstoy blended fact with fiction until the two could barely be told apart: mythic figures from history were brought to life as convincingly as his imaginary inventions, all invested alike with well documented words and actions and animated by incisive psychological insight. Tolstoy taught lessons in reading as well as in life: what looks significant here will be insignificant there, what seemed trivial before seems important after. In the teeming tumult of life, in the unstoppable onrush of events no one can ever know or determine his or her place or fate. These philosophical reflections were shaped into essays and discursive digressions that were initially incorporated into the flow of the narrative (but were later amended or removed). Yet War and Peace is more than just story and lecture: the texture itself embodies the philosophy that it expounds. Keen to free himself from novelistic constraints, Tolstoy turned his creation into what Henry James would disparage as a ‘loose baggy monster’, a vast web of the ‘accidental and the arbitrary’. But apparent inconsistencies turn out to be continuous threads that form and reform in a stream of flux and inconsequence: the lives of central figures are revealed at significant moments in sharply observed episodes; bystanders are briefly caught by the limelight, then vanish for ever in the flow of the text. Even the central characters flourish and fade as we turn the pages. The reader thus turns spectator, immersed, watching, puzzling, remembering, the process of reading akin to living itself. What strikes us as strange – some unexplained personage here, some name mentioned there – may be part of the overall design, the text consciously rendered as random and unfathomable as human existence. It is hard, however, to distinguish intentionality from inadvertence in an early draft such as this. While the anomalies in Zaidenshnur’s edition are usually ascribed to the misreading of manuscript, some of them might not be outright mistakes but rather the tentative signs of Tolstoy’s developing ideas. Although the more obvious anomalies have been corrected, some still remain in the Zakharov edition. Should these be conveyed into English, or seamlessly resolved, and if so, how? The loyalties of a translation are always torn between the future reader and the past source. The present translation treads a fine line between the two, sometimes offering close recreations, warts (so to speak) and all, but at other times making minor adjustments, which often means bringing the text anachronistically into line with the canonical version. The following illustrates a minor adjustment. In a sentence that occurs in both early drafts, but is cut from the canonical version, Pierre, at the English Club, drinks something called ‘Alito Margo’. This non-existent potion was clearly a misreading of Tolstoy’s Russian scrawl for ‘Ch?teau Margaux’, a French wine that was probably unknown to scholars in the Soviet period, but has been rendered thus in the English. In occasional places, to bridge puzzling jumps that occur in the source texts, words have been added in square brackets for the sake of continuity. Those familiar with the canonical War and Peace may wonder about the general absence of French from this edition, that language having constituted some 2.5 per cent of Tolstoy’s original text. Accurately depicting the period in which the book is set, Tolstoy shows the Russian upper classes complacently writing and conversing in French, but this conceals an irony, for he also shows not only how the speaking of French alienated the aristocracy from their own native people, but also how it compromised their declared allegiance when Russia was at war with France. Whereas Zaidenshnur (1983) faithfully reproduces all the French from Tolstoy’s original manuscripts, the Zakharov version (2000) translates every word into Russian. This is less contentious than it might seem, for Tolstoy himself, when criticised for featuring so much French in his first edition of 1868–9, translated it all into Russian for the second edition of 1873. He also employed various compensatory techniques, telling the reader, for example, that someone was speaking in French when the words themselves were Russian. Posthumous editions would in due course restore the French to the main text and relegate Tolstoy’s Russian translations to footnotes. Soviet editions with the French were called ‘classical’, while cheaper ‘popular’ editions remained all-Russian. But questions of readability aside, the loss of French deprives the text of a crucial subtlety, for Tolstoy constantly uses language as a gauge of sincerity and realism: French signals artificiality and remoteness, Russian signals integrity and groundedness, and folk idiom true earthy wisdom. English translations have seldom reproduced all, if any, of the French. The present version restores it in ‘gestural’ form only (eh bien! O dieu!), to give a flavour of its original presence and remind the reader of its impact. Names in Tolstoy present special problems. In the original manuscripts the names of chief protagonists are French throughout – Andr?, Nicolas, Pierre and so on – although affectionate forms are always Russianised. The present translation uses the Russian forms Andrei and Nikolai, for example, but retains the French H?l?ne and Pierre, partly because of their uniqueness in the wider literary tradition. Transliteration of foreign words aims for readerly access rather than scholarly precision. Place names follow Tolstoy’s idiosyncratic usage and most of his odd, unexplained names of people and apparently inconsistent dates or ages have been left. At that period, Russians used the Julian calendar, which was twelve days behind the Gregorian calendar then in general use elsewhere in Europe. But historical accuracy was of little concern to Tolstoy, and he wrote: ‘An historian and an artist describing an historic epoch have two quite different tasks before them.’ And given the deliberately distorted, impressionistic quality of certain passages, such details as the age assigned to a character seem to be not so much chronologically precise as approximations in development and mentality. Tolstoy’s spelling is erratic but has generally been regularised. However, the alternate spellings of Bonaparte/Buonaparte follow the original draft exactly, for they subtly register the Russians’ changing view of the French leader’s repeated self-inventions, tracing the rise of this ‘upstart’ from low-born Corsican soldier (Buonaparte) to French general (Bonaparte) to Emperor (Napoleon). Russians would have perceived an audible difference between the derisively drawled vowel-sounds of Italian ‘Bu-o-na-par-te’, and the contemptuous snort of the French ‘Bonaparte’. Finally we come to the slightly vexed question of Tolstoy’s style. Tolstoy was an experimental writer who rejected the nineteenth century novel with its conventions and pretensions, above all to authorial invisibility. He wished to convey widely differing experiential effects, many of them rooted in the visual: his writing is often craggy and rough, yet it achieves a piercing clarity that is as merciless as it is miraculous. This relentless percipience is relieved by softer moments of impressionism, such as his famous false-naive technique of ‘ostranenie’ or ‘defamiliarisation’ (numbingly tragic on the battlefield, wryly comic in the theatre). Similarly impressionistic are the long, winding sentences with their many clauses that hasten along in the recreation of swiftly passing time. Sometimes the slipping syntax that results from this haste has been corrected in English, but sometimes it has been left, true to the original. Such slippage could well be part of Tolstoy’s deliberate deformations. His generally hurtling manner has a brusqueness and vigour that purposely fly in the face of literary forebears (especially the gentilities of Turgenev, with whom he quarrelled). His use of the same unvarying adjective throughout a single passage, in grand disregard for fine style, creates an unrepentant hammering effect in Russian but raises problems in English, which abhors repetition of this kind. Whilst the present translation introduces small variations in the name of stylistic euphony, it occasionally mimics that repetition to enable readers to feel the force and strangeness of the original. Time and again Tolstoy insisted that this work was neither a novel nor a poem nor a history, and he would have loathed the idea of its being recast in translation as the very thing, a neat and tidy story, that he so strenuously sought to avoid. Tolstoy’s presence in the text is felt everywhere, but especially in his use of the parenthetical aside, whereby the authorial voice suddenly and unashamedly disrupts the story to offer a comment or explanation, revealing a contempt for the very artifice of fiction with which it is beguiling us. In the Russian, this change of voice mid-dialogue carries no warning punctuation, but in the translation it is isolated by the usual marks. In this, as in so many other respects, Tolstoy’s virtuoso brilliance prefigures the modernists of the twentieth century: Vladimir Nabokov, for example, writing in English almost a hundred years later, would perfect the art of parenthesis with his famous: ‘(picnic, lightning)’, but well before that Joseph Conrad and Virginia Woolf were just two among the many whose admiration had taken the sincerest form it could, that of imitation. The present translation has tried to convey some of the special qualities that make this early version of War and Peace, written with the energy of an artist who was still feeling his way to greatness, so deserving of our close attention. Jenefer Coates Editor Andrew Bromfield Translator Table of Russian Weights and Measures Approximate equivalents of old Russian measurements: LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Leo Tolstoy. Photograph, Moscow 1868. (#ulink_467fd2a2-8140-5af1-81cc-f800f4d00ac2) Tolstoy. Photograph, 1862. (#ulink_e3430692-b7c8-502f-80aa-5d4e1a3598e9) Prince Vasily. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_b7c1b77b-269c-534f-a926-70e7d4e458c8) The Little Princess. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_a4860cbb-39c9-580c-a781-d4ae5249f355) Pierre Bezukhov. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_bd0a91a5-2104-583e-a31e-107ee70be783) Hippolyte Kuragin. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_27bf97fe-f0d6-5691-bfa1-f4c3084f7f06) Pierre Bezukhov. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_25aaffe7-a559-58e0-9580-a0777e95272f) Dolokhov’s Wager with the Englishman. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_6c3a25e4-6426-559e-8e64-d40a45f52866) Sonya. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_bf8eb500-5570-572c-8f78-4ea93cce1d8c) Natasha Rostov and Boris Drubetskoy. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_1b747fd3-838d-556b-a208-0e0165b49c39) Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskaya and her son Boris. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_6df01836-3345-565f-b8d0-99fc17fe9202) Dancing the Daniel Cooper. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_72e19823-6a81-58d5-9a0f-09e3f038a5d2) The Death of Count Bezukhov. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_802e36c8-8f8e-5760-ae66-e1a4adaecd3f) The Struggle for the Document Case. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_d79d88e7-293e-5afe-bd86-eddf99cbf84b) The Maths Lesson. Wood engraving by K.I. Rikhai after the drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866. (#ulink_1eb55843-f0de-5bfe-97e8-202961f0b863) Kutuzov. Engraving by Cardelli. (#ulink_e3a28645-7f88-58f3-b9e9-a52771d00162) The Military Review: Kutuzov and Dolokhov. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867. (#ulink_72f15fc3-e613-5cbb-9ca7-bea550b05513) Russian Army Marching Across the River Enns. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867. (#ulink_0467558e-65a5-5ee4-b162-2dfbe79d1457) Napoleon in 1807. Engraving by Debucourt. (#ulink_b2dbf563-641f-5975-ac32-c38d8c735597) Bilibin. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867. (#ulink_a4b86808-9018-54ea-a6ee-604570d3d69e) Prince Andrei and Emperor Franz. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867. (#litres_trial_promo) Wounded Rostov at the Campfire. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867. (#litres_trial_promo) Battle of Austerlitz on 2 December 1805. Engraving by Bosque after the drawing by Charles Vernet. (#litres_trial_promo) The Meeting of the Two Emperors at Tilsit on 25 June 1807. Engraving by Couch? fils after the drawing by Zwiebach. (#litres_trial_promo) Natasha Dancing at the Uncle’s House. Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1860s, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow. (#litres_trial_promo) Smolensk, 20 August 1812. Lithograph. (#litres_trial_promo) The Battle of Borodino. Lithograph by Albrecht Adam. (#litres_trial_promo) A sheet of Manuscript 107. (#litres_trial_promo) Final sheet of Manuscript 107: “The End”. (#litres_trial_promo) PART I TOLSTOY Photograph 1862 Autograph on mounting: “1862. I took this myself. Count L.N. Tolstoy. Photograph at Yasnaya Polyana.” (#ulink_699644f9-5dcc-5ac8-9d2a-4624531e85c5) I “Eh bien, mon prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now merely estates, the private estates of the Buonaparte family. Non, I warn you, if you don’t say this means war, if you still defend all these vile acts, all these atrocities by an Antichrist (for I really do believe he is the Antichrist), then I no longer know you, you are no longer mon ami, you are no longer, as you put it, my devoted slave. But, anyway, how do you do, how are you? I see I am frightening you, do come and sit down and tell me what’s going on.” These were the words with which, in July 1805, the renowned Anna Pavlovna Scherer, lady-in-waiting and confidante of the Empress Maria Fedorovna, greeted the influential and high-ranking Prince Vasily, who was the first to arrive at her soir?e. Anna Pavlovna had been coughing for several days, and had what she called the grippe (grippe then being a new word, used only by the few), and therefore had not attended at court nor even left the house. All of the notes she had sent out in the morning with a scarlet-liveried servant had contained the same message, without variation: If, Count (or Prince), you have nothing better to do, and the prospect of an evening in the company of a poor invalid is not too alarming, then I should be delighted to see you at home between seven and ten o’clock. Annette Scherer. “Dieu, what a fierce attack!” replied the prince with a faint smile, not in the least perturbed by this reception as he entered, wearing his embroidered court dress-coat, with knee-breeches, low shoes and starry decorations, and a serene expression on his cunning face. He spoke that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke, but also thought, and with the gently modulated, patronising intonation that was natural to a man of consequence who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna and kissed her hand, presenting to her the bald, perfumed top of his head, which gleamed white even between the grey hairs, then he calmly seated himself on the divan. “First of all, tell me how you are feeling, ma ch?re amie? Do set your friend’s mind at rest,” he said, without changing his tone of voice, in which, beneath the decorum and sympathy, there was a hint of indifference and even mockery. “How can you expect me to feel well, when one is suffering so, morally speaking? How can anyone with feeling stay calm in times like these?” said Anna Pavlovna. “You are here for the whole evening, I hope?” “But what about the festivities at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I really do have to show my face,” said the prince. “My daughter will be calling to take me there.” “I thought today’s celebrations had been cancelled. I do declare all these f?tes and fireworks are becoming an utter bore.” “Had they but known you wished it, they would have cancelled the celebrations,” said the prince by force of habit, like a wound-up clock, voicing things that he did not even wish to be believed. “Don’t tease me. Eh bien, what has been decided following this dispatch from Novosiltsev? You know everything.” “What can I say?” the prince said in a cold, bored voice. “What has been decided? It has been decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and we are apparently prepared to burn ours too.” Whether Prince Vasily’s words were wise or foolish, animated or indifferent, he uttered them in a tone that suggested he was repeating them for the thousandth time, like an actor speaking a part in an old play, as though the words were not the product of his reason, not spoken from the mind or heart, but by rote, with his lips alone. By contrast, Anna Pavlovna Scherer, despite her forty years, was full of an impulsive vivacity which long practice had scarcely taught her to curb within the limits of courtly decorum and discretion. At every moment she seemed on the point of uttering something improper, yet although she came within a hair’s breadth, no impropriety ever burst forth. She was not good-looking, but the rapturous enthusiasm of which she herself was aware in her glance and in the vivacity of her smile, which expressed her infatuation with ideal causes, evidently furnished her with that quality which was called interesting. From Prince Vasily’s words and his expression it was clear that the circles in which they both moved had long ago adopted the unanimous opinion that Anna Pavlovna was a sweet, good-hearted enthusiast and patriot who dabbled in matters that were not entirely her concern and often took things to extremes, but was lovable for the sincerity and ardour of her feelings. Being an enthusiast had become her position in society, and sometimes, even when she did not really wish it, she played the enthusiast simply in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The restrained smile that played constantly on Anna Pavlovna’s face, although it did not become her faded features, was an expression, as it is in spoilt children, of a constant awareness of her own charming defect, of which she neither wished, nor was able, nor felt it necessary, to rid herself. PRINCE VASILY Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_4d6f7eb8-4910-59be-8e34-16d7c32ca43e) The contents of the dispatch from Novosiltsev, who had set out to Paris for peace negotiations, were as follows. On arriving in Berlin, Novosiltsev had learned that Bonaparte had issued a decree annexing the Genoese Republic to the French Empire, while at the same time he was declaring his desire for reconciliation with England through the mediation of Russia. Novosiltsev, having halted in Berlin on the surmise that such coercive action on the part of Bonaparte might well alter the Emperor’s intentions, had requested His Majesty’s decision on whether he should move on to Paris or return home. The reply to Novosiltsev had already been drawn up and was due to be forwarded the following day. The seizure of Genoa was the long-sought pretext for a declaration of war, to which the opinion of court society was even more readily inclined than the military. The reply stated: “We do not wish to conduct negotiations with a man who, while declaring his desire to make peace, continues with his encroachments.” All this was the very latest news of the day. The prince evidently knew all these details from reliable sources and related them to the lady-in-waiting in jocular fashion. “Well, and where have these negotiations led us?” Anna Pavlovna asked, continuing with the conversation, as before, in French. “And what is the point of all these negotiations? It is not negotiations, but death for the death of the martyr that the scoundrel needs,” she said, flaring her nostrils and swinging round on the divan, then smiling. “How very bloodthirsty you are, ma ch?re! Not everything in politics is done as it is in the drawing room. There are precautionary measures to be taken,” Prince Vasily said with his melancholy smile which, though unnatural, had made itself so much at home on the prince’s old face after thirty years of constant repetition that its unnaturalness seemed quite normal. “Are there any letters from your family?” he added, evidently considering this lady-in-waiting unworthy of serious political conversation and attempting to lead her on to a different subject. “But where have all these precautionary measures led us?” Anna Pavlovna persisted, refusing to give way. “If nothing else, to discovering the opinion of that Austria of which you are so fond,” said Prince Vasily, clearly teasing Anna Pavlovna and not wishing to allow the tone of the conversation to move beyond the facetious. But Anna Pavlovna had become heated. “Oh, don’t you talk to me about Austria! Perhaps I don’t understand anything, but Austria does not want war and never has wanted it. She is betraying us. Russia alone must be the saviour of Europe. Our benefactor is aware of his high calling and he will be faithful to it. That is the one thing in which I believe. Our kind and wonderful sovereign is destined for the very greatest of roles in this world, and he is so virtuous and good, that God will not abandon him, and he will fulfil his calling to crush the hydra of revolution, which is more horrible than ever in the person of this assassin and villain. We alone must redeem the blood of the martyr. In whom can we place our hope, I ask you? England, with her commercial spirit, will not and cannot understand the lofty soul of Emperor Alexander. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wishes to see, she seeks an ulterior motive in our actions. What did they say to Novosiltsev? Nothing. They did not understand, they cannot understand the selflessness of our Emperor, who wants nothing for himself but wishes everything possible for the good of the world. And what have they promised? Nothing. And even what they have promised will never be done! Prussia has already declared that Buonaparte is invincible and all of Europe is powerless against him … And I don’t believe a single word that Hardenberg or Haugwitz say … This vaunted Prussian neutrality is no more than a trap. I believe only in God and the exalted destiny of our dear Emperor. He will save Europe!” She stopped abruptly, with a mocking smile at her own vehemence. “I think,” the prince said with a smile, “that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzengerode, you would have taken the Prussian king’s assent by storm. You are so eloquent. Are you going to give me tea?” “In a moment. A propos,” she said, composing herself once again, “I have a most interesting person coming today, the Vicomte de Mortemart, he is related to the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best families of France. He is one of the good ?migr?s, the real ones. He behaved very well and has lost everything. He was with the Duc d’Enghien, with the hapless holy martyr while he was visiting Etenheim. They say he is quite a darling. Your charming son Hippolyte has promised to bring him here. All our ladies are quite beside themselves over him,” she added with a smile of disdain, as though she were sorry for the poor ladies who could think of nothing better to do than fall in love with the Vicomte de Mortemart. “Apart from yourself, naturally,” said the prince in his gently mocking tone. “I have seen him in society, this vicomte,” he added, evidently little interested by the prospect of seeing Mortemart. “Tell me,” he said in a deliberately careless fashion, as if he had just remembered something, even though his enquiry was in fact the main purpose of his visit, “is it true that the Dowager Empress desires the appointment of Baron Funke as First Secretary in Vienna? It would appear that this baron is something of a nonentity.” Prince Vasily wished to have his own son appointed to this position, which others were attempting to obtain for the baron through the Empress Maria Fedorovna. Anna Pavlovna hooded her eyes almost completely in order to indicate that neither she, nor anyone else, could judge what was desirable or pleasing to the Empress. “Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister,” was all that she said, in a tone that was particularly aloof and melancholy. The moment Anna Pavlovna mentioned the Empress’s name, her face suddenly presented an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect, combined with the sadness that she felt every time she mentioned her exalted patroness in conversation. She said Her Highness had been pleased to show great regard for Baron Funke, and once again her gaze was veiled with melancholy. The prince lapsed into indifferent silence. Anna Pavlovna, with her characteristic courtly and feminine adroitness and prompt tact, felt a desire at once to tweak the prince’s nose for having ventured to speak in such a way about a person recommended to the Empress, and at the same time to console him. “By the way, ? propos your family,” she said, “did you know that your daughter is the delight of all society? They think her quite as lovely as the day. The Empress very often asks after her: ‘Where is my Belle H?l?ne?’” The prince bowed in token of his respect and gratitude. “I often think,” Anna Pavlovna continued after a moment’s silence, moving closer to the prince and smiling at him affectionately, as though indicating in this way that the conversation on politics and society was at an end, and the heart-to-heart talk was about to begin, “I often think how unfairly happiness is sometimes distributed in life. What have you done for fate to have given you two such marvellous children – excluding Anatole, your youngest, him I do not like,” she interjected categorically, raising her eyebrows. “Such charming children. And really, you appreciate them far less than anyone else, and therefore you do not deserve them.” And she smiled her rapturous smile. “Que voulez-vous? Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity,” said the prince listlessly. “Stop your joking. I wanted to have a serious talk with you. You know, I am displeased with your younger son. I don’t know him at all, but he appears to have set himself out to earn a scandalous reputation. Just between ourselves” (her face assumed a melancholy expression) “he was spoken of at Her Majesty’s, and people feel sorry for you …” The prince did not reply, but she gazed meaningfully at him in silence as she waited for a reply. Prince Vasily frowned. “What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I have done everything that a father can for their education, and both of them have turned out fools. Hippolyte at least is a docile fool, but Anatole is a rowdy one. That is the only difference,” he said, smiling more unnaturally and animatedly than usual, and in so doing revealing with unusual distinctness something coarse and disagreeable in the folds that formed around his mouth, making Anna Pavlovna think it could not be very pleasant to be the son or daughter of such a father. “And why do men like you have children? If you were not a father, there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna Pavlovna, raising her eyes thoughtfully. “I am your devoted slave, and I can confess this only to you. My children are the bane of my existence. They are my cross. That is how I explain things to myself. What would you have me do?…” He fell silent, as a gesture of submission to a cruel fate. “Ah yes, if only one could choose to have them or not at will … I am certain that in our time such an invention will be made.” Anna Pavlovna did not much like the idea of such an invention. “You have never thought of marrying off your prodigal son Anatole. They do say that old maids have a mania for marrying people off. I am not yet aware of this weakness in myself, but I do have one little person who is very unhappy with her father, a kinswoman of ours, the Princess Bolkonskaya.” Prince Vasily did not reply, although with the quickness of wit and memory natural to people of high society he indicated with a movement of his head that he had taken note of this information. “Indeed, d’you know that this Anatole costs me forty thousand a year,” he said, evidently incapable of curbing his gloomy train of thought. He was silent for a moment. “What will happen in five years’ time, if things carry on like this? Such are the rewards of being a father. Is she rich, your princess?” “Her father is very rich and mean. He lives in the country. You know, the famous Prince Bolkonsky, retired from service under the deceased Emperor and nicknamed the King of Prussia. He’s a very intelligent man, but an eccentric and a difficult character. The poor girl is so unhappy. She has a brother, he’s the one who recently married Lise Meinen, and is now Kutuzov’s adjutant, he lives here and will be coming this evening. She is the only daughter.” “Listen, ma ch?re Annette,” said the prince, suddenly catching hold of the other person’s hand and for some reason tugging it downwards. “Arrange this business for me and I shall be your most devoted slave for ever. She comes from a good family and is rich. That is all I require.” And with those free and familiar, graceful movements that were so characteristic of him, he raised the lady-in-waiting’s hand and kissed it, and having kissed it he waved the hand through the air as he sprawled back in his armchair, gazing away to the side. “Attendez,” said Anna Pavlovna, pondering. “I will have a word today with Lise, young Bolkonsky’s wife. And maybe it will all be settled. I shall begin to study my trade as an old maid with your family.” II Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room began filling up little by little. The highest nobility of St. Petersburg arrived, people who differed greatly in age and character, but were alike in terms of the society in which they all lived: the diplomat Count Z. arrived, covered in stars and decorations from all the foreign courts, then came the Princess L., a fading beauty, the wife of an envoy; a decrepit general entered, clattering his sabre and wheezing; then Prince Vasily’s daughter, the beautiful H?l?ne, entered, having called to collect her father in order to go on with him to the ambassador’s festivities. She was wearing a ball gown and her insigne as a lady-in-waiting. The young little Princess Bolkonskaya, known as the most enchanting woman in St. Petersburg, also arrived; she had married the previous winter and now no longer appeared at great society events on account of being pregnant, but she still went out to small soir?es. “You have not yet met …” or “I don’t think you know my aunt …” said Anna Pavlovna to each of her guests as they arrived, leading them across with great seriousness to a little old woman with tall bows on her cap who had come gliding out of the next room as soon as the guests had begun to arrive; she introduced each by name, slowly shifting her gaze from guest to aunt, before moving aside. All of the guests performed the ritual of greeting this aunt who was known to no one, in whom no one was interested and whom no one wanted to meet. Anna Pavlovna followed their greetings with sad, solemn concern, tacitly giving approval. In speaking to each of them the aunt used the same expressions, whether they concerned the guest’s health, her own health or the health of Her Majesty, which today, thank God, was improved. Concealing their haste out of a sense of decorum, all who approached the old woman left with a feeling of relief at an onerous duty fulfilled, never to approach her again for the entire evening. Of the ten or so gentlemen and ladies already present, some were gathered by the tea table, some were in the nook behind the trellis, and some by the window: all of them made conversation and moved freely about from one group to another. The young Princess Bolkonskaya arrived with her needlework in a velvet bag embroidered in gold. Her pretty little upper lip with its faint hint of a dark moustache was too short to cover her teeth, but it opened all the more sweetly for that and occasionally stretched down more sweetly still to touch her lower lip. As is always the case with thoroughly attractive women, her fault – the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth – seemed to be her special, very own beauty. Everyone was gladdened by the sight of this pretty mother-to-be so full of health and vitality, who bore her condition so lightly. Just looking at her, being with her and talking for a while made old men as well as bored, sullen young men feel as though they themselves were growing like her. Anyone who spoke with her and saw the radiant smile that accompanied her every word and the brilliant white teeth that were constantly visible, thought he was especially charming that day. Every one of them thought so. Waddling with short, quick steps, the little princess moved round the table with her needlework bag hanging from her arm and, adjusting her dress, sat herself down happily on the divan beside the silver samovar, as though whatever she did was amusing to herself and to everyone around her. “I’ve brought along my work,” she said, opening the top of her reticule and addressing everybody at once. “Now, Annette, don’t you play any nasty tricks on me,” she said, addressing the hostess. “You wrote that you were only having a little soir?e, and see how poorly dressed I am.” And she spread out her arms to show off her elegant grey gown trimmed with lace and girdled with a broad ribbon under the bosom. “Don’t you worry, Lise, you will always be the loveliest of all,” replied Anna Pavlovna. “You know, my husband is abandoning me, he’s going off to get himself killed,” she continued in the same tone, addressing the general. “Tell me, whatever is the point of this loathsome war?” she asked, turning to Prince Vasily and, without waiting for a reply, turned to Prince Vasily’s daughter, the beautiful H?l?ne: “You know, H?l?ne, you are becoming too lovely, just too lovely.” “What a delightful creature this little princess is!” Prince Vasily said quietly to Anna Pavlovna. “Your charming son Hippolyte is madly in love with her.” “The fool has taste.” Shortly after the little princess entered, a stout young man with short-cropped hair came in, wearing spectacles, light-coloured knee-breeches after the fashion of the time, a high ruffle and brown tailcoat. Despite the fashionable cut of his clothes, this fat young man was clumsy and awkward, in the way that healthy peasant lads are clumsy and awkward. But he was unembarrassed and resolute in his movements. He halted for a moment in the centre of the drawing room and, failing to locate the hostess, bowed to everyone except her, despite the signs she was making to him. Taking the old aunt for Anna Pavlovna herself, he sat down beside her and began speaking, but finally realising from the aunt’s astonished face that this was not the right thing to do, he stood up and said: THE LITTLE PRINCESS Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_b53453fd-4238-5cc4-bccc-6e68205fc837) “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I thought you weren’t you.” Even the impassive aunt blushed at these senseless words and waved with a despairing expression to her niece, beckoning for help. Anna Pavlovna left the other guest with whom she was occupied and came across. “It’s so very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come to visit a poor invalid,” she said to him, smiling and exchanging glances with her aunt. Pierre then did something even worse. He sat down beside Anna Pavlovna with the expression of a man who intended to stay for some time and immediately started talking about Rousseau, of whom they had spoken at their last meeting but one. Anna Pavlovna had no time for this. She was busy listening, watching, arranging and rearranging her guests. “I cannot understand why,” said the young man, peering significantly at his interlocutress over the top of his spectacles, “everyone so dislikes The Confessions, when the Nouvelle H?lo?se is far more inferior.” The fat young man expressed his meaning awkwardly, challenging Anna Pavlovna to an argument and completely failing to notice that the lady-in-waiting had absolutely no interest whatever in which work was good or bad, especially now, when she had so many other things to think of and remember. PIERRE BEZUKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_4021ba93-ccc0-51b2-a13a-d115ead66826) “‘May the last trumpet sound when it will, I shall appear with this book in my hand,’” he said, smiling as he quoted the first page of The Confessions. “No, madame, if you read the book, you will love the man.” “Yes, of course,” replied Anna Pavlovna, in spite of holding entirely the opposite opinion, and she surveyed her guests, wishing to get to her feet. But Pierre continued: “It’s not just a book, it’s an entire work. The Confessions is a total confession. Is that not so?” “But I have no desire to be his confessor, Monsieur Pierre, his sins are too vile,” she said, rising to her feet with a smile. “Come along, I shall introduce you to my cousin.” And having rid herself of this young man who did not know how to behave, she returned to her concerns as mistress of the house and continued listening and watching, ready to offer assistance whenever conversation flagged, like the foreman of a spinning mill who, with his workers all at their places, keeps pacing about, watching that the spindles all keep turning. And just as the foreman of the spinning mill, on noticing that a spindle has stopped or is squeaking strangely or loudly, hurries across and adjusts it or sets it moving as it should, so Anna Pavlovna approached a circle that had fallen quiet or was talking too much and, with a single word or slight rearrangement, set her regular, decorous conversational engine in motion once again. III Anna Pavlovna’s soir?e was in full swing. On various sides the spindles were humming away smoothly and steadily. Apart from the aunt, beside whom there sat only a single elderly lady with a thin, tearful face, somewhat out of place in this brilliant company, and the fat Monsieur Pierre who, following his tactless conversations with the aunt and Anna Pavlovna, had remained silent for the entire evening and, evidently being acquainted with hardly anyone there, merely gazed around with lively interest at those who were walking about and talking more loudly than others, the remaining company had divided into three circles. At the centre of one was the beautiful Princess H?l?ne, Prince Vasily’s daughter, in the second it was Anna Pavlovna herself, in the third it was the little Princess Bolkonskaya – pretty, rosy-cheeked and very pregnant for her young age. Prince Vasily’s son Hippolyte – “your charming son Hippolyte” as Anna Pavlovna invariably called him – made his entrance, as did the expected vicomte, over whom, according to Anna Pavlovna, “all our ladies” were quite beside themselves. Hippolyte came in peering through a lorgnette, and without lowering this lorgnette, drawled loudly but indistinctly, “the Vicomte de Mortemart” and immediately, paying no attention to his father, seated himself beside the little princess and, inclining his head so close that very little space remained between his face and hers, he began to tell her something obscure and private, laughing. The vicomte was an attractive-looking young man, with mild features and manners who evidently considered himself a celebrity but, being well brought up, modestly permitted the company in which he found himself to take advantage of his person. Anna Pavlovna was obviously offering him to her guests as a treat. Just as a good ma?tre d’h?tel presents as a supreme delicacy that piece of beef which no one would wish to eat if they had seen it in the filthy kitchen, so this evening Anna Pavlovna served up the vicomte to her guests as something supremely refined, although the gentlemen who were staying at the same hotel and played billiards with him every day saw him as little more than a master of cannon shots, and did not feel in the least bit fortunate to have met the vicomte and spoken with him. Talk immediately turned to the murder of the Duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said the duke had been killed by his own magnanimity and that there were particular reasons for Bonaparte’s animosity. “Ah! Do tell us about that, vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna. The vicomte bowed slightly as a token of acquiescence and smiled courteously. Anna Pavlovna walked round the vicomte and invited everyone to listen to his story. “The vicomte was personally acquainted with the duke,” Anna Pavlovna whispered to one person. “The vicomte is a marvellous raconteur,” she declared to another. “So obviously a man of good society,” she said to a third, and thus the vicomte was served up to the company in a tasteful manner in the best possible light, like roast beef on a hot dish garnished with fresh green herbs. The vicomte, about to begin his story, gave a delicate smile. “Move over here, ch?re H?l?ne,” said Anna Pavlovna to the beautiful princess, who was sitting a little distance away, at the centre of a different circle. Princess H?l?ne was smiling. She stood up, wearing that same constant smile of a perfectly beautiful woman with which she had entered the drawing room. With a slight rustle of her white ball gown trimmed with its plush and fur, and a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair and diamonds, she stepped between the men who had made way for her and, looking at none of them, but smiling at all as though obligingly granting each one the right to admire the beauty of her figure and well-formed shoulders and her bosom and her back that were greatly exposed in the fashion of the day, and seeming to bring with her all the splendour of a ball, she went over to Anna Pavlovna. H?l?ne was so lovely that not only was there not a shade of coquetry to be seen in her, but she seemed, on the contrary, to be ashamed of the all-too-overwhelming power of her undeniable beauty. It was as though she wished to diminish her beauty and could not. “What a beautiful woman!” said all who saw her. As though overcome by something quite extraordinary, the vicomte shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes as she seated herself before him and illuminated him with that same unvarying smile. “Madame, truly I fear for my abilities before such an audience,” he said, bowing his head and smiling. The princess, finding it needless to respond, rested the elbow of her shapely, exposed arm on the table. She waited, smiling. Throughout the whole story she sat up straight, glancing occasionally either at her beautiful, well-fleshed arm, the shape of which had changed in pressing against the table, or at her even more beautiful bosom, on which she adjusted her diamond necklace; several times she rearranged the folds of her gown and every time that she was impressed by something in the story, she glanced round at Anna Pavlovna and immediately assumed the very same expression that the lady-in-waiting’s face wore, then settled once again into her radiant smile. Following H?l?ne, the little princess had also come over from the tea table. “Attendez-moi, I’ll get my needlework,” she said. “Now, what ever are you thinking of?” she asked, addressing Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my ridicule.” The little princess, smiling and chatting on all sides, promptly made everyone shuffle about as she took her place, and then cheerfully sat rearranging herself. “Now I’m all right,” she said and, requesting them to begin, she took up her work. Prince Hippolyte, after bringing her work-bag, had gone round behind her and, drawing up an armchair, sat close beside her. The charming Hippolyte was striking for his uncommon resemblance to his beautiful sister, but even more for the fact that, despite the resemblance, he was amazingly ugly. The features of his face were precisely the same as those of his sister, but in her case everything was constantly illuminated by a buoyant, self-sufficient, youthfully vital smile and an exceptional, classical beauty of body, while in the brother’s case, on the contrary, the same face was clouded by idiocy and invariably expressed a self-opinionated peevishness, while the body was puny and weak. The eyes, nose and mouth – all seemed to be clenched into a single indeterminate, dull grimace, and the hands and legs always assumed unnatural positions. “It isn’t a ghost story, is it?” he asked, having seated himself beside the princess and hastily set his lorgnette to his eyes, as though he could not speak without this instrument. “Most decidedly not, my dear fellow,” said the astonished storyteller, with a shrug of his shoulders. “The thing is, I absolutely detest ghost stories,” he said in a tone that made it clear that he uttered words first and only realised what they meant afterwards. Because he spoke with such self-confidence, no one could tell whether what he had said was very clever or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green frock coat and knee-breeches in the flesh-pink shade that he called cuisse de nymphe ?ffray?e, with stockings and shoes. He had seated himself as far back as possible in the armchair, facing the raconteur, and placed one hand, with one plain and one engraved signet ring, upon the table in front of him in such an outstretched pose that it clearly cost him a great deal of effort to maintain it at that distance, and yet he held it there throughout the story. In the palm of his other hand he clasped his lorgnette, teasing up with that same hand the curly “titus” coiffure that lent his elongated face an even odder expression and, as though he had just remembered something, he began looking first at his hand with the rings, extended in display, then at the vicomte’s feet, and then he twisted himself entirely around with a rapid, lurching movement, the way he did everything, and stared long and hard at the Princess Bolkonskaya. HIPPOLYTE KURAGIN Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_6c08dc01-0fba-5c30-af6e-3df42332061b) “When I had the good fortune to see the late lamented Duc d’Enghien for the last time,” the vicomte began in a tone of mournful elegance, surveying his listeners, “he spoke in the most flattering terms of the beauty and genius of the great Mademoiselle Georges. Who does not know this brilliant and charming woman? I expressed my surprise as to how the duke could have come to know her, not having been in Paris in recent years. The duke smiled and told me that Paris is not as far from Mannheim as it might seem. I was horrified and informed his highness of my terror at the thought of his visiting Paris. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘God only knows whether even here we are not surrounded by turncoats and traitors and whether your presence in Paris, no matter how secret it may be, is not known to Buonaparte!’ But the duke only smiled at my words with the chivalry and courage which constitute the distinguishing trait of his line.” “The house of Cond? is a branch of laurel grafted on to the tree of the Bourbons, as Pitt recently said,” Prince Vasily pronounced in a monotone, as though he were dictating to some invisible clerk. “Monsieur Pitt put it very well,” his son Hippolyte added laconically, twisting abruptly on his armchair, his trunk in one direction and his legs in the other, after hastily snatching up his lorgnette and directing his sights at his parent. “In short,” continued the vicomte, addressing himself primarily to the beautiful Princess H?l?ne, who kept her gaze fixed on him, “I had to leave Etenheim and only later learned that the duke, in the impetuosity of his valour, had travelled to Paris and paid Mademoiselle Georges the honour not only of admiring her, but also of visiting her.” “But he had an attachment of the heart for the Princess Charlotte de Rohan Rochefort,” Anna Pavlovna interrupted passionately. “They said that he was secretly married to her,” she added, evidently frightened by the imminent content of this tale, which seemed to her too free in the presence of a young girl. “One attachment is no hindrance to another,” the vicomte continued, smiling subtly and failing to perceive Anna Pavlovna’s apprehension. “But the point is that prior to her intimacy with the duke, Mademoiselle Georges had enjoyed intimate relations with another person.” He paused. “That person was called Buonaparte,” he announced, glancing round at his listeners with a smile. Anna Pavlovna, in her turn, glanced around uneasily, seeing the tale becoming ever more dangerous. “And so,” the vicomte continued, “the new sultan from the Thousand and One Nights did not scorn to spend frequent evenings at the home of the most beautiful, most agreeable woman in France. And Mademoiselle Georges” – he paused, with an expressive shrug of his shoulders – “was obliged to make a virtue of necessity. The fortunate Buonaparte would usually arrive in the evening, without appointing the days in advance.” “Ah! I see what is coming, and it fills me with horror,” said the pretty little Princess Bolkonskaya with a shudder of her lissom, shapely shoulders. The elderly lady, who had been sitting beside the aunt the whole evening, came to join the raconteur’s circle and shook her head with an emphatic, sad smile. “It is terrible, is it not?” she said, although she had obviously not even heard the beginning of the story. No one paid any attention to the inappropriateness of her remark, nor indeed to her. Prince Hippolyte promptly declared in a loud voice: “Georges in the role of Clytemnestra, how marvellous!” Anna Pavlovna remained silent and anxious, still not having finally made up her mind whether the tale that the vicomte was telling was proper or improper. On the one hand, it involved evening visits to actresses, on the other hand, if the Vicomte de Mortemart himself, a relative of the Montmorencys through the Rohans, the finest representative of the St. Germain district, was going to make unseemly talk in the drawing room, then who, after all, knew what was proper or improper? “One evening,” the vicomte continued, surveying his listeners and becoming more animated, “this Clytemnestra, having enchanted the entire theatre with her astonishing interpretation of Racine, returned home and thought she would rest to recover from her fatigue and excitement. She was not expecting the sultan.” Anna Pavlovna shuddered at the word “sultan”. Princess H?l?ne lowered her eyes and stopped smiling. “Then suddenly the maidservant announced that the former Vicomte Rocroi wished to see the great actress. Rocroi was the name that the duke used for himself. He was received,” the vicomte added, and after pausing for a few seconds in order to make it clear that he was not telling all that he knew, he continued: “The table gleamed with crystal, enamel, silver and porcelain. Two places were set, the time flew by imperceptibly, and the delight …” Unexpectedly at this point in the narrative Prince Hippolyte emitted a peculiar, loud sound, which some took for a cough, others for snuffling, mumbling or laughing, and he began hastily fumbling after the lorgnette which he had dropped. The narrator stopped in astonishment. The alarmed Anna Pavlovna interrupted the description of the delights which the vicomte was depicting with such relish. “Do not keep us in suspense, vicomte,” she said. The vicomte smiled. “Delight reduced hours to minutes, when suddenly there came a ring at the door and the startled maid, trembling, came running in to announce that a terrible Bonapartist Mameluke was ringing and that his appalling master was already standing at the entrance …” “Charmant, d?licieux,” whispered the little Princess Bolkonskaya, jabbing her needle into her embroidery as if to indicate that the fascination and charm of the story had prevented her from continuing her work. The vicomte acknowledged this mute praise with a grateful smile and was about to continue when a new person entered the drawing room and effected the very pause that was required. IV This new person was the young Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, husband of the little princess. It was clear, not so much from the way the young prince had arrived late and was yet received in the most polite fashion by the hostess, as from the way that he made his entrance, that he was one of those young people who are so pampered by society that they have come to despise it. The young prince, a slightly short but slim man, was extremely handsome, with dark hair and a brownish complexion and a somewhat languorous air; he was dressed with exceptional elegance and had tiny hands and feet. Everything about his appearance, from his bored and weary gaze to his measured saunter, made the sharpest possible contrast to his lively little wife. He was evidently not only acquainted with everyone present in the drawing room, but so sick of them all that he found it utterly tedious even to look at or listen to them, since he knew in advance exactly how everything would go. Of all the people there that he found so very boring, he seemed to find none more so than his own pretty wife. He turned away from her lovely face with a faint, sour grimace that spoiled his handsome features, as if he were thinking: “You were the last thing this company required to make it utterly loathsome to me.” He kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand with an expression that suggested he would have given God only knew what to be spared this onerous duty and, squinting his eyes till they were almost closed, he surveyed the assembled company. “You have a large gathering,” he said in a high, thin voice, nodding to one person while proffering his hand to another, holding it out to be shaken. “You intend to go to the war, prince?” said Anna Pavlovna. “General Kutuz?v,” he said, stressing the final syllable, z?ff, like a Frenchman, and removing a glove from a perfectly white, tiny hand with which he rubbed his eye, “General-in-Chief Kutuz?v has asked me to be his adjutant.” “But what about Lise, your wife?” “She will go to the country.” “And are you not ashamed to deprive us of your delightful wife?” The young adjutant puffed out his lips to make a derisive sound of the kind that only the French make, but said nothing. “Andr?,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same flirtatious tone in which she addressed strangers, “do come here and sit down and listen to the story the vicomte is telling us about Mademoiselle Georges and Buonaparte.” Andrei narrowed his eyes and sat down as far away as possible, as though he had not heard his wife. “Pray continue, vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna. “The vicomte was telling us how the Duc d’Enghien visited Mademoiselle Georges,” she added, addressing the new arrival, so that he could follow the continuation of the story. “The purported rivalry between Buonaparte and the duke over Mademoiselle Georges,” said Prince Andrei in a tone suggesting it was absurd for anyone not to know about that, and he slumped against the armrest of his chair. At this point the young man in spectacles named Monsieur Pierre, who had not taken his delighted, affectionate gaze off Prince Andrei from the moment he entered the drawing room, approached him and grasped him by the arm. Prince Andrei was so incurious that, without even glancing round, he twisted his face into a grimace that expressed annoyance with whoever was touching his epaulette, but on seeing Pierre’s smiling face, Prince Andrei also broke into a smile, and suddenly his entire face was transformed by the kind and intelligent expression that suffused it. “What’s this? You here, my dear Horse Guard?” the prince asked with delight, but also with a slightly patronising and supercilious inflection. “I knew that you would be,” replied Pierre. “I’ll come to you for supper,” he added quietly, in order not to disturb the vicomte, who was continuing with his story. “May I?” “No, you may not,” said Prince Andrei, laughing and turning away, but letting Pierre know with a gentle squeeze of his hand that he need not have asked. The vicomte was telling them that Mademoiselle Georges had implored the duke to hide, that the duke had said he had never hidden from anyone, and that Mademoiselle Georges had said to him, “Your highness, your sword belongs to the King and to France” and that the duke had after all hidden himself under the laundry in the next room, and that when Napoleon had become unwell, the duke had emerged from under the laundry and seen Buonaparte there before him. “Charming, quite exquisite!” said a voice among the listeners. Even Anna Pavlovna, having observed that the most difficult part of the tale had been negotiated successfully, calmed down and was quite able to enjoy the story. The vicomte warmed to his task and, rolling his r’s powerfully, declaimed with the animation of an actor … “The enemy of his house, the usurper of the throne, the man who stood at the head of his nation, was here, before him, prostrate and motionless on the ground and perhaps at his last gasp. As the great Corneille said: ‘Malicious glee surged in his breast and outraged majesty alone helped him repel it.’” The vicomte stopped and, as he prepared to proceed with his story with still greater verve, he smiled, as though reassuring the ladies, who were already over-excited. Quite without warning during this pause, the beautiful Princess H?l?ne looked at her watch, exchanged glances with her father, and the two of them suddenly stood up, their movements disturbing the circle and interrupting the story. “We shall be late, papa,” she said simply, all the while beaming her smile at everyone. “Do forgive me, my dear vicomte,” said Prince Vasily to the Frenchman, affectionately tugging him down by the sleeve to prevent him rising from his seat. “These wretched festivities of the ambassador’s deprive me of my pleasure and interrupt you.” “So awfully sorry to forsake your exquisite soir?e,” he said to Anna Pavlovna. His daughter, Princess H?l?ne, began making her way between the chairs, gently restraining the folds of her gown, with the smile on her lovely face beaming ever more radiantly. V Anna Pavlovna requested the vicomte to wait while she showed Prince Vasily and his daughter out through the next room. The elderly lady who had previously been sitting with the aunt and had then so foolishly expressed her interest in the vicomte’s story, hastily rose to her feet and followed Prince Vasily to the entrance hall. The former pretence of interest had completely vanished from her face. That kind, tearful face now expressed only anxiety and fear. “What can you tell me, prince, about my Boris?” she said, as she caught up with him in the hallway (she pronounced the name Boris with a distinctive stress on the “o”). “I cannot stay here in St. Petersburg any longer. Tell me, what news can I bring my poor boy?” Although Prince Vasily listened to the elderly lady unwillingly, almost impolitely, and even showed his impatience, she smiled at him affectionately and imploringly, and to prevent him leaving took him by the arm. “What trouble would it be for you to have a word with His Majesty, and he would be directly transferred to the Guards,” she pleaded. “Believe me, I will do all that I can, princess,” replied Prince Vasily, “but it is difficult for me to ask His Majesty; I would advise you to appeal to Razumovsky through Prince Golitsyn, that would be wiser.” The elderly lady bore the name of Drubetskaya, one of the finest family names in Russia, but she was poor and, having long since withdrawn from society, she had forfeited her former connections. She had come here now solely to obtain an appointment to the Guards for her only son. It was only in order to see Prince Vasily that she had had herself invited to Anna Pavlovna’s soir?e, and it was only for that reason that she had sat listening to the vicomte’s story. She was alarmed at Prince Vasily’s words; her once-beautiful face expressed, for a moment, something close to disdain. She smiled again and clutched Prince Vasily’s arm more tightly. “Listen, prince,” she said, “I have never once petitioned you for anything and I never will, and I have never once reminded you of my father’s friendship towards you. But now I entreat you in God’s name, do this for my son and I shall regard you as my benefactor,” she added hastily. “No, do not be angry, but promise me. I have asked Golitsyn and he refused. Be the same good fellow you always were,” she said, trying to smile, despite the tears in her eyes. “Papa, we shall be late,” said Princess H?l?ne, turning her beautiful head on her classical shoulders as she waited by the door. Influence in society is capital which, if it is not to diminish, must be protected. Prince Vasily knew this and, realising that if he began asking for everyone who begged him, he would soon be unable to ask for anyone at all, he rarely made use of his influence. In Princess Drubetskaya’s case, however, her renewed appeal prompted something akin to a pang of conscience. She had reminded him of the truth: that he had been obliged to her father for the first steps in his own career. In addition, he could see from her manner that she was one of those women, especially mothers, who, once they have taken an idea into their heads, will never relent until their wishes have been granted, otherwise they are prepared to carry on badgering every day and every minute and even create scenes. It was this final consideration that swayed him. “My dear Anna Mikhailovna,” he said with the customary familiarity and boredom in his voice, “for me it is almost impossible to do what you wish, but in order to prove to you that I love you and honour the memory of the late count, your father, I shall do the impossible. Your son shall be transferred to the Guards, here is my hand on it. Are you content?” And he shook her hand, tugging it downwards. “My dear man, you are my benefactor! I expected nothing less from you,” the mother lied and demeaned herself, “I knew how kind you are.” He was about to leave. “Wait, just one more word. Since he will move to the Guards …” she said and stopped short. “You are on good terms with Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov, recommend Boris to him as an adjutant. Then my mind would be at rest, and then …” Anna Mikhailovna begged, like a gypsy, for her son: the more she was given, the more she wanted. Prince Vasily smiled. “That I do not promise. You have no idea how Kutuzov has been besieged since he was appointed commander-in-chief. He told me himself that all the ladies of Moscow have conspired to give him their children as adjutants.” “No, promise me, I shan’t let you go, my dear man, my benefactor …” “Papa,” the beauty repeated in the same tone as before, “we shall be late.” “Well, au revoir. You see?” “Then tomorrow you will put it to His Majesty.” “Without fail, but concerning Kutuzov I do not promise.” “No, promise me, promise, Vasily,” Anna Mikhkailovna said as he left, with the smile of a young coquette which once must have been natural to her, but now was quite out of place on her kind, careworn face. She had clearly forgotten her age and sought out of habit to employ all the ancient feminine wiles. But as soon as he went out her face once again assumed the cold, artifical expression it had worn previously. She returned to the circle in which the vicomte was continuing with his story and once again pretended to be listening, waiting until it was time to leave, since her business was already done. VI The end of the vicomte’s story went as follows: “The Duc d’Enghien took out of his pocket a vial of rock crystal mounted in gold which contained the elixir of life given to his father by the Comte St. Germain. This elixir, as is well known, possessed the property of bringing the dead, or the almost dead, back to life, but it was not to be given to anyone but members of the house of Cond?. Outsiders who tasted the elixir were cured in the same way as the Cond?s, but they became implacable enemies of the ducal house. A proof of this can be seen in the fact that the duke’s father, wishing to restore his dying horse, gave it these drops. The horse revived, but several times afterwards it attempted to kill its rider and once during a battle it carried him into the republicans’ camp. The duke’s father killed his beloved horse. In spite of this, the young and chivalrous Duc d’Enghien poured several drops into the mouth of his enemy Buonaparte, and the ogre revived.” “‘Who are you?’ asked Buonaparte. “‘A relative of the maid,’ replied the duke. “‘Lies!’ cried Buonaparte. “‘General, I am unarmed,’ replied the duke. “‘Your name?’ “‘I have saved your life,’ replied the duke. “The duke left, but the elixir took effect. Buonaparte began to feel hatred for the duke and from that day on he swore to destroy the unfortunate and magnanimous youth. Having learned who his rival was from a handkerchief dropped by the duke, which was embroidered with the crest of the house of Cond?, Buonaparte ordered his minions to contrive a conspiracy between Pichegru and Georges as a pretext, then had the heroic martyr seized in the dukedom of Baden and killed. “The angel and the demon. And that was how the most terrible crime in history was committed.” With this the vicomte concluded his story and swung round on his chair in an excess of agitation. Everyone was silent. “The murder of the duke was more than a crime, vicomte,” said Prince Andrei, smiling gently, as though he were making fun of the vicomte, “it was a mistake.” The vicomte raised his eyebrows and spread his arms wide. His gesture could have signified many things. “But what do you make of the latest farce, of the coronation in Milan?” asked Anna Pavlovna. “In this new farce, the peoples of Genoa and Lucca declare their wishes to Mr. Buonaparte and Mr. Buonaparte sits on a throne and grants the people’s wishes. Oh, it is exquisite! Why, it’s enough to drive one insane. Just imagine, the entire world has lost its wits.” Prince Andrei turned away from Anna Pavlovna, as if to imply that the talk was leading nowhere. “God has given me the crown. Woe betide him who touches it,” Prince Andrei declared proudly, as though they were his own words (they were in fact those of Bonaparte when the crown was set upon his head). “They say he looked awfully fine as he pronounced those words,” he added. Anna Pavlovna glanced sharply at Prince Andrei. “I hope,” she continued, “that that was the drop which will finally make the glass run over. The sovereigns can no longer tolerate this man who is such a threat to everything.” “The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte with courteous despair, “but the sovereigns! What did they do for Louis XVI, for the Queen, for Elizabeth? Nothing!” he continued, growing animated. “And believe me, they are now being punished for their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns? They send their ambassadors to greet this usurper of the throne.” And with a contemptuous sigh he again shifted his position. At these words Prince Hippolyte, who had been looking at the vicomte through his lorgnette the whole time, suddenly turned his entire body towards the little Princess Bolkonskaya and, after asking her for a needle, began to show her, by drawing with the point on the table, the Cond? coat of arms. He expounded it to her with an expression as intent as if the princess had asked him to do it. “The Cond? coat of arms consists of a shield with a staff gules engrailed with a staff azure,” he prattled. The princess listened, smiling. “If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France for another year,” said the vicomte, continuing the chief conversation with the air of a man who is listening to no one, but merely pursuing his own train of thought on a matter which he knows better than everyone else, “then things will be carried too far by all the intrigues, violence, exiles and executions. Society, I mean good society, French society, will be exterminated for ever, and then what?” He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. “The Emperor Alexander,” said Anna Pavlovna with the melancholy that always accompanied her talk of the imperial family, “has declared that he will allow the French themselves to choose their own form of government. And I think there can be no doubt that, once it is liberated from the usurper, the entire nation will throw itself into the arms of the legitimate King,” said Anna Pavlovna, striving to be as gracious as possible with the ?migr? and royalist. “Oh, if only that happy moment could come!” said the vicomte, inclining his head in gratitude for this mark of attention. “And what do you think, Monsieur Pierre?” Anna Pavlovna sweetly asked the fat young man whose awkward silence was irksome to her as a polite hostess. “What do you think? You have recently come from Paris.” While waiting for a reply, Anna Pavlovna smiled at the vicomte and the others, as if to say: “I must be polite even with him; you see, I still speak to him, even though I know he has nothing to say.” VII “The entire nation will die for its Emperor, for the greatest man in the world!” the young man said suddenly in a loud and vehement voice, without any preamble whatsoever, resembling a young peasant lad fearful of being interrupted and deprived of the opportunity to express himself in full. He glanced round at Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei smiled. “The greatest genius of our age,” Pierre continued. “What? That is your opinion? You are joking!” screeched Anna Pavlovna, her fright prompted less by the words that the young man uttered than by the animation, so spontaneous and entirely improper, that was expressed in the full, fleshy features of his face, and still more by the sound of his voice, which was too loud and, above all, too natural. He made no gestures and spoke in short bursts, occasionally adjusting his spectacles and glancing around, but it was clear from his whole appearance that no one could stop him now and he would express his entire view, regardless of the proprieties. The young man was like a wild, unbroken horse who, until saddled and stirrupped, is quiet and even timid and in no way different from other horses, but who, as soon as the harness is put on him, suddenly begins for no clear reason to pull in his head, and rear and buck in the most ludicrous manner possible, without knowing why himself. The young man had evidently sensed the bridle and begun his ludicrous bucking. “Nobody in France even thinks about the Bourbons nowadays,” he continued hastily, so that no one would interrupt him, and constantly glancing round at Prince Andrei, as though he was the only one from whom he expected encouragement. “Do not forget that it is only three months since I returned from France.” He spoke in excellent French. “Monsieur le vicomte is absolutely right to suppose that in a year it will be too late for the Bourbons. It is already too late. There are no more royalists. Some have abandoned their fatherland, others have become Bonapartists. The whole of St. Germain pays homage to the Emperor.” “There are exceptions,” the vicomte said superciliously. The worldly, experienced Anna Pavlovna looked anxiously by turns at the vicomte and the improper young man and could not forgive herself for imprudently inviting this youth without first getting to know him. The improper youth was the illegitimate son of a rich and renowned grandee. Anna Pavlovna had invited him out of respect for his father, bearing in mind also that Monsieur Pierre had just returned from abroad, where he had been educated. “If only I had known that he was so badly brought up and a bonapartist,” she thought, looking at his big, close-cropped head and his large, fleshy features. “So this is the upbringing they give young men nowadays. You can tell a man of good society straight away,” she said to herself, admiring the vicomte’s composure. “Almost the entire nobility,” Pierre continued, “has gone over to Bonaparte.” “So say the Bonapartists,” said the vicomte. “It is hard these days to discover the opinion of the French public.” “As Bonaparte said,” Prince Andrei began, and involuntarily everyone turned in the direction of his voice, which was low and indolent, but always audible because of its self-assurance, waiting to hear exactly what Bonaparte had said. “‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not want it,’” Prince Andrei continued after a brief silence, again repeating the words of Napoleon. “‘I opened up my ante-chambers and the crowds rushed in.’ I do not know how justified he was in saying that, but it was clever, viciously clever,” he concluded with an acid smile and turned away. “He did have the right to speak out like that against the royalist aristocracy; it no longer exists in France,” Pierre put in, “or if it does, then it carries no weight. And the people? The people adore the great man, and the people have chosen him. The people are without prejudice; they have seen the greatest genius and hero in the world.” “He might be a hero to some,” said the vicomte, not replying to the young man and not even looking at him, but addressing Anna Pavlovna and Prince Andrei, “but after the murder of the duke there is one more martyr in heaven and one less hero on earth.” Anna Pavlovna and the others had no time to appreciate the vicomte’s words before the unbroken horse continued his novel and amusing bucking. “The execution of the Duc d’Enghien,” Pierre continued, “was a state necessity, and I see precisely greatness of soul in the fact that Napoleon was not afraid to take upon himself alone the responsibility for that act.” “You approve of murder!” Anna Pavlovna exclaimed in a ghastly whisper. “Monsieur Pierre, how can you see greatness of soul in murder?” said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work closer to her. “Ah! Oh!” said various voices. “Magnificent,” Prince Hippolyte suddenly said in English, and began slapping his open hand against his knee. The vicomte merely shrugged. “Is the murder of the duke a good deed or a bad one?” he said, surprising everyone with his high-toned presence of mind. “One or the other …” Pierre sensed that this dilemma had been posed for him so that if he replied in the negative, they would force him to repudiate his admiration for his hero, but if he replied in the positive, that the deed was a good one, then God alone knew what might happen to him. He replied in the positive, unafraid of what would happen. “This deed is a great one, like everything that this great man does,” he said audaciously, paying no attention to the horror expressed on all of their faces except the face of Prince Andrei, or to the contemptuous shrugs; he carried on talking on his own, even though his hostess clearly did not wish it. Everyone exchanged glances of amazement as they listened to him, except Prince Andrei. Prince Andrei listened with sympathy and a quiet smile. “Surely he knew,” continued Pierre, “what a furious storm the death of the duke would stir up against him? He knew that for this one head he would be obliged once again to wage war against the whole of Europe, that he would fight, and would be victorious again, because …” “Are you Russian?” asked Anna Pavlovna. “I am. But he will be victorious, because he is a great man. The death of the duke was necessary. He is a genius and the difference between a genius and ordinary people is that he does not act for himself, but for humanity. The royalists wished to inflame once again the internal war and revolution that he had suppressed. He needed domestic peace, and with the execution of the duke he set an example that made the Bourbons stop their intrigues.” “But, mon cher Monsieur Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, attempting to overcome him by meekness, “how can you call the means to the restoration of the legitimate throne intrigues?” “Only the will of the people is legitimate,” he replied, “and they drove out the Bourbons and handed power to the great Napoleon.” And he looked triumphantly over the top of his spectacles at his listeners. “Ah! The Social Contract,” the vicomte said in a quiet voice, evidently reassured at having recognised the source from which his opponent’s views were derived. “Well, after this …!” exclaimed Anna Pavlovna. But even after this Pierre continued speaking just as uncivilly. “No,” he said, growing more and more animated, “the Bourbons and the royalists fled from the revolution, they could not understand it. But this man rose above it, and suppressed its abuses while retaining all that is good – the equality of citizens and freedom of speech and of the press, and only because of this did he acquire power.” “Indeed, but if, having taken power, he had returned it to the rightful king,” said the vicomte ironically, “then I should call him a great man.” “He could not have done that. The people gave him power only so that he could rid them of the Bourbons, and because the people saw in him a great man. The revolution itself was a great thing,” continued Monsieur Pierre, demonstrating with this audacious and challenging introductory phrase his great youth and desire to express everything as quickly as possible. “Revolution and regicide are a great thing! After this …” “I am not talking of regicide. When Napoleon appeared, the revolution had already run its course, and the nation put itself into his hands of its own accord. But he understood the ideas of the revolution and became its representative.” “Yes, the ideas of plunder, murder and regicide,” the ironic voice interrupted once again. “Those were the extremes, of course, but that is not what is most important, what is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, the equality of citizens; and Napoleon retained all of these ideas in full force.” “Liberty and equality,” the vicomte said derisively, as though he had decided finally to demonstrate seriously to this youth the full stupidity of his words. “All high-sounding words which have been compromised long ago. Who does not love liberty and equality? Our Saviour preached liberty and equality. But after the revolution were people any happier? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte is destroying it.” Prince Andrei looked with a merry smile by turns at Monsieur Pierre, at the vicomte and at his hostess, and evidently found this unexpected and indecorous episode amusing. During the first minute of Pierre’s outburst Anna Pavlovna had been horrified, for all her experience of the world, but when she saw that, despite the sacrilegious sentiments expressed by Pierre, the vicomte did not lose his temper, and when she became convinced that it was no longer possible to suppress what was being said, she gathered her strength and joined forces with the vicomte to assail the orator. “But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, “how do you explain a great man who was capable of executing a duke or, in the final analysis, simply a man, without a trial and without any proven guilt?” “I would like to ask,” said the vicomte, “how Monsieur Pierre explains the Eighteenth Brumaire. Surely this is deceit? It is cheap swindling, in no way resembling the conduct of a great man.” “And the prisoners whom he killed in Africa?” the little princess interjected at the same point. “That is awful.” And she shrugged her little shoulders. “He is a scoundrel, no matter what you say,” said Prince Hippolyte. Monsieur Pierre did not know whom to answer, he glanced round at them all and smiled, and the smile exposed his uneven black teeth. His smile was not the same as other people’s, which merge into the absence of a smile. On the contrary, when his smile came, his serious, even rather sullen face instantly disappeared and a different one replaced it; childish, kind, even a little stupid, and seeming to beg forgiveness. The vicomte, who was seeing him for the first time, realised that this Jacobin was by no means as terrible as the things that he said. Everyone fell silent. “Well, do you want him to answer everyone at once?” Prince Andrei’s voice rang out. “Besides, in the actions of a statesman one should distinguish between the actions of the individual and those of the general or the emperor. So it seems to me.” “Yes, yes, of course,” put in Pierre, delighted at the support that had been offered him. “As a man, he is great on the Bridge at Arcole, in the hospital in Jaffa, where he offers his hand to victims of the plague, but …” Prince Andrei, evidently wishing to mitigate the awkwardness caused by Pierre’s oration, half-rose to his feet, preparing to leave and signalling to his wife. “It is difficult,” he said, “to judge people of our own time, posterity will judge them.” Suddenly Prince Hippolyte stood up, halting everybody by gesturing with his hands and requesting them to be seated, and began speaking: “Today I was told a quite charming Moscow anecdote, I simply must regale you with it. I beg your pardon, vicomte, I shall tell it in Russian, otherwise the whole point of the story will be lost.” And Prince Hippolyte began speaking in Russian with the same accent with which French people who have spent a year in Russia speak. Everyone paused, so keenly and insistently did Prince Hippolyte demand their attention for his story. “There is ? Moscou a certain lady. And she be very mean. She needed have two footmen behind a carriage. And very tall. That was to her taste. And she had chambermaid who was tall also. She said …” At this point Prince Hippolyte began pondering, evidently struggling to figure something out. “She said … yes, she said, ‘Girl, put livery on and go with me to carriage to make visits.’” Then Prince Hippolyte snorted and began to chortle far sooner than his listeners, which was something of a disadvantage to the narrator. However, many of them, including the elderly lady and Anna Pavlovna, did smile. “She set off. Suddenly strong wind appeared. Girl lose her hat and long hair tumble down all loose …” Then he could hold out no longer and burst into fitful laughter, and through this laughter he said: “And so the whole world find out …” That was how the anecdote ended. Although it was not clear why he told it or why it absolutely had to be told in Russian, Anna Pavlovna and the others were nonetheless grateful for Prince Hippolyte’s courtesy, which had put such an agreeable end to Monsieur Pierre’s disagreeable and discourteous outburst. Following the anecdote the conversation broke up into petty gossip about the next ball and the last, a play, and when and where people would see each other again. VIII Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charming soir?e, the guests began taking their leave. Pierre was ungainly. Fat and broad, with huge hands that seemed to have been made for swinging one-pood weights, he had no idea, as they say, of how to enter a salon and even less idea of how to leave it, that is, of how to make his farewells and say something particularly agreeable before his exit. In addition, he was absent-minded. As he stood up, instead of taking his own hat he grabbed hold of a three-cornered hat with a general’s panache and held it, tugging at the plume, until the general finally requested him with some animosity, or so it seemed to Pierre, to hand it back. But all of his absent-mindedness and his inability to enter a salon and converse appropriately within it were redeemed by an expression so good-natured and open that, despite all his shortcomings, even those whom he had placed in an embarrassing position could not help finding him likeable. Anna Pavlovna turned towards him and, expressing her forgiveness of his outburst with Christian meekness, nodded to him and said: “I hope to see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, my dear Monsieur Pierre.” To these words he made no response, but merely bowed and once again displayed to everybody his smile that said nothing, except perhaps this: “Opinions are all very well, but see what a fine, good-natured fellow I am.” And everybody, even Anna Pavlovna, could not help but feel it. “You know, my dear fellow, your way of thinking tends to raise the roof,” said Prince Andrei, buckling on his sabre. “I don’t mean it to,” said Pierre, lowering his head, peering over his spectacles and coming to a standstill. “How is it possible to see nothing in either the revolution or Napoleon except the personal interests of the Bourbons? We ourselves do not appreciate how much we are indebted precisely to the revolution …” Prince Andrei did not wait to hear the end of this discourse. He went out into the entrance hall and, presenting his shoulders to the servant, who threw on his cloak, he lent an indifferent ear to the idle chatter of his wife and Prince Hippolyte, who had also come out into the hallway. Prince Hippolyte was standing beside the delightful pregnant princess and staring hard at her through his lorgnette. “Go in, Annette, you’ll catch cold,” said the little princess, taking her leave of Anna Pavlovna. “It’s settled,” she added quietly. Anna Pavlovna had already managed to talk over with Lise the putative marriage of Anatole and Lise’s sister-in-law and to request the princess to influence her husband. “I am relying on you, ch?re amie,” said Anna Pavlovna, also quietly, “you will write to her and let me know how her father views the matter. Au revoir.” And she left the entrance hall. Prince Hippolyte moved still closer to the little princess and, leaning his face down to hers, began saying something to her in a half-whisper. Two servants, one the princess’s and the other his, stood waiting for them to finish talking, holding a shawl and a redingote and listening to their French speech, which they could not understand, but with expressions that suggested they did understand and did not wish to show it. The princess as always smiled as she spoke and laughed as she listened. “I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador’s,” said Prince Hippolyte, “so boring … An excellent soir?e. Was it not, excellent?” “They say the ball will be very fine,” replied the princess, twitching her lip with the faint moustache. “All the beautiful society ladies will be there.” “Not all, because you will not be there, not all,” said Prince Hippolyte, laughing gleefully and, seizing the shawl from the manservant, even shoving him back, he began arranging it on the princess. Either out of clumsiness or on purpose, no one could have told which, he did not lower his arms for a long time after putting the shawl in place, and appeared to embrace the young woman. She moved away from him gracefully, still smiling, turned round and looked at her husband. Prince Andrei’s eyes were closed, he looked tired and sleepy. “Are you ready?” he asked his wife, running his eye over her. Prince Hippolyte hastily donned his redingote, which in the new style hung below his heels, and ran out, tripping over it, onto the porch after the princess, whom a servant was helping into a carriage. “Princess, au revoir,” he shouted, tripping over his tongue in the same way as over his feet. Gathering her skirts, the princess prepared to take her seat in the darkness of the carriage; her husband began adjusting his sabre; Prince Hippolyte, on the pretext of being helpful, kept getting in everyone’s way. “Permit me, sir,” said Prince Andrei in Russian to Prince Hippolyte, who was preventing him from passing. This “permit me, sir” had a ring of such cold contempt that Prince Hippolyte hastily stepped aside and began apologising and swaying agitatedly from one foot to the other, as though in pain from some fresh wound, still raw and smarting. “I’m expecting you, Pierre,” said Prince Andrei’s voice. The postillion set off with the carriage wheels rumbling. Prince Hippolyte laughed fitfully as he stood on the porch, waiting for the vicomte, whom he had promised to drive home … “Eh bien, mon cher, your little princess is very nice, very nice,” said the vicomte after he and Hippolyte had got into their carriage. “Mais tr?s bien.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “And perfectly French.” Hippolyte snorted and began laughing. “And you know, you are quite terrible, with your innocent ways,” the vicomte continued. “I pity the poor husband, this poor little officer posturing as some ruling prince.” Hippolyte snorted again and said through his laughter: “And you said that Russian ladies were not as good as French. You just need to know how to go about it.” IX Reaching the house first, Pierre, as if he lived there, went through into Prince Andrei’s study and immediately, as was his habit, lay on the divan, taking down the first book he came across on the shelf (it was Caesar’s Commentaries) and, leaning on his elbows, set about reading it from the middle with as much interest as if he had been immersed in it for some two hours. As soon as Prince Andrei arrived he went straight through to his dressing room, emerging into the study five minutes later. PIERRE BEZUKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_98033372-4287-5dfa-94f2-a6a62c68d2e4) “What did you do to Madame Scherer? She’ll now fall quite seriously ill,” he said to Pierre in Russian with a protective, cheerful and amicable smile as he came in, now dressed in a heavy velvet smoking jacket, rubbing his small white hands, which he had evidently just washed once again. Pierre swung his whole body round, making the divan creak, and turned his eager face to Prince Andrei, who was shaking his head. Pierre nodded guiltily. “I didn’t wake up until three. Would you believe that we drank eleven bottles between the five of us?” (Pierre always addressed Prince Andrei formally, while the prince spoke to him in a more informal manner. This was a habit they had acquired as children, and it had never changed.) “Such splendid fellows. That Englishman’s a marvel!” “That’s one pleasure I have never understood,” said Prince Andrei. “What are you saying? You are a quite different kind of person, remarkable in every way,” Pierre said sincerely. “At our dear Anatoly Kuragin’s place again?” “Yes.” “I can’t think why you associate with that trash!” “But he really is a fine chap.” “He’s trash!” Prince Andrei said curtly and frowned. “Hippolyte is a very bright boy, though, isn’t he?” he added. Pierre laughed, setting his entire body shaking so that the divan began creaking again. “In Moscou there is a certain lady,” he mimicked through his laughter. “But you know, he really is a good chap,” the prince interceded for Hippolyte. “Well then, have you finally decided on anything? Are you going to be a Horse Guard or a diplomat?” Pierre sat up on the divan, drawing his legs under him. “Can you imagine, I still don’t know? I don’t like either choice!” “But you have to decide on something, don’t you? Your father’s waiting.” At the age of ten Pierre had been sent abroad with his tutor, an abbot, and had stayed there until he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow, his father had dismissed the abbot and told the young man: “Now go to St. Petersburg, take a look around, get to know people and think about which path to choose. I agree to anything. Here is a letter for you to Prince Vasily, and here is money. Write to me about everything, I will help you with everything.” Pierre had been trying to choose a career for three months now, and he had still got nowhere. This was the choice which Prince Andrei had mentioned to him. Pierre rubbed his forehead. “I understand military service, but explain this to me,” he said. “Why are you – you understand everything – why are you going to this war, against whom, after all? Against Napoleon and France. If it were a war for liberty, I would understand, I would be the first to join the army, but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world … I do not understand how you can go.” “You must see, mon cher,” Prince Andrei began, perhaps unwittingly wishing to conceal his own vagueness of thought from himself, suddenly beginning to speak in French and changing his former sincere tone for a formal and cold one, “one can take an entirely different point of view on this question.” And, as though everything he mentioned were his own personal business or that of his intimate acquaintances, he proceeded to expound to Pierre the view then current in the highest circles of St. Petersburg society of the political mission of Russia in Europe at that time. Since the revolution Europe had been plagued by wars. The cause of the wars, apart from Napoleon’s ambition, stemmed from an imbalance of power in Europe. One great power was needed to take the matter in hand with strict impartiality and, through alliances, to define new state boundaries and establish a new balance of power in Europe together with a new people’s law, by virtue of which war would become impossible and all misunderstandings between states would be settled by mediation. Russia had taken this selfless role upon herself in the forthcoming war. Russia would seek only to return France to its boundaries of 1796, allowing the French themselves to choose their own form of government, and also to restore the independence of Italy, the Cisalpine kingdom, the new state of the two Belgiums and the new German Alliance, and even to restore Poland. Pierre listened attentively, several times respectfully restraining his impulse to contradict his friend. “Do you see that this time we are not being as foolish as we seem?” Prince Andrei concluded. “Yes, yes, but why won’t they propose this plan to Napoleon himself?” Pierre exclaimed. “He would be the first to accept it, if this plan were sincere: he would understand and love any great idea.” Prince Andrei paused and rubbed his forehead with his small hand. “And apart from that, I am going …” He stopped. “I am going because the life that I lead here, this life – does not suit me!” “Why not?” Pierre asked in amazement. “Because, my dearest friend,” said Prince Andrei, standing up with a smile, “for the vicomte and Hippolyte to wander from one drawing room to the next and mull over nonsense and tell fairytales about Mademoiselle Georges or about some ‘girl’ is all well and good, but that role will not do for me. I cannot stand it any longer,” he added. Pierre’s glance expressed his agreement. “But here’s another thing. Why is Kutuzov important? And what does it mean to be an adjutant?” asked Pierre with that rare na?vety possessed by some young people who are not afraid of exposing their ignorance with a question. “You’re the only person who could possibly not know that,” Prince Andrei replied, smiling and shaking his head. “Kutuzov is Suvorov’s right hand, the best Russian general.” “But how can you be an adjutant? Doesn’t that mean they can order you about?” “Of course, an adjutant’s influence is absolutely insignificant,” Prince Andrei replied, “but I have to make a start. Besides, it is what my father wanted. I shall ask Kutuzov to give me a unit. And then we shall see …” “It will be strange, it’s bound to be, for you to fight against Napoleon,” said Pierre, as though assuming that as soon as Prince Andrei reached the war he would have to engage, if not in single-handed combat, then at least in very close action against Napoleon himself. Prince Andrei smiled pensively at his own thoughts, twisting the wedding ring on his third finger with a graceful, effeminate gesture. X A woman’s dress rustled in the next room. As if he had just woken up, Prince Andrei shook himself and his face assumed the expression it had worn in Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room. Pierre lowered his feet from the divan. The princess came in. She was wearing a different dress, more homely but just as elegant and fresh. Prince Andrei stood up and courteously moved up an armchair for her by the fireplace, but there was such intense boredom on his face as he did so, the princess would surely have taken offence, had she been able to see it. “Why, I often wonder,” she began, as always in French, as she hastily seated herself in the armchair, “why did Annette never marry? How foolish you all are, gentlemen, for not marrying her. Forgive my saying so, but you understand nothing at all about women.” Pierre and Prince Andrei involuntarily exchanged glances and said nothing. But neither their glance nor their silence embarrassed the princess in the least. She carried on prattling in the same way as before. “What a wrangler you are, Monsieur Pierre,” she said to the young man. “What a wrangler you are, Monsieur Pierre,” she repeated, fussily settling herself into the large armchair. Folding her little hands over the mound of her waist, she stopped talking, evidently intent on listening. Her face assumed that distinctive, serious expression in which the eyes seem to be gazing inwards – an expression that only pregnant women have. “I keep arguing with your husband as well; I cannot understand why he wants to go to war,” said Pierre, addressing the princess without a trace of the inhibition so usual in relations between a young man and a young woman. The princess started. Apparently Pierre’s words had touched a sore spot. “Ah, that is just what I say!” she said with her society smile. “I do not understand, I absolutely do not understand, why men cannot live without war. Why is it that we women do not want anything, do not need anything? Why you, you can be the judge. I keep telling him: here he is my uncle’s adjutant, a most brilliant position. Everybody knows him so well and appreciates him so. The other day at the Apraksins’ I heard one lady ask: ‘Is that the famous Prince Andrei?’ On my word of honour.” She laughed. “He is asked everywhere. He could quite easily be an aide-de-camp … Do you know that only two days ago His Majesty spoke to him most graciously? Annette and I were saying how very easy it would be to arrange. What do you think?” Pierre looked at Prince Andrei and, noticing that his friend did not like this conversation, made no reply. “When are you leaving?” he asked. “Oh, don’t talk of our leaving, don’t even mention it! I don’t wish to hear of it,” said the princess in the same skittish, capricious manner in which she had spoken with Hippolyte in the drawing room, and which was so obviously unsuited to a family circle of which Pierre was ostensibly a member. “Today, when I thought about having to break off all these dear, precious connections … And then, you know, Andrei.” She blinked significantly at her husband. “I’m afraid, I’m so afraid!” she whispered, quivering all the way down her back. Her husband looked at her as though he were surprised to have noticed that there was someone else apart from Pierre and himself in the room; however, he enquired of the princess with cold civility: “What are you afraid of, Lise? I can’t understand it,” he said. “See what egoists all men are! All, all of them egoists! Out of nothing but his own whimsy, God only knows why, he is abandoning me, shutting me away alone in the country.” “With my father and sister, do not forget,” Prince Andrei said quietly. “All the same alone, without my friends … And he does not want me to be afraid.” Her tone was peevish now, her short little lip was raised, lending her face an expression that was not joyful, but feral, squirrel-like. She stopped speaking, as if she found it improper to talk of her future delivery in front of Pierre, while this was in fact the very essence of the matter. “Even so, I do not understand what you are afraid of,” Prince Andrei enunciated slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on his wife. The princess blushed and fluttered her hands in despair. “No, Andrei, it’s just as I said: you have changed so much, so very much.” “Your doctor says you should go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrei. “You ought to go to bed.” The princess said nothing, and suddenly her short lip with the faint moustache began trembling. Prince Andrei stood up and, with a shrug of his shoulders, began pacing around the room. Pierre gazed through his spectacles in na?ve surprise, first at one, then at the other and began fidgeting on the spot, as if he kept wanting to get up and then changing his mind. “What does it matter to me that Monsieur Pierre is here,” the little princess said suddenly, and her pretty face suddenly dissolved into a tearful, unlovely grimace. “I have wanted to ask you for a long time, Andrei: What has made you change so much towards me. What have I done to you? You are going to the army, you have no pity for me. Why?” “Lise!” was all that Prince Andrei said, but the word expressed both supplication and threat and also, above all, the assurance that she would regret what she had said; but she continued hastily: “You treat me like a sick woman or a child. I see everything. You were not like this six months ago, were you?” “Lise, will you please stop this,” said Prince Andrei even more emphatically. Pierre, who had become more and more agitated in the course of this conversation, stood up and walked across to the princess. He seemed unable to bear the sight of her tears and was ready to start crying himself. “Calm down, princess. It only seems like that to you, because, I assure you, I myself have experienced … the reason … because … No, I beg your pardon, this is no place for an outsider … Please, calm down … Goodbye … Please excuse me …” He bowed, preparing to leave. Prince Andrei took his arm and stopped him. “No, wait, Pierre. The princess is so kind, she would not wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you.” “Yes, he thinks only of himself,” said the princess, making no effort to restrain her angry tears. “Lise,” Prince Andrei said coldly, raising his tone of voice to a level that indicated his patience had been exhausted. Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression on the princess’s beautiful little face was replaced by an expression of fearful appeal that aroused compassion; she cast her husband a sullen glance out of her lovely eyes, and her face assumed the timid expression of a dog rapidly but feebly wagging its lowered tail in a confession of guilt. “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” said the princess and, gathering up the folds of her dress in one hand, she went up to her husband and kissed him on his brown forehead. “Bon soir, Lise,” said Prince Andrei, rising and kissing her hand courteously, as though it were a stranger’s. XI The friends were silent. Neither said a word. Pierre kept glancing at Prince Andrei; Prince Andrei rubbed his forehead with his small hand. “Let’s go and have supper,” he said with a sigh, getting up and moving towards the door. They entered a dining room newly decorated in an elegant and rich style. Everything, from the napkins to the silver, porcelain and crystal, bore the special imprint of that newness and elegance which distinguish the household of a young married couple. In the middle of supper Prince Andrei leaned his elbows on the table and, like a man who has held something in his heart for a long time and suddenly decides to speak out, he began talking with an air of nervous irritation that Pierre had never seen in his friend before. “Never, never marry, my friend, that is my advice to you, do not marry until you can tell yourself that you have done everything that you could, and until you have stopped loving the woman that you have chosen, until you can see her clearly, or you will commit a grievous and fatal error. Marry as an old man no longer good for anything … Or everything that is fine and exalted in you will be destroyed. It will all be frittered away on trifles. Yes, yes, yes! Do not look at me with such amazement. If you expect anything of yourself in the future, then you will feel at every step that for you everything is over, all doors are closed, except to the drawing room, where you will stand on the same level as the household flunkey and the idiot … I tell you!” He gestured emphatically with his hand. Pierre removed his spectacles, which changed the expression of his face, making his kindness even more obvious, and looked at his friend in surprise. “My wife,” continued Prince Andrei, “is a lovely woman. She is one of those rare women with whom one need not be concerned for one’s honour; but, my God, what would I not give now not to be married! You are the only person I have told about this, because I am so fond of you.” As he said this Prince Andrei resembled even less than before the gentleman who had sprawled in Anna Pavlovna’s armchair, narrowing his eyes as he pronounced French phrases through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his lean, brownish face was quivering in nervous animation; his eyes, in which the fire of life had earlier seemed extinguished, now glowed brightly, glinting and glittering. It was clear that the more listless he seemed at ordinary times, the more intensely energetic he was at such moments of almost morbid agitation. “You don’t understand why I say that,” he went on. “It’s an entire life story. You talk about Bonaparte and his career,” he said, although Pierre had not even mentioned Bonaparte. “You talk about Bonaparte, but Bonaparte graduated from a course at the artillery college and went out into the world when there was war and the road to glory was open to everyone.” Pierre looked at his friend, clearly prepared in advance to agree with whatever he might say. “Bonaparte went out into the world and immediately found the place he was meant to occupy. And who were his friends? Who was Josephine Beauharnais? My five years of life since I left the Corps de Pages have been nothing but drawing rooms, balls, illicit affairs, idleness. Now I am setting out to war, to the greatest war that there has ever been, and I know nothing and am good for nothing. I am amiable and sharp-tongued, and I am listened to at Anna Pavlovna’s, but I have forgotten what I used to know. I have only just begun to read, but it is all a jumble. And there can be no soldier without knowledge of military history, mathematics and fortifications. And this stupid society, without which my wife cannot live, and these women … I have known success in high society. The most exquisite of women have flung themselves at me. But if you could only know what all these exquisite women are like, and women in general! My father is right. He says that nature is not all-wise, because she was unable to devise a means for the propagation of humankind without woman. Egotism, vanity, stupidity, pettiness in all things – that is all women for you when they show themselves as they are. Look at them in society and there seems to be something to them, but there is nothing, nothing, nothing! No, do not marry, my dear friend, do not marry,” Prince Andrei concluded, and he shook his head as emphatically as if everything he had said were a truth that no one could possibly doubt. “I think it is funny,” said Pierre, “that you regard yourself, yourself as unqualified, and your life as a spoiled life. You have everything, everything ahead of you. And you …” He did not say what it was Andrei did, but his tone alone revealed how highly he thought of his friend and how much he expected from him in the future. In the very best, the most friendly and direct of relationships, flattery or compliments are necessary, as grease is needed to make wheels turn. “I’m a failure,” said Prince Andrei, but from the proud way in which he raised his handsome head so high and the bright gleam in his eyes, it was clear how little he believed in what he had said. “But why bother talking about me? Let’s talk about you,” he said, pausing for a moment and smiling at his own consoling thoughts. That smile was instantly reflected on Pierre’s face. “Why bother talking about me?” said Pierre, extending his mouth into a carefree, jolly smile. “What am I? I am an illegitimate son.” And suddenly, for the first time in the whole evening, he blushed a deep crimson. It had obviously cost him a great effort to say that. “With no name and no fortune. But what of it, it is really …” But he did not say what it really was. “I am free for the time being, and I like it. I simply do not know what I ought to start doing. I wanted to ask your serious advice.” Prince Andrei looked at him with kindly eyes. But even so his friendly and affectionate glance expressed an awareness of his own superiority. “You are dear to me, especially because, in the whole of our high society, you are the only person who is alive. You’re fortunate. Choose whatever you like, it doesn’t matter. You will always fit in anywhere, but just one thing: stop going to see these Kuragins, leading that kind of life. It doesn’t suit you at all: all this bingeing and playing the hussar, and all the rest of it.” “Do you know what,” said Pierre, as if a happy thought had just occurred to him, “seriously, I’ve been thinking that for a long time. Living like that I cannot make decisions, or think anything through. My head hurts, I have no money. He invited me today, I shan’t go.” “Give me your word, your word of honour, that you won’t go!” “Word of honour.” “Make sure, now.” “Of course.” XII It was after one in the morning when Pierre left his friend’s house. It was a bright St. Petersburg June night. Pierre got into a cabby’s carriage with the intention of going home. But the closer he came, the more strongly he felt the impossibility of getting to sleep on this night that was more like an evening or a morning. He could see for a long way in the empty streets. He pictured Prince Andrei’s animated, handsome face and heard his words – not about his relations with his wife (that did not interest Pierre) – but his words about the war and the future life that might await his friend. Pierre loved and admired his friend so unconditionally that he could not accept that, the moment Prince Andrei desired it, everyone would not acknowledge him as a remarkable and great man, whose nature was to command, not to obey. Pierre simply could not imagine that anyone at all, even Kutuzov, for instance, would have the courage to issue commands to a man so evidently born to take the leading role in everything as he conceived Prince Andrei to be. He imagined his friend before the assembled troops, on a white steed, with a terse, forceful speech on his lips; he imagined his courage, his successes, his heroism and everything that most young men imagine for themselves. Pierre recalled that he had promised to repay a small gambling debt today to Anatoly, at whose house the usual company of gamblers had been due to gather that evening. “Go to Kuragin’s,” he said to the driver, thinking only of where he could spend the remainder of the night, and completely forgetting the promise he had given Prince Andrei not to visit Kuragin. On arriving at the porch of the large house in which Anatole Kuragin lived beside the Cavalry Guards barracks, he recalled his promise, but immediately, as happens with those people who are described as lacking in character, he wanted desperately to go in and take another glance at that dissolute life with which he was so familiar and so bored, and the thought came to him of itself that the promise he had given did not mean anything and, moreover, he had also promised Anatoly, before Prince Andrei, that he would bring the money he owed: finally, he thought that all these words of honour were mere conventions, without any definite meaning, especially if you realised that tomorrow perhaps he would die or something so unusual would happen to him that nothing would be honourable or dishonourable any longer. He walked up to the well-lit porch, on up the stairs and went in through an open door. There was nobody in the sumptuous entrance hall, but there were empty bottles lying about, a heap of bent playing-cards in the corner, cloaks and galoshes; there was a smell of wine; he could hear talking and shouting in the distance. Evidently the gambling and supper were already over, but the guests had not yet departed. Pierre took off his cloak and went into the first room, in the centre of which there stood a life-size statue of a racehorse. Here he could hear the racket from the next room more clearly, the familiar sound of six or eight men laughing and shouting. He went into the next room, where the remains of supper were still on the table. About eight young men, all without frock coats and mostly in military riding breeches, were crowding around an open window and all shouting incomprehensibly in Russian and French. “I bet a hundred with Chaplin!” shouted one. “Make sure you don’t support him!” shouted another. “I’m for Dolokhov!” shouted a third. “Part our hands, Kuragin!” “All in one breath, or you’ve lost!” shouted a fourth. “Yakov, let’s have the bottle, Yakov!” shouted the master of the house, a tall, statuesquely handsome fellow standing in the middle of the crowd. “Stop, gentlemen. Here he is, Pierre!” “Ah! Pyotr! Petrusha! Peter the Great!” “Peter the Stout!” everybody began shouting from every side, crowding round him. Every one of the red or blotchy young faces expressed delight at the sight of Pierre, who removed his spectacles and wiped them as he looked at all this crowd. “I don’t understand a thing. What’s going on?” he asked with a good-humoured smile. “Stop, he’s not drunk. Give me a bottle,” said Anatole, and taking a glass from the table, he went up to Pierre. “First of all, drink.” Pierre began drinking glass after glass without speaking, peering out from under his brows at the drunken guests, who had crowded round the window again, discussing something that he did not understand. He drank one glass at a gulp; Anatole poured him another with a meaningful expression. Pierre drank it resignedly, but more slowly than the first. Anatole poured a third. Pierre drank that one too, although he paused twice in order to catch his breath. Anatole stood beside him, gazing by turns with his beautiful, big eyes at the glass, the bottle and Pierre. Anatole was a handsome fellow: tall and full-bodied, white-skinned and ruddy-cheeked; he had such a high chest that his head was inclined backwards, which gave him a haughty air. He had a lovely fresh mouth, thick light-brown hair, slanting black eyes and a general appearance of strength, health and the good nature of vivacious youth. But his beautiful eyes with the wonderful, regular black brows seemed to have been made less for looking than for being looked at. They seemed incapable of changing their expression. It was only clear that he was drunk from his red face, and even more so from his unnaturally out-thrust chest and the wide stare of his eyes. Even though he was drunk and the upper half of his mighty body was clad in nothing but a shirt open at the chest, from the faint aroma of perfume and soap which surrounded him, mingling with the smell of the wine he had drunk, from his hairstyle, painstakingly pomaded in place that morning, from the elegant cleanness of his plump hands and superbly fine linen, from that distinctive whiteness and delicate smoothness of his skin, the aristocrat was apparent even in his present condition, by virtue of the habit, acquired in childhood, of painstaking and lavish care for his own person. “Come on, drink it all! Eh!” he said seriously, handing Pierre the last glass. “No, I don’t want to,” said Pierre, faltering halfway through the glass. “Well, what’s going on?” he added with the expression of a man who has fulfilled his initial obligation and believes that he now has the right to join in the common pursuit. “Drink it all, eh?” Anatole repeated, opening his eyes wider, lifting the unfinished glass in his white hand, his arm bared to the elbow. He had the look of a man doing something important, because at that moment he was focusing all his energy on holding the glass straight and saying exactly what he wanted to say. “I told you, I don’t want to,” replied Pierre, putting on his spectacles and walking away. “What are you shouting about?” he asked the crowd that had gathered round the window. Anatole stood and thought for a moment, handed the glass to a servant and, smiling with his lovely mouth, also went over to the window. On Fridays Anatole Kuragin received everyone at his home, they played cards and ate supper there, then spent most of the night out. On that day the session of faro had developed into a protracted game for high stakes. Anatole had lost a little, and since he had no passion for gambling, but played out of habit, he had soon dropped out. One rich man, a life-hussar, had lost a lot, and one Semyonovsky Regiment officer, Dolokhov, had won from everyone. After the game they had sat down to supper very late. An extremely serious Englishman, who described himself as a traveller, had said that he had been given to believe that Russians drank far more heavily than he discovered they actually did. He had said that in Russia they drank nothing but champagne, but if they would drink rum, then he proposed a wager that he would drink more than anyone else present. Dolokhov, the officer who had won more than everyone else that evening, had said it wasn’t worth making a wager simply on a bottle of rum, and he had offered to drink the whole bottle without taking it from his lips, and also while sitting on the second-floor window-ledge with his legs dangling outside. The Englishman had proposed the wager. Anatole had accepted the wager for Dolokhov, that is, that Dolokhov would drink the full bottle of rum sitting on the ledge. Pierre came in just when the servants were starting to remove the frame that prevented anyone from sitting on the outside window-ledge. The second-storey window was high enough for someone falling from it to be killed. Drunken and amicable faces on all sides kept telling Pierre what was going on, as if it were particularly important for Pierre to know the state of affairs. Dolokhov was an officer in a Guards infantry regiment, of medium height, sinewy and solidly built, with a broad, full chest, extremely curly hair and light-blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers, he wore no moustache, and his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was fully visible. It was an extremely agreeable mouth, despite the fact that it almost never smiled. The lines of this mouth were curved with remarkable subtlety. At its centre the upper lip pressed down vigorously on the firm lower one; sharp folds in the corners constantly formed something like two smiles, one on each side, and all of this, together with a direct, somewhat insolent, but ardent and intelligent gaze, produced such an extraordinary impression it made people wonder about the owner of such a beautiful and strange face. Women liked Dolokhov, and he was fully convinced there was no such thing as a woman whose character was entirely above reproach. Dolokhov was a young man of good family, but not rich, although he lived extravagantly and gambled constantly. He almost always won; but no one, not even in his absence, dared to attribute his constant success to anything other than good luck, a clear mind and indomitable will-power. In their hearts, everyone who gambled with him assumed he was a card-sharp, although they did not dare to say so. Now, when he had proposed his strange wager, the drunken company took an especially keen interest in what he intended to do, precisely because those who knew him knew that he would do what he had said. Pierre also knew it and that was the only reason why he greeted Dolokhov without attempting to raise any objection to his intentions. The rest of the company consisted of three officers, the Englishman, who had been seen in St. Petersburg in the most diverse circles, and a certain Moscow gambler, a fat married man who was much older than everyone else, and yet was on familiar terms with all these young people. The bottle of rum had been brought; the frame that prevented anyone sitting on the sloping ledge of the window was being broken out by two servants in gaiters and kaftans, who were clearly working in haste, feeling intimidated by the shouted advice from the gentlemen surrounding them. With his chest thrust out, his expression unchanging, neither walking round the others nor asking them to make way, Anatole forced his strong body through the crowd at the window, went up to the frame, wrapped both his white hands in a frock coat that was lying on a divan, and struck at the panes of glass, breaking them out. “Now now, your excellency,” said a servant, “you’re only getting in the way and you’ll cut your hands.” “Get out of it, you fool, eh?” said Anatole. He took hold of the crossbeam of the frame and began pulling. Several other hands also joined in; they pulled, and the frame sprang out of the window with a crack, so that those pulling it almost fell over. “Out with it all, or they’ll think I’m holding on,” said Dolokhov. “Listen,” Anatole said to Pierre. “You understand? The Englishman’s boasting … eh? … National pride? … Eh? … All right? …” “All right,” said Pierre, gazing with a sinking heart at Dolokhov as, grasping the bottle of rum in his hands, he approached the window, through which could be seen the light of the sky, where dawn and dusk were merging. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt purposefully after sticking the bottle of rum in his pocket, Dolokhov leapt smartly up to the window. “Listen!” he shouted, standing on the sill and addressing the room. Everybody stopped talking. “I wager” (he spoke in French so that the Englishman would understand him, but he did not speak that language too well) “I wager fifty imperials … Want to make it a hundred?” he added, addressing the Englishman. “No, fifty,” said the Englishman. “All right, fifty imperials, that I will drink this whole bottle of rum without lifting it from my lips, and that I’ll drink it sitting outside the window, on this spot here” (he leaned out and pointed to the jutting slope of the wall outside the window) “and without holding on … Right?” “Very good,” said the Englishman. Anatole turned towards the Englishman and, grabbing him by the button of his tailcoat and looking down on him from above (the Englishman was short), he began explaining in English what was already clear to everyone. “Stop!” cried Dolokhov, banging the bottle against the side of the window to draw attention to himself. “Stop, Kuragin, listen. If anyone else does the same, then I pay a hundred imperials. Understand?” The Englishman nodded, without making it at all clear whether he intended to accept this new wager. Anatole kept hold of the Englishman and even though the latter tried to convey by nodding that he had understood everything, Anatole translated Dolokhov’s words into English for him. A young, skinny boy, a life-hussar who had lost that evening, climbed up into the window, stuck his head out and looked down. “Oooh …” he exclaimed, looking out and down through the window to the stone of the pavement. “Attention!” yelled Dolokhov and jerked the officer out of the window. He jumped awkwardly back down into the room, tripping over his tangled spurs. Setting the bottle on the window-ledge so it would be easy to pick up, Dolokhov climbed cautiously and carefully out of the window. Lowering his legs and wedging himself against the sides of the window with both hands, he shifted his position, settled himself, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right, then to the left and took hold of the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and set them on the windowsill, although it was already quite light. Dolokhov’s back in the white shirt and his curly head were lit up from both sides. Everybody was crowding round the window. The Englishman was standing at the front. Pierre was smiling without speaking. The old Muscovite, his face frightened and angry, suddenly pushed forward, trying to grab Dolokhov by the shirt. “Gentlemen, this is stupidity, he’ll fall and be killed,” he said. Anatole stopped him. “Don’t touch him, you’ll startle him, he’ll be killed. Eh? … What then? … Eh?” Dolokhov looked round, adjusting his position and once again wedging himself with his hands. His face was neither pale nor red, but cold and angry. “If anyone tries to meddle again,” he said, uttering each word separately through thin, compressed lips, “I’ll chuck him down there right now. It’s slippery enough to slide right off, but he interferes with his stupid nonsense … Right!” After saying “Right!” he turned back again, lowered his hands, picked up the bottle and raised it to his mouth, tilting his head back and throwing his free hand upwards for balance. One of the servants, who had begun clearing up the broken glass, stopped in a bent-over position with his eyes fixed on the window and Dolokhov’s back. Anatole stood up straight, his eyes wide open. The Englishman pursed his lips and watched from the side. The old Muscovite fled into the corner of the room and lay down on a divan with his face to the wall. Some stood still with their mouths open, some with their hands raised. Pierre covered his face, where a faint, forgotten smile still lingered, although it now expressed horror and fear. Nobody said a word. Pierre took his hands away from his eyes; Dolokhov was sitting in the same position, but his head was tilted right back so that the curly hair at the back touched the collar of his shirt and the hand holding the bottle was rising higher and higher, shuddering with the effort. The bottle was clearly emptying and at the same time rising higher, as his head tilted back. “What is taking so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had gone by. Suddenly Dolokhov leaned backwards bodily and his hand began shaking nervously: this shuddering was enough to shift his whole body sitting on the steep slope. He changed position and his hands and head began to shake even more strongly from the effort. One hand was raised to grab hold of the windowsill, but then lowered again. Pierre closed his eyes and told himself that he would not open them again. Suddenly he sensed everything around him beginning to stir. He peeped: Dolokhov was standing on the windowsill, his face pale and elated. DOLOKHOV’S WAGER WITH THE ENGLISHMAN Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_a6d8f629-bfe0-5b4a-a76c-97b278d89ee5) “Empty!” He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who deftly caught it. Then Dolokhov jumped down from the window. He smelled strongly of rum. “Eh? How’s that? Eh?” Anatole asked everybody. “What a splendid trick!” “To hell with the lot of you!” said the old Muscovite. The Englishman had taken out his purse and was counting out the money. Dolokhov was scowling in silence. Pierre, in a bewildered state, walked around the room, smiling and breathing heavily. “Gentlemen, who wishes to wager with me? I’ll do the same,” he suddenly blurted out. “And I don’t even need a wager, so there. Tell them to give me a bottle. I’ll do it … tell them.” “What are you saying? Have you lost your mind? Who’s going to let you? You get dizzy on the stairs,” voices said on every side. “It was mean of us to leave Dolokhov to sacrifice his life alone. I’ll drink it, let me have a bottle of rum!” shouted Pierre, hammering on the table with a determined, drunken gesture, and he started clambering up to the window. They grabbed him by the arms and led him off to the next room. But Dolokhov was unable to walk; they carried him over to a divan and doused his head with cold water. Someone wanted to go home, someone suggested not going home but on to somewhere else, all of them together: Pierre insisted on this more than anyone. They put on their cloaks and set off. The Englishman went home and Dolokhov fell into a half-dead, insensible sleep on Anatole’s divan. XIII Prince Vasily kept the promise that he had made to the elderly woman at Anna Pavlovna’s soir?e who had petitioned him about her only son Boris. His Majesty was informed of him and, unlike other young men, he was transferred to the Semyonovsky Guards regiment as an ensign. But Boris was not appointed an adjutant or attached to Kutuzov, for all Anna Mikhailovna’s soliciting and scheming. Shortly after Anna Pavlovna’s soir?e, Anna Mikhailovna went back to Moscow, straight to her rich relatives the Rostovs, with whom she stayed in Moscow and in whose house her adored little Borenka had been educated since he was a child and had lived for years. Now, though he had only just been taken into the army, he had immediately been made a Guards ensign. The Guards had already left St. Petersburg on the 10th of August and her son, who had remained in Moscow to be fitted for his uniform, was due to catch them up on the road to Radzivilov. It was the name-day of two members of the Rostov family – the mother and her youngest daughter, both called Natalya. All morning, teams of horses had been constantly driving up and away, bringing well-wishers to Countess Rostova’s large house on Povarskaya Street, which was known to the whole of Moscow. The countess and her elder daughter sat in the drawing room with the guests, who endlessly came and went. The countess was a woman with a thin, oriental-looking face, about forty-five years old, clearly exhausted by her children, of whom she had had twelve. A slowness in her movements and speech, due to her frailty, lent her a grave air that inspired respect. As part of the household, Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskaya sat beside her, helping with the business of receiving the guests and engaging them in conversation. The young people were in the back rooms, feeling no need to participate in the receiving of visits. The count was greeting and seeing off the guests and inviting them to dinner. “I am very, very grateful, ma ch?re or mon cher” (he said ma ch?re or mon cher to everyone without exception, making not the slightest distinction between people of higher or lower standing than himself), “for myself and for my dear name-day girls. Be sure to come for dinner, now. I cordially invite you on behalf of the whole family, ma ch?re.” He spoke these words to everyone without exception or variation, with an identical expression on his plump, jolly, clean-shaven face, and with an identically firm handshake and repeated short bows. After seeing off one guest, the count went back to another who was still in the drawing room: drawing up an armchair and with the air of a man who likes and knows how to enjoy life, rakishly planting his feet wide apart and setting his hands on his knees, he swayed impressively, ventured conjectures concerning the weather and consulted people about his health, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in very bad but self-assured French, then once again, with the air of a man who is tired but resolute in the fulfilment of his duty, went to see the guest off, arranging the sparse grey hairs on his bald patch, and once again invited the guest to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the hallway he went via the conservatory and the footmen’s room to look into the large marble hall, where they were laying the table for eighty places and, looking at the footmen carrying the silver and porcelain, extending the tables and spreading out the damask tablecloths, he called over Dmitri Vasilievich, the nobleman’s son who managed all his affairs and said: “Right, Mitenka, now you make sure everything is all right. Good, good,” he said, surveying with satisfaction the huge extended table. “And don’t forget the order of the wines; the whole thing is in the serving. See to it …” And he walked away, sighing complacently, back to the drawing room. “Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!” the countess’s huge footman announced in a deep bass as he stepped through the doors of the drawing room. The countess thought for a moment and took a sniff from a gold snuffbox decorated with a portrait of her husband. “These visits have quite worn me out,” she said. “Well then, she shall be the last I receive. She is very prim and proper. Show her in,” she said to her servant in a sad voice, as if she were saying: “Very well then, finish me off.” A tall, plump lady with a proud face and her pretty little daughter entered the drawing room in a rustling of dresses. “Dear countess, how long it has been … she has had to stay in bed, the poor child … at the ball at the Razumovskys … and Countess Apraksina … I was so glad.” The sound of lively women’s voices interrupting each other mingled with the sound of dresses rustling and chairs being drawn up. There began one of those conversations which are initiated precisely in order that, at the first pause, one may rise, rustle one’s dress, and say: “I am so delighted! Mama and Countess Apraksina wish you good health …” – and, rustling one’s dress yet again, proceed to the hallway, put on one’s fur coat or cloak and depart. The conversation turned to the most important news in town at the time, the illness of a famous, rich and handsome man of Empress Catherine’s day, the old Count Bezukhov, and his illegitimate son Pierre, who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna Scherer’s soir?e. “I feel awfully sorry for the poor count,” said the guest, “his health was bad enough already, and now comes this distress from his son. It will be the death of him!” “What’s that?” asked the countess, as though she did not know what her guest was talking about, despite having already heard the reason for Count Bezukhov’s distress at least fifteen times. “That’s modern-day education for you! While he was abroad,” the guest continued, “this young man was left to his own devices and now they’re saying in St. Petersburg that he has done such terrible things, he has been banished here with a police escort.” “Well, I never!” said the countess. “He chose his friends badly,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna interjected. “They say that he and Prince Vasily’s son, and a certain Dolokhov, got up to God only knows what. And they have both suffered for it. Dolokhov has been reduced to the ranks and Bezukhov’s son has been banished to Moscow. As for Anatole Kuragin – his father hushed things up somehow. He managed to stay in the Horse Guards regiment.” “But what can they have done?” asked the countess. “They are absolute bandits, especially Dolokhov,” said the guest. “He is the son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a respectable lady, but what of it? Can you imagine, the three of them got hold of a bear from somewhere and took it off with them in a carriage to see some actresses? The police came running to calm them down, and they caught the local policeman, tied him back to back with the bear and threw the bear into the Moika river; the bear was swimming along with the policeman on top of it.” “A fine figure of a policeman, ma ch?re,” the count exclaimed, splitting his sides laughing, with an air of approval which suggested that, in spite of his age, he would not have minded taking part in such fun and games. “Oh, how terrible! What is there to laugh at, count?” But the ladies laughed too, despite themselves. “They barely managed to rescue the unfortunate man,” the guest continued. “And that is the clever way in which the son of Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov amuses himself!” she added. “And they said he was so well brought-up and intelligent. This is what all that foreign upbringing has led to. I hope no one here will receive him, despite his wealth. They wanted to introduce him to me. I positively refused: I have daughters.” “But this is a quite excellent prank, ma ch?re. Good for them!” said the count, making no attempt to restrain his laughter. The guest looked at him in prim annoyance. “Ah, ma ch?re Marya Lvovna,” he said in his badly pronounced poor French, “youth must sow its wild oats. Really and truly!” he added. “Your husband and I were no saints either. We had our little peccadilloes too.” He winked at her; the guest did not reply. “Why do you say that this young man is so rich?” asked the countess, leaning away from the girls, who immediately pretended not to be listening. “Surely he only has illegitimate children. And I think … Pierre is also illegitimate.” The guest gestured vaguely. “He has twenty illegitimate children, I believe.” Princess Anna Mikhailovna intervened in the conversation, clearly wishing to demonstrate her connections and her knowledge of all the affairs of high society. “That is the point,” she said significantly, and also in a half-whisper. “Count Kirill Vladimirovich’s reputation is well known … He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favourite.” “What a fine man he was,” said the countess, “only last year! I never laid eyes on a more handsome man.” “He is greatly changed now,” said Princess Anna Mikhailovna. “What I wanted to say,” she continued, “is that on his wife’s side, the direct heir to the entire estate is Prince Vasily, but Pierre was greatly loved by his father, who provided for his education and wrote to His Majesty … So no one knows, if he dies (and he is in such a bad way that it is expected any minute, and Lorrain has come from St. Petersburg), who will get this immense fortune, Pierre or Prince Vasily. Forty thousand souls and millions upon millions. I know this so well, because Prince Vasily told me himself. And Kirill Vladimirovich is a third cousin of mine on my mother’s side, and he was Borya’s godfather,” she added, as though she attached no importance whatever to that circumstance. “Prince Vasily arrived in Moscow yesterday. He is going for some audit, I am told,” said the guest. “Yes, but between you and me,” said the princess, “that is a mere pretext: he has actually come to see Count Kirill Vladimirovich after hearing that he is in such a bad way.” “Nonetheless, ma ch?re, it was an excellent prank,” said the count and then, noticing that the senior guest was not listening to him, he turned to the young ladies. “That policeman cut a fine figure, I imagine.” And demonstrating the policeman waving his arms, he began laughing again with that resonant bass laughter that shook his entire plump body, the way people laugh who always eat and, especially, drink well. XIV Silence fell. The countess looked at her guest with a polite smile, but without disguising the fact that she would now be not in the least offended if her guest were to get up and leave. The guest’s daughter was already adjusting her dress and glancing enquiringly at her mother, when suddenly from the next room there was the sound of several male and female feet running towards the door, the clatter of a stool dragged and overturned, and a thirteen-year-old girl with the skirt of her short muslin frock oddly tucked up came bursting into the room and stopped in the middle. She seemed to have misjudged her speed and galloped so far in by accident. That very same moment four figures appeared in the doorway: two young men – one a student with a crimson collar, the other a Guards officer – a fifteen-year-old girl and a fat, ruddy-cheeked boy in a child’s smock. The count leapt up and, swaying on his feet, spread his arms wide around the girl who had run in. “Ah, there she is!” he cried, laughing. “The name-day girl! Ma ch?re name-day girl!” “My dear, there is a time for everything,” the countess said to her daughter, obviously merely in order to say something, because it was clear at a glance that her daughter was not the least bit afraid of her. “You’re always spoiling her,” she added, speaking to her husband. “Hello, my dear, happy name-day to you,” said the guest. “What a charming child!” she added, addressing her flattery to the mother. The black-eyed, large-mouthed and plain but lively little girl, with her childish, exposed little shoulders heaving and contracting in their bodice after the fast run, with her tangle of black curls swept backwards, thin little bare arms and fast little legs in little lacy pantaloons and little open shoes, was at that sweet age when the little girl is no longer a child, but the child is not yet a young woman. Twisting away from her father, quick and graceful and evidently unused to the drawing room, she ran across to her mother and, paying no attention to her rebuke, hid her flushed little face in the lacework of her mother’s mantilla and burst into laughter. “Mama! We wanted to marry Boris … Ha, ha!… To the doll … Ha, ha! Yes … Ah … Mimi …” she said through her laughter. “And … Ah … He ran away.” She pulled a large doll out from under her skirt and showed it to them: a black, broken-off nose, a cracked cardboard head and kidskin bottom, legs and arms that dangled loosely at the elbows and knees, but still with a fresh, elegant, carmine smile and thick-black, arching brows. The countess had been acquainted for four years with this Mimi, Natasha’s inseparable friend, a gift from her godfather. “You see?” And Natasha could not say any more (everything seemed funny to her). She fell down onto her mother and broke into such loud, resounding laughter that everybody, even the prim and proper guest, began laughing in spite of themselves. This laughter could even be heard in the footman’s room. The countess’s menservants exchanged smiling glances with the visiting liveried footman, who had been sitting glumly on his chair all the while. “Now, off with you, you and your monster!” said the little girl’s mother, pushing her daughter away in feigned anger. “This is my youngest, a spoilt little girl, as you can see,” she said to the guest. Tearing her little face away for a moment from her mother’s lacy shawl and glancing up at her, Natasha said quietly through her tears of laughter: “I feel so embarrassed, mama!” And quick as could be, as if she were afraid of being caught, she hid her face again. The guest, obliged to admire the family scene, felt it necessary to take some kind of part in it. “Tell me, my dear,” she said, addressing Natasha, “who is this Mimi to you? Your daughter, I suppose?” Natasha did not like this guest and the tone in which she condescended to make conversation with a child. “No, madame, she’s not my daughter, she’s a doll,” she said, smiling boldly, got up off her mother and sat down beside her eldest sister, demonstrating in this way that she could behave like a big girl. Meanwhile the entire young generation (Boris the officer, Anna Mikhailovna’s son; Nikolai the student, the count’s eldest son; Sonya, the count’s fifteen-year-old niece; and little Petrushka, the youngest son) had all distributed themselves round the drawing room as if they had suddenly been dropped into cold water and were clearly struggling to restrain within the limits of decorum the excitement and merriment that were still glowing in every feature of their faces. It was plain to see that out there, in the back rooms from which they had come running in so impetuously, their conversations had been more fun than the talk here of town scandals, the weather and Countess Apraksina. The two young men, student and officer, were childhood friends, both the same age and both handsome, although they were quite unalike. Boris, a tall, fair-haired youth, had a long face with fine, regular features. A calm and thoughtful mind was expressed in his pleasant grey eyes, but in the corners of his still hairless lips there lurked a constantly mocking and slightly cunning smile, which instead of spoiling his expression, seemed in fact to add spice to his fresh, handsome face that was so obviously still untouched by either vice or grief. Nikolai was not very tall, with a broad chest and a very subtle, fine figure. His open face, with soft, wavy, light-brown hair surrounding a prominent, broad forehead, and the ecstatic gaze of his half-closed, prominent brown eyes, always expressed the impression of the moment. Little black hairs had already appeared on his upper lip, and impetuosity and enthusiasm were expressed in his every feature. Both young men bowed and took seats in the drawing room. Boris did this fluently and easily; Nikolai, on the contrary, with almost childish resentment. Nikolai glanced by turns at the guests and the door, evidently with no desire to conceal the fact that he was bored, and hardly even answered the questions put to him by the guests. Boris, on the contrary, immediately found the right tone and informed them with mock gravity that he had known this Mimi doll as a young girl when her nose was still perfect, that she had aged a lot in the five years he had known her, what with her head splitting open right across the skull. Then he enquired after the lady’s health. Everything he said was simple and decorous, neither too witty nor too foolish, but the smile playing about his lips indicated that even as he spoke he did not ascribe the slightest importance to his own words and was speaking purely out of a sense of decorum. “Mama, what is he speaking like a grown-up for? I don’t want him to,” said Natasha, going up to her mother and pointing at Boris like a capricious child. Boris smiled at her. “You just want to play dolls with him all the time,” replied Princess Anna Mikhailovna, patting Natasha’s bare shoulder, which shrank away nervously and withdrew into its bodice at the touch of her hand. “I’m bored,” whispered Natasha. “Mama, nanny is asking if she can go visiting, can she? Can she?” she repeated, raising her voice, with that characteristic capacity of women for quick-wittedness in innocent deception. “She can, mama!” she shouted, barely able to restrain her laughter and, glancing at Boris, she curtseyed to the guests and walked as far as the door, but once outside it started running as fast as her little legs could carry her. Boris became pensive. “I thought you wanted to go too, maman. Do you need the carriage?” he said, blushing as he addressed his mother. “Yes, off you go now and tell them to get it ready,” she said, smiling. Boris went out quietly through the door and set off after Natasha; the fat boy in the smock ran behind him angrily, as if he were annoyed by some interruption to his studies. XV Of the young people, aside from the countess’s elder daughter, who was four years older than her sister and already behaved like a grown-up, and the young lady visitor, the only ones left in the drawing room were Nikolai and Sonya the niece, who sat there, with that rather artificial, festive smile that many adults believe they should wear when present at other people’s conversations, repeatedly casting tender glances at her cousin. Sonya was a slim, petite brunette with a gentle gaze shaded by long eyelashes, a thick black plait wound twice around her head and sallow skin on her face and especially on her bare, lean but graceful and sinewy arms and neck. With the smoothness of her movements, the gentle flexibility of her little limbs and her rather cunning and reticent manner she involuntarily reminded people of a beautiful but still immature kitten that would become a delightful cat. She evidently thought it proper to indicate her interest in the general conversation with her festive smile but, against her will, her eyes gazed out from under their long lashes at her cousin, who was leaving for the army, with such passionate girlish adoration, that her smile could not possibly have deceived anyone for even a moment, and it was clear that the little cat had only sat down in order to spring up even more energetically and start playing with her cousin just as soon as they got out of this drawing room. “Yes, ma ch?re,” said the old count, addressing the guest and pointing to his Nikolai. “His friend Boris there has been appointed an officer, and out of friendship he does not want to be left behind, so he’s abandoning university and this old man and he’s going to join the army. And there was a place all ready for him in the archive and everything. How’s that for friendship!” the count queried. SONYA Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_8aaa2b9c-56e4-51e1-a803-e833f1a964de) “But after all, they do say that war has been declared,” said the guest. “They’ve been saying that for a long time,” the count said, still speaking vaguely. “They’ll say it again a few times, and then again, and leave it at that. How’s that for friendship, then!” he repeated. “He’s joining the hussars.” Not knowing what to say, the guest shook her head. “It’s not out of friendship at all,” responded Nikolai, flaring up and speaking as if he were defending himself against a shameful slander. “It’s not at all out of friendship, it’s just that I feel a calling for military service.” He glanced round at the young lady guest: the young lady was looking at him with a smile, approving the young man’s action. “We have Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd Hussars Regiment, dining with us today. He’s been on leave here and is going to take him back with him. What can one do?” said the count, shrugging and speaking jocularly about a matter that evidently pained him a great deal. For some reason Nikolai suddenly became angry. “But I told you, papa, that if you don’t wish to let me go, I shall stay. I know I’m no good for anything but military service. I’m not a diplomat, I don’t know how to conceal what I feel,” he said, gesticulating too enthusiastically for his words and glancing all the time with the coquettishness of handsome youth at Sonya and the young lady guest. The little cat, devouring him with her eyes, seemed ready at any second to launch into her game and demonstrate her full feline nature. The young lady continued to approve him with her smile. “Perhaps something might just come of me,” he added, “but I am no good for anything here …” “Well, well, all right!” said the old count. “He’s always getting worked up. Bonaparte has turned everyone’s heads: everyone thinks about how he rose from a corporal to an emperor. Well, then, if it pleases God …” he added, not noticing the guest’s mocking smile. “Well, off you go, off you go, Nikolai, I can see you’re keen to be off,” said the countess. “Not at all,” her son replied, but nonetheless a moment later he got up, bowed and left the room. Sonya carried on sitting a little longer, smiling more and more falsely all the while, then got up, still with the same smile, and went out. “How very transparent all these young people’s secrets are!” said Countess Anna Mikhailovna, pointing to Sonya and laughing. The guest laughed. “Yes,” said the countess, after the ray of sunshine that this young generation had brought into the drawing room had disappeared, and as if she were answering a question that no one had asked her, but which was constantly on her mind. “So much suffering, so much worry,” she continued, “all borne so that we can rejoice in them now. But even now, truly, there is more fear than joy. You’re always afraid, always afraid! It’s the very age that holds so much danger for girls and for boys.” “Everything depends on upbringing,” said the guest. “Yes, you are right,” the countess continued. “So far, thank God, I have been my children’s friend and I have their complete trust,” she said, repeating the error of many parents who believe their children keep no secrets from them. “I know I shall always be my daughters’ first confidante and if Nikolenka, with his fiery character, should get up to mischief (boys will be boys), then it would be nothing like those Petersburg gentlemen.” “Yes, they are splendid, splendid children,” agreed the count, who always resolved matters that he found complicated by finding everything splendid. “Just imagine! Decided to join the hussars! What about that, ma ch?re!” “What a sweet creature your youngest is,” said the guest, glancing round reproachfully at her own daughter, as though impressing on her with this glance that that was how she ought to be in order to be liked, not the stiff doll that she was. “Full of fun!” “Yes, full of fun,” said the count. “She takes after me! And what a voice, real talent! She may be my own daughter, but it’s no more than the truth when I say she’ll be a singer, another Salomini. We’ve engaged an Italian to teach her.” “Is it not rather early? They do say it’s bad for the voice to train it at this age.” “Oh no, not at all too early!” said the count. “And what about our mothers getting married at twelve and thirteen?” added Countess Anna Mikhailovna. “She’s already in love with Boris, how do you like that?” said the countess, smiling gently, glancing at Boris’s mother and, clearly replying to the thought that was always on her mind, she went on: “Well now, you see, if I were strict with her, if I forbade her … God knows what they would do in secret” (the countess meant that they would have kissed), “but as it is I know every word she says. She’ll come running to me this evening and tell me everything herself. Perhaps I do spoil her, but I really think that is best. I was strict with my elder daughter.” “Yes, I was raised quite differently,” said the elder daughter, the beautiful Countess Vera, with a smile. But a smile did not adorn Vera’s face in the way it usually does: on the contrary, her face became unnatural and therefore unpleasant. The elder daughter Vera was good-looking, she was clever, she was well brought up. She had a pleasant voice. What she had said was just and apt but, strange to say, everyone, even the guest and the countess, glanced round at her as though they wondered why she had said it and felt uneasy. “People always try to be clever with their oldest children, they want to make something exceptional of them,” said the guest. “No point in pretending, ma ch?re! The little countess tried to be clever with Vera,” said the count. “But what of it? She still turned out splendid.” And then, noticing with the intuition that is more perceptive than the intellect that Vera was feeling embarrassed, he went over to her and stroked her shoulder with his hand. “Excuse me, I have a few things to see to. Do stay a bit longer,” he added, bowing and preparing to go out. The guests stood up and left, promising to come to dinner. “What a way to behave! Ugh, I thought they would never leave!” said the countess after she had seen the guests out. XVI When Natasha came out of the drawing room and started running, she only got as far as the conservatory. There she stopped, listening to the talk in the drawing room and waiting for Boris to come out. She was already beginning to feel impatient and stamped her foot, preparing to burst into tears because he was not coming immediately. When she heard the young man’s footsteps, not quiet, but rapid and discreet, the thirteen-year-old girl quickly dashed in among the tubs of plants and hid. “Boris Nikolaevich!” she said in a deep bass, trying to frighten him, and then immediately started laughing. Catching sight of her, Boris shook his head and smiled. “Boris, come here please,” she said with a look of significant cunning. He went over to her, making his way between the tubs. “Boris! Kiss Mimi,” she said, smiling mischievously and holding out her doll. “Why shouldn’t I kiss her?” he said, moving closer and keeping his eyes on Natasha. “No, say: ‘I don’t want to.’” She moved away from him. “Well, I can say I don’t want to as well, if you like. Where’s the fun in kissing a doll?” “You don’t want to? Right, then come here,” she said and moved away deeper into the plants and threw the doll onto a tub of flowers. “Closer, closer!” she whispered. She caught hold of the officer by his cuffs and her blushing face was filled with fearful solemnity. “But do you want to kiss me?” she whispered barely audibly, peering at him warily, smiling and almost crying in her excitement. Boris blushed. “You’re so funny!” he said, leaning down towards her and blushing even more, but not trying to do anything and biding his time. The faint hint of mockery was still playing on his lips, on the point of disappearing. She suddenly jumped up onto a tub so that she was taller than him, put both arms round him so that her slim, bare hands bent around his neck and, flinging her hair back with a toss of her head, kissed him full on the lips. “Ah, what have I done!” she cried, then slipped, laughing, between the tubs to the other side of the plants, and her frisky little footsteps squeaked rapidly in the direction of the nursery. Boris ran after and stopped her. “Natasha,” he said, “can I tell you something really special?” She nodded. “I love you,” he said slowly. “You’re not a child. Natasha, do what I’m going to ask you.” “What are you going to ask me?” “Please, let’s not do what we just did for another four years.” Natasha stopped and thought for a moment. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” she said, counting on her slim little fingers. “All right! Is it settled, then?” And a serious smile of joy illuminated her vivacious though not beautiful face. “Yes!” said Boris. “For ever?” the girl said. “Until death itself?” And, taking him by the arm, she calmly walked with him into the nursery. Boris’s handsome, refined face turned red and the expression of mockery disappeared entirely from his lips. He thrust out his chest and sighed in happiness and contentment. His eyes seemed to be gazing far into the future, four years ahead, to the happy year of 1809. The young people gathered once again in the nursery, where they loved to sit most of all. “No, you shan’t leave!” shouted Nikolai, who did and said everything passionately and impetuously, grabbing Boris by the sleeve of his uniform jacket with one hand and pulling his arm away from his sister with the other. “You have to get married.” “You have to! You have to!” both the girls cried. “I’ll be the sexton, Nikolaenka,” shouted Petrushka. “Please, let me be the sexton: ‘Oh Lord have mercy!’” Although it might seem incomprehensible how much fun young men and girls could find in the wedding of the doll and Boris, one look at the exultation and joy expressed on all their faces when the doll, adorned with Seville orange blossom and wearing a white dress, was set on its kidskin bottom on a little post and Boris, who was ready to agree to anything, was led up to her, and little Petrusha, having donned a skirt, pretended he was the sexton – one look at all this was enough to share in this joy, even without understanding it. During the dressing of the bride, for decency’s sake Nikolai and Boris were banished from the room. Nikolai walked to and fro, sighing to himself and shrugging his shoulders. NATASHA ROSTOV AND BORIS DRUBETSKOY Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_95efc402-d45e-597d-a584-8833d54a666b) “What’s the matter?” asked Boris. Nikolai glanced at his friend and gestured despairingly with his hand. “Ah, you don’t know what just happened to me!” he said, clutching his head in his hands. “What?” asked Boris, in a calm, humorous tone. “Well, I’m going away, and she … No, I can’t say it!” “But what is it?” Boris asked again. “Something with Sonya?” “Yes. Do you know what?” “What?” “Agh, it’s incredible! What do you think? Do I have to tell my father after this?” “But what?” “You know, I don’t even know myself how it happened, I kissed Sonya today: I have acted vilely. But what am I to do? I am madly in love. But was it bad of me? I know it was bad … What do you say?” Boris smiled. “What are you saying? Did you really?” he asked in sly, mocking amazement. “Kissed her straight on the lips? When?” “Why, just now. You wouldn’t have done that? Eh? You wouldn’t have. Have I acted badly?” “Well, I don’t know. It all depends on what your intentions are.” “Well! But of course. That’s right. I told her. As soon as they make me an officer, I shall marry her.” “That’s amazing,” declared Boris. “How very decisive you are!” Nikolai laughed, reassured. “I’m amazed that you have never been in love and no one has ever fallen in love with you.” “That’s my character,” said Boris, blushing. “Oh, yes, you’re so very cunning! It’s true what Vera says,” Nikolai said and suddenly began tickling his friend. “And you’re so very awful. It is true, what Vera says.” And Boris, who disliked being tickled, pushed his friend’s hands away. “You’re bound to do something extraordinary.” Both of them, laughing, went back to the girls to conclude the rite of marriage. XVII The countess felt so tired after the visits that she gave orders not to receive anyone else, and the doorman was given strict instructions to invite everyone who might still arrive with congratulations to dine. Besides that, she wanted to have a confidential talk with her childhood friend Anna Mikhailovna, whom she had not seen properly since her arrival from St. Petersburg. Anna Mikhailovna, with her careworn and agreeable face, moved closer to the countess’s armchair. “I shall be entirely candid with you,” said Anna Mikhailovna. “There are so few of us old friends left. That is why I value your friendship so.” The princess looked at Vera and stopped. The countess squeezed her friend’s hand. “Vera,” said the countess, addressing her elder, and obviously less loved daughter. “How can you be so completely tactless? Surely you can tell you are not needed here? Go to your sisters or …” The beautiful Vera smiled, apparently not feeling in the least insulted, and went to her room. But as she passed by the nursery she noticed two couples in there, seated symmetrically at the two windows. Sonya was sitting close beside Nikolai, who, with his face flushed, was reading her the first poem that he had ever composed. Boris and Natasha were sitting by the other window without speaking. Boris was holding her hand and he let go of it when Vera appeared. Natasha picked up the little box of gloves standing beside her and began sorting through them. Vera smiled. Nikolai and Sonya looked at her, got up and left the room. “Natasha,” said Vera to her younger sister, who was intently sorting through the scented gloves. “Why do Nikolai and Sonya run away from me? What secrets do they have?” “Why, what business is it of yours, Vera?” Natasha asked protectively in her squeaky voice, continuing with her work. She was evidently feeling even more kind and affectionate towards everyone because of her own happiness. “It’s very stupid of them,” said Vera in a tone that Natasha thought sounded offensive. “Everyone has their own secrets. We don’t bother you and Berg,” she said, growing heated. “How stupid! You’ll see, I’m going to tell mama how you carry on with Boris. It’s not right.” “Natalya Ilinishna treats me perfectly well. I can’t complain,” he said sarcastically. Natasha did not laugh and looked up at him. “Don’t, Boris, you’re such a diplomat” (the word diplomat was very popular with the children, in the special meaning which they gave to this word), “it’s really boring,” she said. “Why is she pestering me?” She turned to Vera. “You’ll never understand,” she said, “because you’ve never loved anyone, you have no heart, you’re nothing but Madame de Genlis” (this nickname, which was regarded as very insulting, had been given to Vera by Nikolai) “and your greatest pleasure is to cause trouble for others. You can flirt with Berg as much as you like.” She blurted this out hurriedly and flounced out of the nursery. The beautiful Vera, who had such an irritating, disagreeable effect on everyone, smiled again with the same smile that meant nothing and, apparently unaffected by what had been said to her, went up to the mirror and adjusted her scarf and hair. As she gazed at her own beautiful face, she visibly turned colder and calmer than ever. XVIII In the drawing room the conversation was continuing. “Ah, my dear,” said the countess, “in my life too not everything is roses. Do you think I cannot see that with the way we live, our fortune will not last long? And it’s all the club, and his generous nature. When we are in the country, what rest do we get there? Theatres, hunts and God knows what else. But there I am talking about myself! Now, how did you arrange everything? I am constantly amazed at you, Annette, at your age, the way you gallop off in a carriage on your own, to Moscow, to St. Petersburg, to all the ministers and all the important people, and you know how to deal with them all, I am amazed! Well, how did everything go? I don’t know how to do anything of that sort.” “Ah my darling,” replied Princess Anna Mikhailovna. “God grant that you may never know how hard it is to be left a widow with no support and with a son whom you love to distraction. One can learn to do everything,” she continued with a certain pride. “My lawsuit taught me that. If I need to see one of these bigwigs, I write a note: ‘Princess so-and-so wishes to see so-and-so’, and I go myself in a cab, two or three times if necessary, even four, until I get what I want. I don’t give a jot what people think of me.” “Well, how did you ask for Borenka?” asked the countess. “After all, your son is a Guards officer, but Nikolai is going as a cadet. I have no one to intercede for me. Whom did you petition?” “Prince Vasily. He was very kind. Now he has agreed to everything, and informed His Majesty,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said ecstatically, completely forgetting all the humiliation that she had gone through to achieve her goal. “And has he grown old, Prince Vasily?” the countess asked. “I haven’t seen him since our dramatics at the Rumyantsevs’. I think he has forgotten all about me. He used to run around after me,” the countess recalled with a smile. “He is the same as ever,” replied Anna Mikhailovna. “The prince is courteous, positively brimming over with compliments. His high position has not turned his head at all. ‘I regret that I can do so little for you, my dear princess,’ he said to me, ‘ask what you will.’ Yes, he is a splendid man and an excellent relative. But you know, Nathalie, how I love my son. I don’t know what I would not do for his happiness. And my circumstances are so bad,” Anna Mikhailovna continued sadly, lowering her voice, “so very bad that I am now in a quite appalling situation. My miserable lawsuit is consuming everything I have and never makes progress. Can you believe that I do not have, literally do not have, ten kopecks to spare, and I have no idea where to get the money for Boris’s uniform.” She took out a handkerchief and began to cry. “I need five hundred roubles, and I have one twenty-five-rouble note. I am in such a state. My only hope now is Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov. If he will not support his godchild – after all, he is Boris’s godfather – and provide him with something to live on, then all my efforts will have been wasted, I shall have no money to fit him out.” The countess shed a few tears and pondered something without speaking. “I often think, perhaps it is a sin,” said the princess, “but I often think: there is Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov living alone … it’s an immense fortune … and what is he living for? Life is a burden to him, and Borya is only about to start living.” “He is bound to leave something to Boris,” said the countess. “God knows. These rich men and grandees are such egotists. But nonetheless I shall go to him now, and take Boris, and tell him to his face what is the matter. Let people think what they will of me, I really do not care, when my son’s destiny depends on it.” The princess got to her feet. “It is now two o’clock. And you are dining at four. I shall have enough time to go there and back.” And with the bearing and manners of a practical St. Petersburg lady who knows how to make good use of her time, Anna Mikhailovna sent for her son and went out into the front hall with him. “Goodbye, my darling,” she said to the countess, who saw her to the door. “Wish me success,” she added, whispering so that her son would not hear. “You are going to Count Kirill Vladimirovich, ma ch?re,” the count said from the dining room as he emerged into the hallway. “If he is feeling better, invite Pierre to dine with us. He has been here before, he danced with the children. You absolutely must invite him. Well, we shall see how Taras excels himself today. They say Count Orlov never had such a dinner as we shall have today.” XIX “My dear Boris,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said to her son as Countess Rostova’s carriage, in which they were sitting, drove along the straw-covered street and into the wide, sand-strewn courtyard of the unfamiliar colonnaded house belonging to Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov. “My dear Boris,” said his mother, freeing her hand from under her old coat and laying it on her son’s arm in a gesture of timid affection, “please, set aside your pride. Count Kirill Vladimirovich is after all your godfather, and your future fate depends on him. Remember that, be nice, as you know how to be.” “If only I knew that anything would come of it, apart from humiliation,” her son replied coldly. “But I promised and I am doing it for you. Only this is the last time, mama. Remember that.” Even though the carriage was standing at the entrance, the doorman scrutinised the mother and son who, without giving their names, had walked straight up between the two rows of niched statues and into the glazed vestibule, and he asked, casting a significant glance at the countess’s shabby coat, whom they wished to see, the princesses or the count, and, on learning that it was the count, he informed them that his excellency was feeling worse today and his excellency was not receiving anyone. “We can leave,” the son said in French, evidently delighted at this news. “My friend!” the mother said in an imploring tone of voice, touching her son’s arm again, as though this touch could calm or excite him. Boris, fearful of creating a scene in front of the doorman, said nothing, with the expression of a man who has decided to drain his bitter cup to the last drop. Without unbuttoning his greatcoat, he looked enquiringly at his mother. “My dear fellow,” said Anna Mikhailovna in a soft voice, addressing the doorman, “I know that Count Kirill Vladimirovich is very ill … that is why I have come … I am a relative … I will not disturb him, my dear fellow … And I would only need to see Prince Vasily Sergeevich, he is staying here, after all. Announce us, please.” The doorman tugged morosely on a cord leading upstairs and turned away. “Princess Drubetskaya to see Prince Vasily Sergeevich,” he called to the footman in knee-breeches, shoes and tails, who had come running down and was peering out from under the overhang of the stairs. The mother straightened the folds of her dyed silk dress and, with a glance at herself in the tall Venetian pier glass set into the wall, strode briskly up the stair-carpet in her down-at-heel shoes. “My dear, you promised me,” she said again to her son, trying to rouse him with the touch of her hand. Lowering his eyes, the son walked on gloomily. PRINCESS ANNA MIKHAILOVNA DRUBETSKAYA AND HER SON BORIS Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_c91d9f57-55d1-5139-81fa-380a2f824409) They entered a hall from which one of the doors led into the chambers allotted to Prince Vasily. As the mother and son, walking out into the centre of the room, were contemplating asking the way from an old footman who had jumped to his feet at their arrival, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Prince Vasily emerged, dressed simply in a velvet smoking jacket with only a single star, accompanied by a handsome, dark-haired man. This man was the famous St. Petersburg physician Lorrain. “So it is definite,” the prince was saying. “Prince, errare est humanum, but …” the doctor replied, burring his r’s and pronouncing the Latin words with a French accent. “Very well, very well …” Noticing Anna Mikhailovna and her son, Prince Vasily dismissed the doctor with a bow and approached them without speaking, but with an interrogatory air. The son was astonished to see the profound grief that was suddenly expressed in Princess Anna Mikhailovna’s eyes. “Indeed, what distressing circumstances we are obliged to meet in, prince … Well, how is our dear invalid?” she said, disregarding the cold, insulting gaze directed at her and addressing the prince as her best friend, with whom she could share her woe. Prince Vasily looked in baffled enquiry, first at her, then at Boris. Boris bowed politely. Prince Vasily, making no response to the bow, turned back to Anna Mikhailovna and answered her question with a movement of the head and lips which signified the very worst prospect for the invalid. “Surely not!” exclaimed Anna Mikhailovna. “Oh, that is terrible! The very idea is appalling … This is my son,” she added, indicating Boris. “He wished to thank you himself.” Boris bowed politely once again. “Believe me, prince, a mother’s heart will never forget what you have done for us.” “I am glad to have been able to do something to please you, my dear Anna Mikhailovna,” said Prince Vasily, adjusting his jabot, expressing far greater self-importance with his gesture and tone of voice to his satisfied suppliant here in Moscow than he had managed in St. Petersburg, at Anna Scherer’s soir?e. “Try to serve well and be worthy,” he added, addressing Boris with severity. “I am so glad … Are you here on leave?” he enunciated in his impassive tone of voice. “I am awaiting orders, your excellency, to take up my new posting,” Boris replied, betraying neither annoyance at the prince’s sharp tone nor a desire to engage in conversation, but speaking so calmly and coldly that the prince regarded him more closely. “Do you live with your mother?” “I live in the house of Countess Rostova,” said Boris and added, again coldly, “your excellency.” He evidently said “your excellency” not so much in order to flatter the other man as to restrain him from familiarity. “That is the Ilya Rostov who married Natalya Z.,” put in Anna Mikhailovna. “I know, I know,” said Prince Vasily in his monotonous voice, with a typical Petersburgian’s contempt for everything Muscovite. “I never could understand how Natalya could bring herself to marry that ill-bred bear of a man. A perfectly stupid and ridiculous individual. And a gambler into the bargain, so they say,” he said, thereby demonstrating that for all his contempt for Count Rostov and his like, and for all his important affairs of state, he was not above listening to the rumours of the town. “But a very kind man, prince,” Anna Mikhailovna remarked, smiling with feeling, as though she were also aware that Count Rostov deserved such a low opinion, but was asking the prince to pity the poor old man. “What do the doctors say?” the princess asked after a brief pause, once again with an expression of great sadness on her tearful face. “There is not much hope,” said the prince. “And I so much wanted to thank my uncle once more for all his kindnesses to me and Borya. He is his godson,” she added in a tone which suggested that this news ought to delight the prince highly. Prince Vasily began thinking and frowned. Anna Mikhailovna realised that he was afraid of discovering in her a rival for Count Bezukhov’s inheritance. She hastened to reassure him. “If it were not for my genuine love and devotion to my uncle,” she said, pronouncing the word with an especially casual confidence, “I know his character, noble and straightforward, but he has only the princesses here … They are still young.” She inclined her head and added in a whisper: “Has he fulfilled his final duty, prince? How precious those final minutes are! After all, things cannot get any worse, he must be made ready, if he is in such a bad way. We women, prince,” she said, smiling sweetly, “always know how to say these things. I must see him, no matter how painful it is for me, I am already accustomed to suffering.” The prince had evidently understood what she was saying, and he had also understood, as he had at Anna Scherer’s soir?e, that Anna Mikhailovna was not easily to be put off. “I fear that meeting might be too hard on him, dear Anna Mikhailovna,” he said. “Let us wait until the evening, the doctors have predicted a crisis.” “But one must not wait, prince, at moments like this. Think, it concerns the salvation of his soul. Aah! The duty of a Christian is a terrible thing.” A door from the inner rooms opened and one of the princesses, the count’s nieces, emerged, with a beautiful, but cheerless, cold face and a long waist quite astonishingly out of proportion with her legs. Prince Vasily turned to her. “How is he?” “Still the same. But now there’s all this noise,” said the princess, examining Anna Mikhailovna like a stranger. “Ah, my dear, I did not recognise you,” Anna Mihailovna said with a glad smile, springing nimbly across to the count’s niece. “I have come to help you care for your uncle. I can well imagine how much you have suffered,” she added sympathetically, rolling her eyes upwards. The princess did not even smile, but excused herself and went away. Anna Mikhailovna took off her gloves and, consolidating the gains she had made, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasily to sit beside her. “Boris,” she said to her son with a smile. “I am going in to see the count … my uncle, and meanwhile you, my friend, go to see Pierre, and don’t forget to pass on the invitation from the Rostovs. They want him to come for dinner. He should not go though, I think,” she said, turning to the count. “On the contrary,” said the prince, suddenly quite clearly out of sorts. “I should be glad if you would relieve me of that young fellow. He simply hangs about here. The count has not asked for him once.” He shrugged. A footman led the young man down one staircase and up another to Pyotr Vladimirovich’s rooms. XX Boris, thanks to his placid and reserved character, was never at a loss in difficult situations. But now this placidity and reserve were intensified still further by the cloud of happiness that had enveloped him since morning and through which he seemed to see people’s faces, so that observation of his mother’s behaviour and her character became less upsetting. He found the position of petitioner, in which his mother had placed him, painful, but he himself felt in no way to blame. Pierre had still not managed to choose a career for himself in St. Petersburg and had indeed been banished to Moscow for disorderly conduct. The story that had been recounted at Count Rostov’s house was correct: his presence had made Pierre a party to the tying of the policeman to the bear. He had arrived several days earlier and put up, as always, at his father’s house. Although he had assumed that his story was already known in Moscow and that the ladies surrounding his father, who were always hostile towards him, would use the opportunity to irritate the count, nonetheless on the day of his arrival he had gone to his father’s apartments. On entering the drawing room, the princesses’ usual haunt, he had greeted the ladies sitting there with their embroidery frames and a book, from which one of them was reading aloud. There were three of them. The eldest, a tidy, strict spinster with a long waist, the one who had come out to Anna Mikhailovna, was reading: the younger two, both rosy-cheeked and pretty, only distinguishable from each other by the fact that one had a mole above her lip which made her much prettier, were working at their embroidery frames. Pierre was received like a corpse or a carrier of plague. The eldest princess interrupted her reading and looked at him in silence with fearful eyes: the younger one with the mole, a cheerful and giggly individual, leaned over her embroidery frame to conceal the smile occasioned, no doubt, by the scene that was to come, which she foresaw would be amusing. She tugged at a strand of wool and bent her head close as though examining the stitchwork, scarcely able to restrain her laughter. “Hello, cousin,” said Pierre. “Do you not recognise me?” “I recognise you only too well, too well.” “How is the count’s health? May I see him?” Pierre asked awkwardly, as always, but without embarrassment. “The count is suffering both physically and morally, and you seem to have taken pains to inflict as much moral suffering on him as possible.” “May I see the count?” Pierre repeated. “Hmm! If you wish to kill him, to finish him completely, you may see him. Olga, go and see if the broth is ready for uncle, it will soon be time,” she added, thereby indicating to Pierre that they were busy and fully occupied with comforting his father, whereas he was obviously occupied only with causing him distress. Olga went out. Pierre stood for a moment, looked at the sisters, bowed and said: “Then I shall go to my room. When it is possible, you will let me know.” He went out and heard the quiet laughter of the sister with the mole ringing behind him. The following day Prince Vasily had arrived and installed himself in the count’s house. He summoned Pierre and told him, “My dear boy, if you behave here in the same way as in St. Petersburg, you will come to a very bad end: I have nothing more to say to you. The count is very, very ill, you should not see him at all.” Since then no one had bothered Pierre, who, wherever he happened to be, was content with his own thoughts and walked around his room, occasionally halting in the corners, making threatening gestures at the wall, as if he were running an invisible enemy through with a sword, and peering severely over the top of his spectacles, and then recommencing his stroll, repeating inaudible words to himself, shrugging his shoulders and throwing his hands up in the air. “England is done for!” he said, frowning and pointing at someone. “Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and the people’s law, is condemned to …” He had not yet finished pronouncing sentence on Pitt, imagining at that moment that he was Napoleon himself and having already completed, together with his beloved hero, the dangerous crossing via the Pas de Calais and conquered London, when he saw a young, well-proportioned, handsome officer entering his room. He halted. Pierre, who had seen Boris only rarely, had left him as a fourteen-year-old boy and did not remember him at all, but in spite of that, in his typical brisk and genial manner he took him by the hand and smiled amicably, displaying his bad teeth. “Do you remember me?” asked Boris. “Maman and I came to see the count, but it seems he is not quite well.” “Yes, it seems he is unwell. Everyone is bothering him,” replied Pierre, completely failing to notice that by saying this he appeared to be reproaching Boris and his mother. He was trying to recall who this young man was, but Boris thought he had caught some hint in Pierre’s words. He flushed and looked at Pierre boldly and sardonically, as much as to say: “I have nothing to be ashamed of.” Pierre could think of nothing to say. “Count Rostov has invited you to come for dinner today,” Boris continued after a silence that was rather long and awkward for Pierre. “Ah! Count Rostov!” Pierre said cheerfully. “So you are his son, Ilya. Can you imagine, for a moment I didn’t recognise you. Do you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?” “You are mistaken,” Boris said unhurriedly, with a bold and rather sardonic smile. “I am Boris, Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskaya’s son. It is Rostov senior who is called Ilya, and his son is Nikolai. And I have never known any Madame Jacquot.” Pierre began waving his hands and his head about as though he had been attacked by a mosquito or bees. “Ah, this is terrible! I have confused everything. I have so many relatives in Moscow! You are Boris … yes. Right then, you and I have agreed on that. Well, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? The English will really be in trouble if Napoleon crosses the Channel. I think an expedition is very likely. As long as Villeneuve does not blunder.” Boris knew nothing about any Boulogne expedition, he did not read the newspapers and this was the first time he had heard of Villeneuve. “Here in Moscow we are more concerned with dinners and gossip than politics,” he said in his calm, sardonic tone. “I know nothing about all this and have no thoughts on it. Moscow is concerned with gossip above all else,” he continued. “And what they are talking about now is you and the count.” Pierre smiled his kind smile, as though afraid that his interlocutor might say something that he would regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly and coolly, looking straight into Pierre’s eyes. “Moscow has nothing better to do than gossip,” he continued. “Everybody is concerned with whom the count will leave his fortune to, although he might perhaps outlive us all, which I wish with all my heart.” “Yes, it is very difficult,” Pierre interjected. “Very difficult.” Pierre was still afraid that this boy-officer might inadvertently become involved in a conversation that would be embarrassing for him. “But it must seem to you,” said Boris, blushing, but without changing his voice or pose, “it must surely seem that everybody is only concerned to get something from the rich man.” That is how it is, thought Pierre. “But what I wish to tell you, in order to avoid any misunderstandings, is that you would be greatly mistaken if you were to count myself and my mother among those people. We are very poor, but I, at least, speaking for myself, precisely because your father is rich, do not consider myself his relative and will never ask for anything or accept anything from him,” he concluded, growing more and more heated. It took Pierre a long time to understand, but when he did, he leapt up off the divan, seized hold of Boris by the hand with his characteristic speed and clumsiness and, blushing far more than Boris, began speaking with a mixed feeling of shame and hurt. “But listen … That’s very strange! How could I … And who could ever think … I know quite well …” But Boris again interrupted him. “I am glad I have made everything clear. Perhaps you find it disagreeable, forgive me,” he said, soothing Pierre instead of being soothed by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I make it a rule to say everything directly. What shall I tell them? Will you come to the Rostovs for dinner?” And Boris, evidently because he had relieved himself of his onerous duty, extricating himself from one awkward situation and placing the other man in another, became cheerful and relaxed. “Now, listen,” said Pierre, calming down. “You are an amazing person. What you said just now is fine, very fine. Of course, you do not know me, we have not seen each other for so long … we were still children … You imagine me as … but I understand, I understand you very well. I could not have done that, I would not have had the courage, but it is all fine. I am very glad to have met you again. Strange,” he added with a smile, after pausing briefly, “what you imagined me to be like!” He laughed. “Well, what of it! You and I shall get to know each other better. Please.” He shook Boris’s hand. “You know, I have never been at the count’s house before. He has never invited me. I feel sorry for him, as a man … But what can be done?” said Boris, smiling with cheerful good-nature. “And do you think Napoleon will manage to ferry his army across?” he asked. Pierre realised that Boris wanted to change the subject and, feeling the same way, began to expound the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne undertaking. A manservant came to summon Boris to his mother, the princess. The princess was leaving. Pierre promised to come to dinner and then, in order to become closer friends with Boris, he shook his hand firmly, gazing affectionately into his eyes through his spectacles … When Boris left, Pierre continued to walk round the room for a long while, no longer running through an invisible enemy with a sword, but instead smiling at the recollection of this likeable, intelligent and resolute young man. As happens in early youth, and especially when one is lonely, Pierre felt an irrational affection for this young man and resolved to become friends with him. Prince Vasily was seeing off the princess. The princess was holding a handkerchief and her face was wet with tears. “It is terrible! Terrible!” she said. “But no matter what it might cost me, I shall perform my duty. I shall come to spend the night. He cannot be left like this. Every minute is precious. I do not understand why the princesses are delaying. Perhaps God will help me find the means to prepare him! Goodbye, prince, may God give you strength …” “Goodbye, my dear,” replied Prince Vasily, turning away from her. “Ah, he is in a terrible state,” the mother said to her son as they were getting back into the carriage. “He hardly recognises anybody. Perhaps it will be for the best.” “I do not understand, dear mama, what is his attitude to Pierre?” her son asked. “The will will reveal all, my friend, our fate depends on it too …” “But what makes you think he will leave us anything at all?” “Ah, my friend! He is so rich and we are so poor!” “That is still not sufficient reason, dear mama.” “Oh, my God! My God! How pitiful he is!” exclaimed his mother. XXI When Anna Mikhailovna and her son left to go to Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov’s house, the countess sat alone for a long time, applying her handkerchief to her eyes. Eventually she rang. “What is the matter, my dear,” she said angrily to the girl who had kept her waiting for several minutes. “Do you not wish to serve here? Then I’ll find another place for you.” The countess was feeling grief-stricken at her friend’s humiliating poverty and was therefore in a bad humour, which always expressed itself in her calling the servant girl “my dear” and addressing her formally. “Sorry, ma’am,” said the maid. “Ask the count to come to me.” The count waddled up to his wife with a rather guilty air, as always. “Well now, my little countess. What a fine Madeira and woodcock saut? there will be! I have tried it; I was right to give a thousand roubles for Taras. He’s well worth it!” He sat down beside his wife, propping his arms rakishly on his knees … and ruffling up his grey hair. “What is your pleasure, little countess?” “Now then, my friend, what’s that stain you have there?” she said, pointing at his waistcoat. “It is the saut?, I suppose,” she added, smiling. “Look, count, I need some money.” Her face grew sad. “Ah, my little countess!” said the count and he began busily taking out his wallet. “I need a lot, count, I need five hundred roubles.” And taking out her batiste lawn handkerchief, she rubbed her husband’s waistcoat with it. “Straight away, straight away. Hey, is anyone there?” he shouted in the kind of voice only used by people who are certain that those they are calling will come dashing headlong at their summons. “Send Mitenka to me!” Mitenka, a nobleman’s son who had been raised in the count’s house, and who now managed all his affairs, entered the room with silent steps. “Now then, my dear chap,” the count said to the deferential young man, “will you bring me …” he thought for a moment. “Yes, 700 roubles, yes. And be sure not to bring torn and dirty notes like last time, but good ones, for the countess.” “Yes, Mitenka, please, nice clean ones,” said the countess, sighing sadly. “Your excellency, when do you wish me to bring it?” said Mitenka. “If you please, may I know what … Then, please, do not bother yourself,” he added, noticing that the count had already begun breathing rapidly and heavily, which was always a sign of the onset of rage. “I almost forgot … Do you wish me to bring it this very minute?” “Yes, yes, do, bring it now. Give it to the countess.” “Pure gold, that Mitenka of mine,” the count added, smiling, when the young man left the room. “Nothing’s ever impossible. I can’t stand that sort of thing. With him, everything’s possible.” “Ah, money, count, money, how much grief it causes in the world!” said the countess. “But I do need this money very badly.” “You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the count and, after kissing his wife’s hand, he went back to his study. When Anna Mikhailovna came back from Count Bezukhov’s house, the money, all in brand new notes, was already lying on the low table under the countess’s handkerchief, and Anna Mikhailovna noticed that the countess seemed agitated about something and looked sad. “Well then, my friend?” asked the countess. “Ah, what a terrible state he is in! He is unrecognisable, he is so bad, so bad: I spent a moment with him and didn’t even say two words …” “Annette, for God’s sake, do not refuse me,” the countess said suddenly, blushing, which looked very strange with her ageing, thin, solemn face, as she took the money out from under the handkerchief. Anna Mikhailovna instantly realised what the matter was and eagerly leaned over in order to hug the countess at the proper moment. “This is for Boris from me to have his uniform made …” Anna Mikhailovna embraced her eagerly and wept. The countess wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were kind-hearted, and because they, who had been friends from their youth, were concerned with such a base item as money, and because their youth was past and gone … But for both, their tears were gratifying. XXII Countess Rostova and her daughter and an already large number of guests were sitting in the drawing room. The count showed the male guests through into the study, offering them his own connoisseur’s collection of Turkish pipes. From time to time he came out and asked if she had arrived yet. They were expecting Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova, known in society by the nickname of the fearsome dragon, a lady renowned not for her wealth or her distinctions, but for her straightforward thinking and frank simplicity of manner. Marya Dmitrievna was known to the royal family, she was known to the whole of Moscow and the whole of St. Petersburg, and both cities, while marvelling at her, chuckled in secret over her rudeness and told jokes about her: nonetheless everyone without exception respected and feared her. In the smoke-filled study the conversation was about the war, which had been declared in a manifesto, and about the levy. No one had yet read the manifesto, but everyone knew it had been published. The count sat on the ottoman between two other men who were smoking and talking. The count himself did not smoke or talk but, inclining his head first to one side and then to the other, he watched the smokers with evident enjoyment and listened to the conversation of his two neighbours, whom he had pitted against each other. One of the speakers was a civilian, with a wrinkled, bilious, clean-shaven, thin face, a man already approaching old age, although he was dressed like a most fashionable young man: he was sitting with his legs up on the ottoman, with the air of being quite at home and, having thrust the amber mouthpiece deep into his mouth from one side, was fitfully drawing in the smoke and screwing up his eyes. He was a well-known Moscow wit, the old bachelor Shinshin, a cousin of the countess, who was referred to in the salons of Moscow as an affected fop. He seemed to be speaking with condescension towards his conversation partner. The other, a fresh, pink Guards officer, irreproachably washed, buttoned and combed, was holding the amber mouthpiece in the centre of his mouth and drawing the smoke in lightly with his pink lips, releasing it in rings from his shapely mouth, which seemed expressly made for the blowing of smoke rings. He was the lieutenant Berg, an officer of the Semyonovsky Regiment, with whom Boris was to travel to the regiment and about whom Natasha had been teasing Vera, the eldest of the young countesses, calling Berg her fianc?. Berg moved on from conversation about the war to his own affairs, unfolding his future plans for service in the army, and was evidently very proud to be conversing with such a celebrity as Shinshin. The count sat between them and listened carefully. The pastime that the count found most agreeable, apart from playing boston, which he greatly loved, was playing the role of listener, especially when he managed to pit two lively and loquacious conversation partners against each other. Although Berg was clearly not a loquacious partner, the count observed on Shinshin’s lips a mocking smile that seemed to say: “Watch how I sort out this little officer.” And the count, without the slightest animus against Berg, was amusing himself by discovering the wit in Shinshin’s every word. “Well, come on, old man, my highly esteemed Alphonse Karlovich,” Shinshin said, laughing and combining, in the manner which was the distinguishing feature of his speech, the most trivial Russian expressions with refined French phrases. “Aren’t you counting on having an income from the treasury, and don’t you want the regiment to pay you a little something too?” “Oh no, Pyotr Nikolaevich, I simply wish to demonstrate that there are far fewer advantages to being in the cavalry than in the infantry. Now, just imagine my situation, Pyotr Nikolaevich.” Berg always spoke very precisely, calmly and politely. His conversation always concerned only himself, and he always remained calmly silent while the talk was of something that had no direct connection with him. He could remain silent like this for hours at a time, without feeling the slightest embarrassment himself or provoking it in anyone else. But as soon as the conversation concerned him personally, he would begin speaking at length and with obvious enjoyment. “Just imagine my situation, Pyotr Nikolaevich, if I were in the cavalry, I would receive no more than two hundred roubles every four months, even at the rank of lieutenant, but now I receive two hundred and thirty,” he said with a gleeful, self-satisfied, egotistical smile, regarding Shinshin and the count as if it were obvious to him that his success would always be the main goal of everyone else’s desires. “What’s more, Pyotr Nikolaevich, having transferred to the Guards, I’ll be more easily noticed,” Berg continued, “and there are openings in the Guards infantry far more often. And then, imagine for yourself how well I can get by on two hundred and thirty roubles.” He paused and then continued triumphantly: “I can put money away and send some to my father as well,” he said and blew out a smoke ring. “The accounts are balanced. As the proverb says, a German can thresh grain on the head of an axe,” said Shinshin, moving the amber mouthpiece to the other side of his mouth and winking at the count. The count burst out laughing. The other guests, seeing Shinshin making conversation, came over to listen. Berg, failing to notice either mockery or indifference, related at length and in precise detail how, by moving to the Guards, he had already gained one rank’s advantage over his corps comrades, and how in wartime the company commander might well be killed so that he, as the remaining senior officer, could very easily become company commander, and how everybody in the regiment loved him, and how pleased his papa was with him. The listeners all waited with the count, hoping for something funny, but nothing funny came. Berg was clearly relishing telling them all this, and had not the slightest suspicion that other people might have their own reasons for listening. But everything he told them was so nice and proper, the na?vety of his young egotism was so transparent, that he quite disarmed his listeners and even Shinshin stopped laughing at him. He thought Berg not worth talking to. “Well, old man, whether you are in the infantry or the cavalry, you will always get ahead anywhere, that I prophesy. I predict a brilliant career for you,” he said, patting Berg’s shoulder and lowering his legs from the ottoman. Berg smiled in delight. The count, followed by the guests, went out into the drawing room. XXIII It was that moment before a formal dinner when the guests, all assembled in their finery and anticipating the summons to the hors d’oeuvres, refrain from starting long conversations yet feel they ought to keep moving about and not remain silent, lest they show impatience to take their seats at the table. The hosts keep glancing at the door and occasionally exchange glances with each other. The guests try to guess from these glances for whom or for what they are still waiting: an important relative who is late or the food which, according to the information from the kitchen, is not yet ready. In the servants’ room the servants have not yet been able to start discussing the ladies and gentlemen, because they keep having to get up for new arrivals. In the kitchen meanwhile the cooks are growing fierce and ill-tempered, moving in their white hats and aprons between the stove, the spit and the oven and shouting at the kitchen boys, who at such moments become especially timid. The coachmen at the entrance draw up in lines and, having settled down comfortably on their coachboxes, chat among themselves or drop into the coachmen’s room to smoke a pipe. Pierre arrived and sat awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room, on the first armchair he came across, blocking everybody’s way. The countess tried to induce him to speak, but he gazed na?vely around through his spectacles, as though searching for someone, replying in monosyllables to all the countess’s questions. He was in people’s way, and he was the only one who was unaware of it. A large number of the guests, knowing about the incident with the bear, looked at this big, fat, meek man with curiosity, wondering how such an unassuming duffer could possibly have played such a trick on a policeman. “Did you arrive recently?” the countess asked him. “Oui, madame,” he replied, looking around the room. “Have you not seen my husband?” “Non, madame,” he said, smiling quite inappropriately. “I believe you were in Paris recently? How very interesting.” “It was very interesting,” he replied, debating with himself where that Boris, to whom he had taken such a liking, could have got to. The countess exchanged glances with Princess Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna realised that she was being asked to entertain this young man and, seating herself beside him, began to talk about his father, but he answered her as he had the countess, in words of a single syllable. The guests were all occupied with each other. The sound of dresses rustling could be heard on every side. “The Razumovskys … It was quite exquisite … You are most kind … Countess Apraksina … Apraksina …” The countess rose and went out to the entrance hall. “Marya Dmitrievna?” her voice said in the hall. “The very same,” replied a gruff woman’s voice, and then into the room came Marya Dmitrievna, who had arrived with her daughter. All the young and even the older ladies, apart from the most elderly, stood up. Marya Dmitrievna halted in the doorway, and from the height of her corpulent frame, holding high her beautiful fifty-year-old head with its grey ringlets, she ran her eye over the guests. Marya Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian. “Dear name-day girl and children,” she said in her loud, rich voice that subdued all other sounds. “I would have paid you a visit this morning, but I don’t like roaming about in the mornings. I suppose, you old sinner,” she said to the count, who was kissing her hand, “you are probably bored in Moscow? Nowhere to run the dogs? But what’s to be done, old man, when these little chicks grow up …” She indicated her daughter, who was quite unlike her mother, a rather attractive young lady who appeared as tender and sweet as her mother appeared coarse. “Like it or not, you have to look for suitors for them. There are yours, now, and all of them of age.” She pointed to Natasha and Sonya, who had come into the drawing room. When Marya Dmitrievna arrived, everyone had gathered in the drawing room, anticipating the exodus to the dinner table. Boris came in as well, and Pierre immediately attached himself to him. “Well now, my Cossack.” (Marya Dmitrievna always called Natasha a Cossack.) “What a winner this girl’s become!” she said, stroking Natasha, who had approached her hand fearlessly and happily. “I know she’s a little scallywag, and she ought to be whipped, but I adore her.” From out of her vast reticule (Marya Dmitrievna’s reticule was known to everyone for the abundance and variety of its contents) she extracted a pair of sapphire drop earrings and, after handing them to the glowing, ruddy-cheeked name-day girl, instantly turned away from her and, catching sight of Pierre, said to him: “Hey, hey, my dear fellow! Here, come over here.” She spoke with a deliberately quiet, modulated voice, the way people speak to a dog that they want to scold. “Here, my dear fellow …” Pierre, somewhat alarmed, went over, gazing at her through his spectacles na?vely and merrily, like a schoolboy, as though he fully intended to enjoy the forthcoming amusement as much as everyone else. “Come here, come here, dear fellow! I was the only one to tell your father the truth when he got into a predicament and it’s God’s own will that I should tell you too.” She paused. Nobody said a word, waiting for what would happen next and sensing this was only the preamble. “A fine boy, what can I say! What a fine boy! His father’s on his deathbed, but he’s having fun, mounting a policeman on a bear. For shame, my good fellow, for shame! You’d do better to go off to the war.” She turned away and proffered her hand to the count, who could barely restrain his laughter. Pierre simply winked at Boris. “Well then, to table, I think it’s probably time,” said Marya Dmitrievna. The count and Marya Dmitrievna went in first, followed by the countess, who was escorted by the colonel of the hussars, an important man, for he would be taking Nikolai to his regiment; then came Anna Mikhailovna and Shinshin. Berg lent his arm to Vera. Marya Dmitrievna’s daughter Julie, who constantly smiled and rolled her eyes and had not let Nikolai get away from her side since the moment she had arrived, went to the table with him. They were followed by other couples, extending right across the hall, and behind all of them the single figures of children, tutors and governesses. Footmen began bustling about, chairs clattered, music struck up in the gallery and the guests took their places. The sounds of the house musicians gave way to the sounds of knives and forks, the voices of the guests, the quiet footsteps of the venerable, grey-haired footmen. The countess sat at the head of one end of the table with the ladies, Marya Dmitrievna on her right, and Anna Mikhailovna on her left. At the other end sat the count with the gentlemen, the colonel of hussars on his left and Shinshin on his right. Along one side of the long table sat the more senior young: Vera beside Berg, Pierre beside Boris; and along the other side sat the children with their tutors and governesses. The count peered past the crystal, the bottles and bowls of fruit at his wife, although in fact all he could see was her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, while he assiduously poured wine for his neighbours, without forgetting himself. The countess also, while not forgetting the obligations of a hostess, cast meaningful glances past the pineapples at her husband, the redness of whose bald head and face contrasted, it seemed to her, more sharply than usual with his grey hair. At the ladies’ end there was a continuous, even babbling; at the male end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colonel of hussars, who ate and drank so much, growing redder and redder as he went, that the count kept holding him up as an example to the other guests. Berg was quietly telling the disagreeably smiling Vera about the advantages of wartime from the financial point of view; Boris was naming the guests at the table for his new friend Pierre and exchanging glances with Natasha, who was sitting facing him. Pierre, who had involuntarily absorbed the contempt of St. Petersburg for Muscovites, confirmed with his own observations all that he had heard about the manners of Moscow society. It was all true: the prim conventionality (dishes were served to guests according to rank and age), the narrowness of interests (no one was concerned with politics) and the warm hospitality, to which he nonetheless did full justice. Of the two soups, he chose the turtle to start with, then ate the pie, then the woodcock saut? that the count had liked so much; he did not miss a single dish, or a single wine, which the butler thrust out mysteriously from behind his neighbour’s shoulder in a napkin-swathed bottle, intoning quietly: “Dry Madeira, Hungarian, Rheinwein” and so on. He held up whichever crystal wineglass with the count’s monogram first came to hand from the set of four that stood before every place-setting and he drank with pleasure, looking at the guests with an expression that grew increasingly agreeable. Natasha, sitting opposite him, looked at Boris the way thirteen-year-old girls look at a boy whom they have kissed for the first time that morning and with whom they are in love, smiling now and again. Pierre continually glanced at her and was met by the gaze and the smile intended for Boris. “Strange,” he whispered to Boris, “she is not good-looking, the younger Rostov girl, this little black-haired one here, but what a lovely face! Don’t you think so?” “The elder girl is better-looking,” replied Boris, smiling almost imperceptibly. “No, but just fancy that! All the features are irregular, but how wonderfully lovely she is.” And Pierre kept looking at her. Boris expressed surprise at Pierre’s having such strange taste. Nikolai was sitting far away from Sonya beside Julie Akhrosimova, replying to her affectionate and ecstatic utterances, while constantly glancing at his cousin to reassure her and make her feel that wherever he might be, at the other end of the table or the other end of the world, his thoughts would always belong to her alone. Sonya smiled ostentatiously, but she was clearly already tormented by jealousy, turning pale and red by turns and straining with all her might to hear what Nikolai and Julie were saying to each other. Natasha, to her chagrin, was sitting with the children, between her little brother and a fat governess. The governess looked around uneasily, constantly whispering something to her charge and immediately glancing at the guests in anticipation of approval. The German tutor was trying to remember all the various kinds of dishes, desserts and wines in order to describe it all in detail in a letter to his family at home in Germany, and was highly offended that the butler with the bottle wrapped in a napkin carried it past without serving him. The German frowned and tried to pretend that he had not wished to be given this wine, but he was offended, because no one would understand that he wanted the wine not to quench his thirst, not out of greed, but out of genuine intellectual curiosity … XXIV Natasha was clearly unable to sit still. She pinched her brother and winked at the governess, at which fat Petrusha almost burst his sides laughing, and suddenly she leaned her entire body across the table towards Boris, horrifying the governess as she did so by spilling the kvass from her glass all over the pristine tablecloth and, ignoring the rebuke that followed, demanding all his attention for herself. Boris craned towards her and Pierre also listened to hear what this little black-haired creature would say. Despite her irregular features, to his strange fantasy she seemed far more attractive to him than anyone else he had seen at this table. “Boris, what’s for dessert?” asked Natasha, raising her eyebrows with an emphatic air. “I really don’t know.” “Yes, very lovely!” Pierre whispered with a smile, as though someone were arguing with him about this. Natasha at once noticed the impression she had made on Pierre and smiled at him happily, even giving him a brief nod and tossing her curls as she looked at him. He could make what he would of that. Pierre had still not spoken a word to Natasha, but with this single mutual smile they had already said that they liked each other. At the men’s end of the table, meanwhile, the conversation was growing ever more animated. The colonel told everyone that the manifesto declaring war had already been published in St. Petersburg and a copy which he himself had seen had been delivered by courier that day to the commander-in-chief. “And what the devil do we want to fight Napoleon for?” said Shinshin. “He’s already beaten the stuffing out of Austria. I’m afraid it might be our turn now.” The colonel was a thickset, tall, sanguine German, evidently a veteran and a patriot. He took offence at Shinshin’s words. “Because, my tear sir,” he said, speaking correct Russian, but pronouncing it in a typically German fashion. “The Emperor knows what he’s toing. He has said in the manifesto that he cannot remain intifferent to the tanger that is threatening Russia and the security of its empire, its tignity and the sacred nature of its alliances,” he went on, for some reason giving special emphasis to the word “alliances”, as though that were the very essence of the matter and, with the infallible official memory that was so characteristic of him, he repeated the opening words of the manifesto: “…‘and the desire, which constitutes the sole and imperative goal of the sovereign, to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations has prompted the tecision to move part of his army abroad at once and make fresh efforts for the achievement of this purpose.’ That is the reason why, my tear sir,” he concluded, downing a glass of Lafitte with didactic emphasis and glancing round at the count for encouragement. “Do you know the saying: ‘Erema, Erema, better stay home and whittle a spindle that’s your own’?” asked Shinshin, sprawling back in his chair with a wry grimace. “It happens to fit us remarkably well. If even Suvorov has been smashed to smithereens, and where are our Suvorovs now? I ask you,” said the wit, constantly skipping from Russian to French and grimacing affectedly. “We must fight to the last trop of blood,” said the colonel, thumping the table in a gesture that was not entirely good form, “and tie for our Emperor, and then everything will be all right. And tiscuss as lit-tell,” he said, drawing out the word “little” especially, “as lit-tell as possible,” he concluded, again addressing the count. “That is how we old hussars see things, and that’s all. And what is your opinion, young man and young hussar?” he added, turning to Nikolai who, having heard them talking about the war, had abandoned his female conversation-partner and was staring wide-eyed at the colonel, all ears for what he had to say. “I agree with you entirely,” replied Nikolai, blushing furiously, fidgeting with his plate and shifting his wineglasses about with a resolute and desperate air, as if he were exposed to great danger at that very moment. “I am convinced that Russians must die or conquer,” he said, then felt, as did the others after the word had been uttered, that it was too exalted and grandiloquent for the present occasion and therefore embarrassing, but the fine, impressionable youthfulness of his open-hearted face made his outburst moving to the others rather than comic. “That is glorious, what you said, glorious,” said Julie, sighing and lowering her eyelids in the depth of her feeling. Sonya began to tremble all over and blushed up to her ears, behind her ears and down to her neck and shoulders as Nikolai was speaking. Pierre listened carefully to what the colonel said and nodded his head approvingly, although, by his own reasoning, he believed that patriotism was stupidity. Yet involuntarily he sympathised with every sincerely spoken word. “That is splendid. Very good, very good,” he said. “A genuine hussar, young man,” cried the colonel, thumping the table again. “What are you making so much noise about?” Marya Dmitrievna’s rich voice suddenly asked across the table. “Why are you banging on the table?” she said to the hussar, as always saying out loud what others were only thinking. “Who are you getting so angry with? Perhaps you think you have the French in front of you?” “I am speaking the truth,” said the hussar, smiling. “It is all about the war,” the count shouted across the table. “My son is going, Marya Dmitrievna, my son is going.” “And I have four sons in the army, but I’m not grieving. Everything is God’s will, you can die lying on the stove in your own hut, and God can spare you in battle,” said Marya Dmitrievna’s rich voice, audible without the slightest effort from the other end of the table. “That’s right.” The conversation became more focused once again, the ladies’ at their end of the table, the men’s at theirs. “I bet you won’t ask,” said Natasha’s little brother, “I bet you won’t ask!” “I will,” replied Natasha. Her face suddenly became flushed, expressing a desperate and gay determination, the determination that an ensign has when he throws himself into the assault. Half rising to her feet, with eyes sparkling and her smile barely contained, she addressed her mother: “Mama!” her full-throated voice rang the entire length of the table. “What is it?” the countess asked in fright but, seeing from her daughter’s face that it was a piece of mischief, she waved her hand at her strictly, making a threatening and forbidding movement with her head. The conversation fell silent. “Mama! What will it be for dessert?” the little voice rang out even more decisively, without breaking, na?vely but with an awareness of its own na?vety. The countess tried to frown, but an involuntary smile of love for her favourite child had already sprung to her lips. Marya Dmitrievna wagged a thick finger. “Cossack!” she said menacingly. Most of the guests looked at the heads of the table, not knowing how they should take this prank. “I’ll teach you!” said the countess. “Mama, what will it be for dessert?” Natasha cried, boldly and with capricious merriment now, confident in advance that her prank would be well received. Sonya and fat Petya hid laughing faces. “See, I did ask,” Natasha whispered to her little brother without taking her eyes off her mother and without altering the na?ve expression on her face. “Ices! Only they won’t give you any,” said Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha saw that she had nothing to be afraid of, and so this time she wasn’t even afraid of Marya Dmitrievna. “Marya Dmitrievna, what kind of ices? I don’t like ice cream.” “Carrot ices.” “No, what kind? Marya Dmitrievna, what kind?” she almost shouted. “I want to know.” Marya Dmitrievna and the countess laughed, and then all the guests laughed too. They all laughed, not at Marya Dmitrievna’s answer, but at the inconceivable boldness and smartness of this little girl who knew how to talk to Marya Dmitrievna like that and dared to do it. “Your sister is charming,” said Julie. Natasha only desisted when she was told there would be pineapple ices. Before the ices they served champagne. The music started up again, the count kissed his little countess and as they rose, the guests congratulated the countess and clinked glasses across the table with the count, the children and each other. Julie clinked glasses with Nikolai, letting him know with her glances that this clinking had another important meaning. Footmen began bustling about again, chairs clattered, and in the same order as before, but now with redder faces, the guests returned to the drawing room and to the count’s study. XXV The card tables had all been set up, parties sat down to play boston, and the count’s guests settled themselves throughout the two drawing rooms, the sitting room and the library. Marya Dmitrievna scolded Shinshin, with whom she was playing. “You’re so good at criticising everybody else, but you couldn’t even guess that with the queen of hearts you should lead a heart.” The count, fanning out his cards, struggled to abstain from his customary after-dinner sleep and laughed at everything. The young people, encouraged by the countess, gathered around the clavichord and harp. At everybody’s request Julie first played a little piece with variations on the harp and then, together with the other girls began asking Natasha and Nikolai, known for their musicality, to sing something. Natasha, to whom they appealed more than anyone else, neither agreed nor refused. “Wait, I’ll try,” she said, moving to the other side of the clavichord and, trying out her voice, she quietly sang several pure full-throated notes that were surprisingly moving. Everyone fell silent as the sounds faded away in the lofty, high-ceilinged room. “I can, I can do it,” she said, happily tossing back her curls, which were tumbling over her eyes. Pierre, very red in the face after dinner, went over to her. He wanted to look at her from closer up and see how she would talk to him. “And why might you not be able to?” he asked as simply as if they had known each other for a hundred years. “There are some days when the voice just isn’t any good,” she said and moved over towards the clavichord. “And today?” “It’s excellent,” she said, addressing him with as much enthusiasm as if she were praising somebody else’s voice. Pierre, pleased to have seen how she spoke, went over to Boris, whom he liked almost as much today as Natasha. “What a lovely child, that little black-haired girl,” he said. “Even though she isn’t good-looking.” After the boredom of isolation in his father’s big house, Pierre found himself in that happy, young man’s state of loving everyone and seeing nothing but good in everyone. At dinner he had still unwittingly despised the Moscow public from the elevated height of St. Petersburg. But now he already felt that only here in Moscow did people know how to live and he even thought how good it would be to visit this house every day, and listen to this little black-haired girl sing and talk, and look at her. “Nikolai,” said Natasha, going up to the clavichord, “what shall we sing?” “Perhaps ‘The Spring’,” replied Nikolai. He was clearly beginning to find it impossible to put up with the importunate Julie, who thought he ought to be overjoyed at her attentions. “Well come on, come on, Boris, come over here,” Natasha called. “And where’s Sonya?” She glanced around and, seeing that her friend was not in the room, ran to get her. “The Spring”, as it was known at the Rostovs, was an old four-part song which they had been taught by their music teacher, Dimmler. This “Spring” was usually sung by Natasha, Sonya, Nikolai and Boris, who, although he did not have any special talent or voice, had a good ear and with his characteristic exactitude and imperturbability could learn a part and hold his own. While Natasha was gone, they started asking Nikolai to sing something. He refused in a manner that was almost uncivil and morose. Julie Akhrosimova, smiling, went up to him: “Why so gloomy, all of a sudden?” she asked. “Though I do understand. For music, and for singing especially, you have to be in the mood. It’s the same for me. There are certain moments …” Nikolai frowned and walked towards the clavichord. Before he sat down he noticed that Sonya was not in the room and he almost wanted to leave. “Nikolai, don’t make me beg you, it’s absurd,” said the countess. “I’m not trying to make you beg, maman,” Nikolai replied and he opened the clavichord, banging the lid with an abrupt movement, and sat down. He thought for a moment and began a little song by Kavelin: Why say that fateful word, “adieu”, When you are parting from your love, As if life has abandoned you, And happiness is gone for ever? Say rather, “till we meet again”, Say, “till our joy returns anew”. Dismiss time with this sweet refrain, To your own love remaining true. His voice was neither good nor bad, and he sang indolently, as though fulfilling a tedious obligation, but despite that, the entire room fell silent, the young ladies swayed their heads and sighed, and Pierre concealed his teeth behind a gentle, faint smile that looked especially funny on his fat, full-blooded face, remaining like that until the end of the song. Julie closed her eyes and sighed so loudly that the entire room could hear her. Nikolai sang with the sense of measure that he so badly lacked in life and which in art cannot be acquired by any study. He sang with a lightness and freedom which demonstrated that he was not labouring, but singing just as he spoke. Only when he began to sing did he express himself not like the child he seemed to be in life, but like a man in whom passions were already stirring. XXVI Meanwhile Natasha, running first into Sonya’s room and not finding her there, ran through into the nursery, but she was not there either. Natasha realised Sonya was on the chest in the corridor. The chest in the corridor was the “vale of sorrows” for the younger female generation in the Rostov house. And there indeed was Sonya lying on the trunk, face down on nanny’s grubby striped eiderdown, with her gossamer-fine pink frock all crumpled beneath her, sobbing into her hands so violently that her bare, brown little shoulders were shuddering. Natasha’s face, festive and animated all day long and now even more brightly radiant in preparation for singing, which always made her excited, suddenly darkened. Her eyes grew still, then her sturdy neck, well formed for singing, began to quiver, the corners of her lips turned down and in an instant her eyes were wet with tears. “Sonya! What is it? What’s wrong? Oh-oh-oh!” And Natasha, opening her large mouth and making herself utterly ugly, began bawling like a child without knowing the reason why, just because Sonya was crying. Sonya wanted to lift her head up, she wanted to answer, but she could not and only hid herself away all the more. Still crying, Natasha sat down on the blue eiderdown and hugged her friend. Gathering all her strength, Sonya sat up and began wiping away the tears and telling her what was wrong. “Nikolai is leaving in a week, his … papers … have been issued … he told me himself … But I still wouldn’t have cried …” (she showed Natasha the piece of paper that she was holding in her hand: it was the poem written by Nikolai), “I still wouldn’t have cried, but you can’t … nobody can understand … what a fine soul he has …” And she began crying again because his soul was so fine. Sonya felt that no one apart from her could understand the sublime loveliness, nobility and tenderness – all the finest virtues of this soul. And she really did see all these peerless virtues, firstly because Nikolai, without knowing it himself, showed her only his very best side, and secondly because she wished with all the strength of her heart to see only the beautiful things in him. “You are lucky … I don’t envy you … I love you, and Boris too,” she said, recovering a little strength, “he is kind. For you there are no obstacles. But Nikolai is my cousin … we need to … the Metropolitan himself … even then it’s impossible … And then, if mama” (Sonya thought of the countess as her mother and called her mama) “… she’ll say that I’m ruining Nikolai’s career, that I’m heartless and I’m ungrateful, but truly … so God help me” (she crossed herself) “… I love her so much, and all of you, only Vera … But why? What have I done to her? I’m so grateful to you all that I would sacrifice everything, but I don’t have a thing …” Sonya could not carry on and again she hid her face in her hands and the eiderdown. Natasha began trying to comfort her, but it was clear from her face that she understood the full significance of her friend’s grief. “Sonya!” she said suddenly, as if she had guessed the genuine cause of her cousin’s distress. “Tell me, Vera said something to you after dinner, didn’t she?” “Yes, Nikolai wrote out this poem himself, and I copied out some others: she found them on my table and said she would show them to mama, and she said that I was ungrateful, that mama would never allow him to marry me. And he’s going to marry Julie. You see the way she looks at him. Natasha? What did I do?” And she started crying again, more bitterly than before. Natasha raised her up, embraced her and, smiling through her own tears, began reassuring her. “Sonya, don’t believe her, my darling, don’t believe her. Remember how the two of us and Nikolai spoke about things in the divan room, remember, after supper? We decided how everything would be. I don’t remember exactly, but remember how everything was so good and everything was possible. Uncle Shinshin’s brother is married to his cousin, and we’re only second cousins. And Boris says it’s perfectly possible. You know, I told him everything. And he’s so clever and so good,” said Natasha, feeling, just as Sonya did about Nikolai, and for the same reasons, that no one in the world apart from her could know all the treasures that were contained in Boris … “Sonya, don’t you cry, my darling, my sweet Sonya.” And she kissed her, laughing. “Vera’s mean. Forget her. Everything is going to be all right, and she won’t tell mama, Nikolai will tell her himself.” She kissed the top of Sonya’s head. Sonya sat up, and the little kitten became lively again, her eyes began to sparkle and it seemed as if any moment she would wave her tail, jump down on her soft paws and start playing with a ball of wool just as she ought to. “Do you think so? Really? Honest to God?” she said, rapidly straightening her dress and putting her hair in order. “Really, honest to God!” replied Natasha, tidying a vigorous lock of stray hair back into her friend’s plait, and they both laughed. “Now, let’s go and sing ‘The Spring’.” “Yes, let’s.” Sonya, having brushed off the fluff and tucked the poem into her bosom up by her neck and prominent collar bones, her face flushed, ran with Natasha on light, happy feet along the corridor to the drawing room. Nikolai was finishing the final couplet of his song. He saw Sonya, his eyes lit up, a smile appeared on his mouth that was open to sing, his voice became stronger and more expressive, and he sang the final couplet even better than the ones before. How sweet, bath’d in the moon’s bright ray, – he sang, looking at Sonya, and they understood how much all this meant – the words and the smile and the song although, strictly speaking, it all meant nothing. In fancy’s happy mood, to say: This world still holds one, dear to see, Whose thought and dreams are all of thee! And her fair fingers still do stray Across that gentle harp and play, Sighing sweet passion’s harmony, With urgent pleas that summon thee. One day – when bliss will be on hand … Oh woe! Lest first my life should end. He sang only for Sonya, but everyone felt a happy, warm feeling in their hearts when he finished and stood up from the keyboard with his eyes moist. “Charming! Enchanting!” said voices on every side. “This romance,” said Julie with a sigh as she went up to him, “is bliss. I understand everything now.” During the singing Marya Dmitrievna had got up from the table and stood in the doorway to listen. “Bravo, Nikolai,” she said. “You move the heart. Come here, give me a kiss.” XXVII Natasha whispered to Nikolai that Vera had just upset Sonya by stealing the poems and saying all sorts of nasty things to her. Nikolai blushed and immediately strode determinedly across to Vera and began whispering to her that if she dared to do anything unpleasant to Sonya, then he would be her enemy for life. Vera tried to make excuses and apologised and observed, also in a whisper, that it was not proper to talk about it now, indicating the guests who, noticing some sort of unpleasantness between brother and sister, had moved away. “I don’t care, I’ll say it in front of everyone,” Nikolai said almost loudly, “that you have a wicked heart and you take pleasure in hurting people.” Having said his piece and still trembling in agitation, Nikolai walked over to the far corner of the room, to Boris and Pierre. He sat down beside them with the resolute and gloomy air of a man who is now capable of anything and whom it is best not to bother with questions. Pierre, however, as distracted as ever, failed to notice Nikolai’s state of mind and, feeling in a state of great contentment, intensified still further by the pleasurable sensations of the music, which always affected him deeply despite his being incapable of singing a single note in tune, he said to Nikolai: “How splendidly you sang!” Nikolai did not answer. “What rank will you have in your regiment?” Pierre asked, simply in order to ask him something else. Nikolai, forgetting that Pierre was in no way to blame for the unpleasantness Vera had caused him or for Julie’s irritating attentions, glared at him angrily. “They suggested I petition for an appointment as a gentleman of the bedchamber, but I refused, because I wish my position in the army to be due to nothing but my own merits … and not to perching on the heads of people more worthy than myself. I am joining as a cadet,” he added, very pleased that he had so soon been able to demonstrate his nobility to his new acquaintance and to use the military expression, “perch on someone’s head”, that he had only just overheard from the colonel. “Yes, I am always arguing with him,” said Boris. “I don’t see anything unfair in joining straightaway as a major. If you don’t merit that rank, they will reject you, and if you do merit it, you can be useful all the sooner.” “Yes, well, you are a diplomat,” said Nikolai. “I believe it’s an abuse of one’s position and I do not wish to start with abuse.” “You are absolutely right, absolutely,” said Pierre. “What’s that, the musicians? Will there be dancing?” he asked timidly, hearing the sounds of instruments tuning up. “I have never been able to learn a single dance properly.” “Yes, I think mama ordered it,” replied Nikolai, glancing cheerfully round the room and mentally seeking his own lady among the others. But just then he spotted a group that had gathered around Berg and the good mood that he had recovered was once again replaced by morose bitterness. “Ah, do read it, Mr. Berg, you read so well, I’m sure it must be very poetic,” Julie was saying to Berg, who was holding a piece of paper. Nikolai saw that it was one of his own poems which Vera, out of sheer spite, had shown to the whole company. The poem was as follows: The Hussar’s Farewell Oh, do not grieve me as we part, Do not torment your dear hussar, But be his sword-arm’s joyful heart, Bright inspiration for his war. I need my courage for the battle, So stay these tears, so bitter-sweet, I long to earn a victor’s laurels, So I may cast them at thy feet. When he had written the poem and given it to the object of his passion, Nikolai had thought it was beautiful, but now he suddenly felt it was exceptionally bad and, even worse, laughable. Seeing Berg with his poem in his hand, Nikolai halted and then, with his nostrils flared, his face scarlet, his lips pursed, he strode rapidly and resolutely towards the group, waving his arms. Boris, spotting his intentions in time, blocked his way and grabbed him by the arm. “Listen, that would be stupid.” “Let go, I’ll teach him a lesson,” said Nikolai, forcing his way forwards. “He’s not to blame, let me go over there.” Boris went up to Berg. “That poem was not written for the whole world,” he said, holding out his hand. “If you please!” “Ah, so it is not for everybody! Vera Pavlovna gave it to me.” “It’s so lovely, there is something very melodic about it,” said Julie Akhrosimova. “‘The Hussar’s Farewell’,” said Berg, and had the misfortune to smile. By now Nikolai was standing in front of him, holding his face close and glaring at the unfortunate Berg with wild eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. “You find something funny? What do you find funny?” “No, I didn’t know it was you who …” “What’s it to you whether it was me or not? Reading other people’s letters is a base act.” “I beg your pardon,” said Berg, blushing in alarm. “Nikolai,” said Boris. “Monsieur Berg was not reading other people’s letters … You’re about to do something stupid. Listen,” he said, putting the poem in his pocket, “come over here, I want to have a word with you.” Berg immediately moved away to join the ladies and Boris and Nikolai went out to the sitting room. Sonya ran out after them. Half an hour later all the young people were dancing the ?cossaise and Nikolai, having talked with Sonya in the sitting room, was once again the same merry and agile dancer as always, and now felt astonished at his own irascibility and annoyed at his indecent outburst. Everybody was feeling very jolly, even Pierre, who confused the figures as he danced the ?cossaise under Boris’s supervision, and Natasha, who for some reason split her sides with laughter every time she glanced at him, which pleased him greatly. “How funny he is, and how splendid,” she said first to Boris, and then to Pierre himself, straight to his face, looking na?vely up into his eyes. In the middle of the third ?cossaise, chairs began moving in the sitting room, where the count and Marya Dmitrievna were playing cards, and most of the honoured guests and the old folks, stretching themselves after sitting so long and putting their wallets and purses back into their pockets, came out through the doors into the hall. At the front came Marya Dmitrievna and the count, both with cheerful faces. The count offered his curved arm to Marya Dmitrievna in a gesture of facetious politeness, almost balletically. He drew himself erect and his face was illuminated by an extraordinary smile of rakish cunning, and as soon as they had finished dancing the final figure of the ?cossaise, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted up into the gallery, to the first violin. “Semyon! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?” This was the count’s favourite dance, danced by him in his youth (strictly speaking, the Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise). “Look at papa,” cried Natasha so loudly that everyone could hear, bending her curly head down to her knees and setting the entire hall ringing with her peals of laughter. And indeed, everyone who was there in the hall gazed with a smile of joy at the jolly little old man beside his stately lady, Marya Dmitrievna, who was taller than he, as he curved his arms and shook them in time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his feet, tapping them lightly and, with the smile spreading further and further across his round face, prepared his audience for what was to come. As soon as the jolly, challenging strains of the Daniel Cooper began to ring out like a merry vagabond song, all the doors of the hall were suddenly crammed full, by male faces on one side and, on the other, by the smiling female faces of all the servants who had come out to look at their master making merry. “Our old father! What an eagle he is!” said a nanny from one door. The count danced well and he knew it, but his lady did not know how to dance at all and had no wish to dance well. Her massive body was held rigidly upright with her powerful arms lowered (she had handed her reticule to the countess) and only her severe but beautiful face danced. Everything that was expressed in the whole of the count’s rotund figure Mariya Dmitrievna expressed only in the ever brighter and wider smile on her face and her twitching nose. But while the count, working himself up more and more, captivated his audience with the sudden surprise of his nimble arabesques and the light capering of his soft legs, Marya Dmitrievna, by taking the very slightest pains in moving her shoulders or curving her arms, in turning and stamping her feet, produced no less an impression for her efforts, which were appreciated by everyone in view of her corpulence and customary severity. The dance grew more and more lively. The other dancers were unable to attract the slightest attention to themselves, and gave up trying. All eyes were riveted on the count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha tugged at the sleeves and dresses of everyone around her, who in any case already had their eyes fixed on the dancers, and demanded that they watch her dear papa. In the pauses in the dance the count struggled to catch his breath, waving his hand to the musicians and shouting for them to play faster. Quicker and quicker, ever more jauntily, the count twirled this way and that, hurtling around Marya Dmitrievna, now on his tiptoes, now on his heels and finally, having swung his lady back to her place, he took the final bow, drawing his supple leg back behind him, lowering his perspiring head with its smiling face and stretching out his curved right arm in a broad sweep amid thunderous applause and laughter, especially from Natasha. Both dancers stopped, struggling to catch their breath and wiping their faces with fine lawn handkerchiefs. DANCING THE DANIEL COOPER Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_c90dd2f7-e31e-5cb1-9fb6-8f28b0482319) “That’s how they used to dance in our time, ma ch?re,” said the count. “Hurrah for Daniel Cooper!” puffed Marya Dmitrievna, breathing out long and hard. XXVIII While at the Rostovs’ house they were dancing the sixth anglaise to weary musicians playing out of tune and the weary footmen and chefs were preparing supper, discussing among themselves how the masters were able to keep on eating – they had only just finished their tea and now it was supper time again – at this very hour, Count Bezukhov suffered his sixth stroke, and with the doctors declaring there was no hope of recovery, the sick man was given mute confession and communion, and preparations began to be made for extreme unction, filling the house with the bustle and anxious anticipation usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, concealing themselves from the carriages that were arriving, a throng of undertakers waited in anticipation of a rich commission for the count’s funeral. The commander-in-chief of Moscow, who had repeatedly sent his adjutants to enquire after the count’s condition, came himself that evening to take his leave of one of the representatives of the age of Catherine the Great. The count was said to be seeking someone with his eyes, asking for them. A mounted servant was sent for both Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna. The magnificent reception room was full. Everyone rose respectfully when the commander-in-chief, who had spent about half an hour alone with the sick man, emerged, barely responding to their bows and trying to walk as quickly as possible past the glances trained on him by the doctors, clergymen and relatives. Prince Vasily, grown thinner and paler over the last few days, walked beside him, and everyone watched the commander-in-chief shake his hand and repeat something quietly to him several times. Having seen the commander-in-chief out, Prince Vasily sat down on his own on a chair in the hall and crossed one leg high over the other, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his eyes with his hand. Everyone could see he was suffering and no one approached. After sitting in this way for some time he stood up and, walking with unusual haste, glancing around with eyes that seemed either angry or frightened, went down the long corridor to the rear of the house to see the eldest princess. The people in the dimly lit room talked between themselves in a faltering whisper, falling silent and glancing round with eyes full of questioning anticipation at the door leading to the dying man’s chambers every time it gave out a faint creak as someone came out or went in. “Man’s span,” said an old man, a clergyman, to a lady who had sat beside him and was listening to him na?vely. “Even as thy span is fixed, thou shalt not exceed it.” “I wonder, isn’t it too late to administer extreme unction?” asked the woman, adding an ecclesiastical title, as if she had no opinion of her own on this account. “It is a great mystery, madame,” replied the clergyman, running his hands over his bald patch, over which several strands of greying hair had been carefully combed. “Who’s that? Was that the commander-in-chief himself?” someone asked at the other end of the room. “How young he looks …” “And he’s over sixty! Did they say the count can’t recognise anyone? They wanted to administer extreme unction.” “I knew of one man who had extreme unction seven times.” The second princess simply came out of the sick man’s room with tearful eyes and sat beside Lorrain, the famous young French doctor, who was sitting in a graceful pose next to a portrait of Catherine the Great, leaning his elbows on the table. “Excellent,” said the doctor, replying to a question about the weather today, “excellent weather, but then, my princess, Moscow is so like the countryside.” “Yes indeed, is it not?” said the princess, sighing. “Well, can he have something to drink?” Lorrain pondered the question. “Has he taken his medicine?” “Yes.” The doctor glanced at his Br?quet watch. “Take a glass of boiled water and add a pinch” (with his slim fingers he showed her what a pinch meant) “of cream of tartar.” “It has nefer happent,” said a German doctor to an adjutant, “that anyvone has surfifed a third stroke.” “And how full of life he was!” said the adjutant. “And who will all this wealth go to?” he added in a whisper. “Takers will be found,” the German replied, smiling. Everyone glanced round at the door again as it creaked and the second princess, who had prepared the drink indicated by Lorrain, carried it in to the sick man. The German doctor approached Lorrain. “Can he hold on until tomorrow morning?” the German asked, speaking in badly pronounced French. Lorrain, pursing his lips, wagged his finger severely in front of his nose in a gesture of denial. “Tonight and no later,” he said quietly with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at his own ability to understand and convey the patient’s condition clearly, and walked away. Meanwhile Prince Vasily opened the door into the eldest princess’s room. The room was in semi-darkness, there were only two icon lamps burning in front of the icons and there was a pleasant smell of incense and flowers. The entire room was crammed with little chiffoniers, closets and tables. The white coverlets of a high feather bed could be seen behind a screen. A little dog began barking. “Ah, it is you, cousin.” She stood up and arranged her hair, which was always, even now, so uncommonly smooth that it seemed to have been made in a single piece with her head and covered with lacquer. “What is it, has something happened?” she asked. “I am so frightened already.” “Nothing, everything is still the same, I only came to finish talking business with you, Katish,” said the prince, seating himself wearily in the armchair from which she had just risen. “My, how you have warmed it,” he said, “come, sit here, let us talk.” “I thought something might have happened,” said the princess, and with her unvarying calm, strict, stony decorum she sat facing the prince, preparing to listen. “Well then, my dear?” said Prince Vasily, taking the princess’s hand and by force of habit pulling it downwards. It was obvious that this “well then” concerned many things that they both understood without naming them. The princess, with her stiff, straight waist that was absurdly long for her legs, looked directly and fearlessly at the prince with her prominent grey eyes. She shook her head and looked at an icon with a sigh. Her gesture could have been taken either as an expression of grief-stricken devotion or an expression of weariness and hope to rest soon. Prince Vasily took the gesture as an expression of weariness. “Do you think,” he said, “it is any easier for me? I am as exhausted as a post horse, but even so I have to talk to you, Katish, and very seriously too.” Prince Vasily stopped speaking and his cheeks began twitching nervously, first on one side, then on the other, lending his face an unpleasant expression such as never appeared on Prince Vasily’s face when he was in society drawing rooms. His eyes were also not the same as usual: they either glared with facetious insolence or gazed around in fright. The princess, holding the little dog on her knees with her dry, thin hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasily’s eyes, but it was clear that she would not break the silence with a question, even if she had to remain silent until morning. The princess had one of those faces on which the expression remains the same, regardless of how the expression changes on another person’s face. “Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Ekaterina Semyonovna,” Prince Vasily continued, evidently resuming what he had been saying with a certain inward struggle, “at moments such as this, one has to think of everything. We have to think about the future, about you … I love all of you like my own children, you know that.” The princess gazed at him as drearily and rigidly as ever. “Finally, I have to think about my family too,” Prince Vasily continued, angrily pushing the little table away from him and not looking at her, “you know, Katish, that you three Mamontov sisters, together with my wife, we are the count’s only direct heirs. I know how painful it is for you to talk and think of such things. And it is no easier for me, my friend, I am over fifty and I have to be prepared for anything. Do you know that I have sent for Pierre and that the count pointed directly at his portrait and demanded that he be brought to him?” Prince Vasily looked enquiringly at the princess, but could not tell whether she understood what he had just said or was simply looking at him. “I never cease praying to God for one thing,” she replied, “that He will have mercy on him and allow his noble soul to depart in peace from …” “Yes, yes, quite so,” Prince Vasily interrupted impatiently, wiping his bald patch and angrily moving back towards himself the little table that he had pushed away, “but ultimately … ultimately the point is, you know yourself that last winter the count wrote a will in which he left the entire estate, bypassing the direct heirs and us, to Pierre.” “It doesn’t matter how many wills he wrote!” the princess said calmly. “He could not leave anything to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.” “My dear,” Prince Vasily said abruptly, hugging the little table close to him, becoming more animated and starting to speak more rapidly, “but what if a letter was written to His Majesty and the count had asked to adopt Pierre? You realise that in reward for the count’s services his request would be granted …” The princess smiled as people smile when they think they know some matter better than those with whom they are speaking. “I shall tell you more,” Prince Vasily continued, seizing hold of her hand, “the letter was written, although not sent, and His Majesty knew of it. It is only a question of whether it has been destroyed or not. If not, then as soon as it is all over” – Prince Vasily sighed, in this way making it clear what he meant by “all over” – “and they open the count’s documents, the will and the letter will be sent to His Majesty and his request will probably be granted. Pierre, as the legitimate son, will receive everything.” “And our part?” the princess asked, smiling ironically, as though anything at all but that could happen. “But, my dear Katish, it is as clear as day. He is then the sole legitimate heir to everything, and you will not receive even that much. You must know, my dear, whether the will and the letter were written and whether they have been destroyed. And if for some reason they have been forgotten, then you must know where they are, and find them, because …” “This is just too much!” the princess interrupted him, smiling sardonically without changing the expression of her eyes. “I am a woman, you think that we are all stupid, but I know this much, that an illegitimate son cannot inherit … Un b?tard,” she added, hoping that this translation would finally demonstrate to the prince that his argument was groundless. “But after all, why can you not understand, Katish! You are so intelligent: why can you not understand that if the count has written His Majesty a letter in which he requests him to declare his son legitimate, in that case Pierre will no longer be Pierre, but Count Bezukhov, and then under the will he will receive everything? And if the will and the letter have not been destroyed then, apart from the consolation of having been virtuous and everything that follows from that, you will be left with nothing. That is certain.” “I know that the will was written, but I also know that it is invalid, and you seem to take me for a complete fool,” the princess said with the expression that women assume when they believe that they have said something witty and insulting. “My dear princess, Ekaterina Semyonovna,” Prince Vasily began impatiently, “I did not come here in order to swap insults with you, but in order to speak with a dear, good, kind, truly dear friend about your own interests. I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the sovereign and the will in favour of Pierre are among the count’s papers, then you, my dearest, and your sisters too, are not the heirs. If you do not believe me, then believe people who know these things: I have just been speaking with Dmitri Onufrievich,” (he was the family lawyer), “and he said the same.” Something clearly suddenly changed in the princess’s thoughts: her thin lips turned pale (her eyes remained the same) and as she began to speak her voice burst out in loud tones that she herself had evidently not expected. “That would be good,” she said. “I never wanted and I do not want a thing.” She threw her little dog off her knees and adjusted the pleats of her dress. “That is his gratitude, that is his thanks to the people who have sacrificed everything for him,” she said. “Excellent! Very good! I do not want a thing, prince.” “Yes, but you are not alone, you have sisters,” Prince Vasily replied. But the princess would not listen to him. “Yes, I had known this for a long time, but I had forgotten that apart from meanness, deceit and intrigues, apart from ingratitude, the blackest ingratitude, I could expect nothing in this house …” “Do you or do you not know where this will is?” asked Prince Vasily, his cheeks twitching even more violently than before. “Yes, I was stupid, I still believed in people, and loved them, and sacrificed myself. But the only ones who prosper are those who are base and vile. I know who is behind these intrigues.” The princess was about to stand, but the prince held her back by the arm. The princess had the air of someone suddenly disillusioned with the whole of humankind: she glared angrily at the prince. “There is still time, my friend. Remember, Katish, that this was all done suddenly, in a moment of anger and sickness, and then forgotten. It is our duty, my dear, to correct his mistake, to make his final minutes easier and not allow him to commit this injustice, not allow him to die with the thought that he has rendered miserable those people …” “Those people who have sacrificed everything for him,” the princess interjected, attempting to stand once again, but the prince prevented her, “which he has never appreciated, No, cousin,” she added with a sigh, “I shall remember that in this world one must not expect any reward, that in this world there is neither honour nor justice. In this world one must be cunning and wicked.” “Now, listen, calm yourself; I know your noble heart.” “No, my heart is wicked.” “I know your heart,” the prince repeated, “I value your friendship, and I should wish you to hold the same opinion of me. Calm yourself and let us talk plainly while there is still time – perhaps a day, perhaps an hour: tell me everything that you know about the will, most importantly of all, where it is, you must know. We will take it now and show it to the count. He must have forgotten about it and will wish to destroy it. You understand that my only wish is to carry out his wishes religiously; that is the only reason why I came here. I am only here in order to help him and you.” “I understand everything now. I know who is behind these intrigues. I know,” said the princess. “That is not the point, my dearest.” “It is your prot?g?e, your dear Princess Drubetskaya, Anna Mikhailovna, whom I would not wish to have as a maidservant, that loathsome, repulsive woman.” “Let us not waste time.” “Oh, do not speak to me! Last winter she wormed her way in here and said such vile things, such abominable things about all of us, especially about Sophia, I cannot even repeat them – that the count became ill and would not see us for two weeks. That was the time, I know, when he wrote that repulsive, loathsome document, but I thought that the paper meant nothing.” “That is the whole point – why did you not say anything to me earlier?” “In the mosaic document case that he keeps under his pillow! Now I know,” the princess said, not answering him. “Yes, if I have a sin to answer for, it is my hate for that horrible woman,” the princess almost shouted, completely changed now. “And why does she come worming her way in here? But I shall speak my mind to her, I shall. The time will come.” “For God’s sake, in your righteous wrath do not forget,” said Prince Vasily, smiling faintly, “that thousand-eyed envy is following our every move. We must act, but …” XXIX While these conversations were taking place in the reception room and the princess’s quarters, the carriage with Pierre (who had been sent for) and Anna Mikhailovna (who had deemed it necessary to travel with him), was driving into Count Bezukhov’s courtyard. As the wheels of the carriage began crunching gently across the straw spread under the windows, Anna Mikhailovna realised, on addressing her travelling companion with words of consolation, that he was asleep in the corner of the carriage and she woke him up. Once awake, Pierre followed Anna Mikhailovna out of the carriage and only then thought about the meeting with his dying father that awaited him. He noticed that they had driven up to the rear entrance, not the main one. Just as he stepped down from the footboard, two men in tradesmen’s clothes darted hastily away from the entrance into the shadow of the wall. Halting for a moment, Pierre made out several other similar figures in the shadow of the house on both sides. But neither Anna Mikhailovna, nor the servant, nor the coachman, who could not have failed to see these people, took any notice of them. “Perhaps that is how things should be,” Pierre thought to himself and followed Anna Mikhailovna inside. Anna Mikhailovna walked hurriedly up the dimly lit, narrow stone staircase, calling to Pierre, who was falling behind, to hurry. Not understanding why he had to go to the count, and even less why he had to go by the back staircase, he nevertheless decided that, judging from Anna Mikhailovna’s certainty and haste, it was definitely necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by some men with buckets who came running down towards them, clattering their boots. These people pressed themselves back against the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna past, and showed not the slightest surprise at the sight of them. “Is this the way to the princesses’ apartments?” Anna Mikhailovna asked one of them. “Yes, it is,” the servant replied in a loud, bold voice, as if now everything were permitted, “the door’s on the left, ma’am.” “Perhaps the count did not send for me,” said Pierre as he reached the landing, “I should go to my room.” Anna Mikhailovna halted and waited for Pierre to draw level with her. “Ah, my friend,” she said touching his arm with the very same gesture that she had used with her son that morning. “Remember that he is your father … perhaps in the final agony.” She sighed. “I loved you immediately, like a son. Trust in me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests.” Pierre did not understand anything: once again he had the feeling, even more strongly, that this was how everything ought to be, and he meekly followed after Anna Mikhailovna, who was already opening the door. The door led into the lobby of the back entrance. The eldest princess’s old manservant was sitting in the corner, knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in this wing of the house, he had not even suspected the existence of these apartments. Anna Mikhailovna enquired after the princesses’ health from a girl who was overtaking them with a carafe on a tray, calling her “my dear” and “darling”, and dragged Pierre further on along the stone corridor. The first door to the left from the corridor led into the princesses’ living quarters. In her haste (just as everything in that house was being done in haste at that moment) the maid with the carafe had not closed the door and, as they walked past, Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna automatically glanced into the room where the eldest princess and Prince Vasily were sitting close to each other, talking. Seeing them walking by, Prince Vasily made an impatient gesture and drew himself back, while the princess leapt to her feet and slammed the door with all her might in a furious gesture, locking it. This gesture was so unlike the princess’s constant composure and the fear expressed on Prince Vasily’s face was so uncharacteristic of his normal pompous gravity that Pierre halted and looked enquiringly at his guide through his spectacles. Anna Mikhailovna did not express any surprise, she only smiled gently and sighed, as if indicating that she had been expecting all of this. “Be a man, my friend, I shall look out for your interests,” she said in response to his glance and set off even more quickly along the corridor. Pierre did not understand what was going on, and even less what it meant to look out for someone’s interests, but he did understand that all of this was as it ought to be. The corridor brought them out into the dimly lit hall adjoining the count’s reception room. It was one of those cold and sumptuous rooms that Pierre knew from the formal wing. But even in the middle of this room there was a bath standing empty and water had been spilled on the carpet. A servant and a junior deacon with a censer tiptoed out towards them, paying no attention to them. They entered the reception room that Pierre knew so well, with its two Italian windows, its doors to the winter garden, the large bust and the full-length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people, in almost the same places as before, were still sitting in the reception room, whispering to each other. Everyone fell silent and glanced round at Anna Mikhailovna as she entered, with her careworn, pale face, and at Pierre, big and fat, who was following her with his head meekly lowered. Anna Mikhailovna’s face expressed the realisation that the decisive moment had arrived, and she entered the room with the bearing of a practical St. Petersburg lady, without letting Pierre away from her, even more boldly than in the morning. She evidently felt that leading after her the person whom the dying man wished to see guaranteed that she would be admitted. Casting a swift glance over everyone present in the room and noticing the count’s confessor, she glided smoothly across to him and, without exactly stooping but suddenly becoming shorter, she respectfully accepted the blessing of first one clergyman, then another. “Thank God I am in time,” she said to one clergyman, “we relatives were all so afraid. This young man is the count’s son,” she added more quietly. “A terrible moment!” After uttering these words, she walked up to the doctor. “My dear doctor,” she said to him, “this young man is the count’s son … is there any hope?” Without speaking, the doctor raised his eyes and his shoulders in a rapid movement. Anna Mikhailovna raised her eyes and shoulders in exactly the same movement, almost closing her eyes, sighed and moved away from the doctor to Pierre. She addressed Pierre in a tone of especial deference and gentle sorrow: “Trust in His mercy,” she said to him and, having indicated a small divan for him to sit on and wait, she herself moved soundlessly towards the door at which everyone kept looking and, after a barely audible sound, this door closed behind her. Pierre, having decided to obey his guide in all things, walked towards the divan that she had pointed out to him. As soon as Anna Mikkhailovna left the room, he noticed that the glances of everyone there were directed at him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that everyone was whispering to each other, pointing him out with their eyes, seemingly in fear or even servility. They were showing him a respect that they had never shown him before: a lady he did not know, who had been speaking with the clergymen, got up from her seat and offered it to him; an adjutant picked up a glove that Pierre dropped and handed it to him. The doctors respectfully fell silent as he walked past them and moved aside to allow him space. Pierre at first tried to sit in a different place, in order not to inconvenience the lady, he wanted to pick up the glove himself and walk round the doctors, who were not standing in his way at all; but he suddenly sensed that it would be improper, he sensed that on this night he was an individual who was obliged to perform some terrible, universally expected ritual and that therefore he must accept services from everybody. He accepted the glove from the adjutant without a word, and sat in the lady’s place, setting his large hands on his knees, symmetrically positioned in the na?ve pose of an Egyptian statue, having decided to himself that all this was exactly as it ought to be and that this evening, in order not to become confused or do anything stupid, he ought not to act according to his own understanding, but submit himself entirely to the will of those who were leading him. Less than two minutes went by before Prince Vasily majestically entered the room in his kaftan with three starry orders, holding his head high. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning; his eyes were larger than usual when he glanced round the room and saw Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (which he had never done before) and tugged it downwards, as though he wished to test how firmly it was attached. “Bear up, bear up, my friend. He has asked to see you. That is good …” and he was about to leave. But Pierre felt it necessary to ask: “How is …” He stopped short, not knowing whether it was proper to call the dying man the count, but ashamed to call him father. “He has suffered another stroke, half an hour ago. Bear up, my friend …” Pierre was in such a confused state of mind that at the word “stroke” he imagined a blow from some object. He looked at Prince Vasily, perplexed. Only afterwards did he realise that a stroke was the name of the illness. Prince Vasily said a few words to Lorrain as he walked by and went in through the door on tiptoe. He did not know how to walk on tiptoe and his entire body bobbed up and down awkwardly. The eldest princess followed him, then the clergymen and junior deacons went through and a servant also went in at the door. There was the sound of things being moved behind the door and finally Anna Mikhailovna came running out with the same pale face set firm in the performance of her duty and, touching Pierre’s arm, said: “God’s mercy is inexhaustible. The rite of extreme unction is about to begin. Let us go.” Pierre went in through the door, walking across the soft carpet, and noticed that the adjutant and the lady he did not know and some other servant all followed him in, as if there were no longer any need to ask permission to enter this room. XXX Pierre knew this large room, divided by columns and an arch, its floor completely covered with Persian carpets, very well. The section of the room beyond the columns, where on one side there was a tall mahogany bedstead standing under silk curtains, and on the other an immense icon case with holy images, was brightly and beautifully illuminated, in the same way as churches are lit during the evening service. Standing under the illuminated rizas of the icon frame was a long Voltairian couch, and lying on the couch, which was padded at the top with snow-white, uncreased, pillows that had evidently only just been changed, covered up to the waist by a bright green quilt, lay the familiar majestic figure of Pierre’s father, Count Bezukhov, with that grey mane of hair reminiscent of a lion above the broad forehead, and those large, characteristically noble, wrinkles on the handsome reddish-yellow face. He was lying directly under the icons; both of his large, chubby hands had been freed from under the quilt and were lying on top of it. A wax candle had been set between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which was lying palm-down, and an old servant, leaning forward out of his armchair, was holding it in place. The clergymen were standing over the couch in their magnificent, glittering robes, with their long, loose hair flowing down over them, holding lighted candles and slowly and solemnly intoning the service. A little way behind them stood the two younger princesses, one clutching her handkerchief and the other pressing hers to her eyes, and in front of them the eldest, Katish, with a spiteful and determined expression, not taking her eyes off the icons for a moment, as though she were telling everyone that she could not answer for herself if she looked away. Anna Mikhailovna, her face expressing meek sorrow and universal forgiveness, and the unknown lady were standing by the door. Prince Vasily was standing at the other side of the door, close to the couch, behind a carved velvet-upholstered chair, the back of which he had turned towards himself, resting his left hand with a candle on it, and was crossing himself with his right hand, each time raising his eyes upwards as he touched his fingers to his forehead. His face expressed serene piety and devotion to the will of God. “If you do not understand these feelings, then so much the worse for you,” his face seemed to say. Behind him stood the adjutant, the doctors and the male servants; as if they were in church, the men and the women had separated. Everyone there was silent, crossing themselves, and all that could be heard were the words of the service, the rich, restrained, bass singing and, in the moments of silence, the shifting of feet and sighs. Anna Mikhailovna, with that air of importance which indicated she knew what she was doing, walked across the entire room to Pierre and handed him a candle. He lit the candle and, distracted by observing the people around him, began crossing himself with the same hand that was holding it. One of the younger princesses, Sophia, the rosy-cheeked, giggly one with the mole, was watching him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief and did not uncover it for a long time, but glancing at Pierre, she started laughing again. She clearly did not feel able to look at him without laughing, but was unable to stop herself looking at him, and to avoid temptation she quietly moved behind a column. In the middle of the service the voices of the clergymen suddenly fell silent and they said something to each other in a whisper; the old servant holding the count’s hand stood up and turned to face the ladies. Anna Mikhailovna stepped forward and, leaning over the sick man from behind the back of the couch, beckoned Lorrain to her with her finger. The French doctor, who was standing without a lighted candle and leaning back against a column in the respectful pose of a foreigner demonstrating that, despite the difference in faiths, he understands the great importance of the rite that is being performed and even approves of it, walked over to the patient with the inaudible steps of a man in the full prime of his strength, picked up the free hand from the green quilt with his slim white fingers and, turning away, began taking the pulse and thinking. They gave the sick man something to drink and fussed around him a little, then went back to their places once again and the service continued. During this break Pierre noticed that Prince Vasily came out from behind his chair and, with that same expression which indicated that he knew what he was doing, and if other people did not understand him, then that was so much the worse for them, did not walk across to the sick man but passed by him, joining the eldest princess, and together they moved into the back of the bedroom, towards the tall bedstead under the silk curtains. From the bed the prince and the princess both went out through the back door: but just before the end of the service they returned, one after the other, to their places. Pierre paid no more attention to this circumstance than to any other, having decided once and for all in his own mind that everything that took place in front of his eyes that evening necessarily had to be as it was. THE DEATH OF COUNT BEZUKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_8df4a987-9e03-5ead-96ba-572e42b540bb) The sounds of church chanting ceased and the voice of one of the clergyman respectfully congratulated the sick man on having taken the sacrament. The sick man lay there as lifeless and motionless as ever. Everyone around him began to stir, there was a sound of footsteps and whispering, among which Anna Mikhailovna’s whisper stood out most sharply of all. Pierre listened as she said: “He must be moved to the bed, it will be quite impossible here …” The doctors, princesses and servants crowded round the sick man so tightly that Pierre could no longer see that reddish-yellow head with the grey mane which, despite the fact that he also looked at other faces, had never been out of his sight for a moment throughout the service. Pierre guessed from the cautious movements of the people who had surrounded the couch that they were lifting up the dying man and moving him. “Grip my hand, you’ll drop him like that,” he heard one of the servants whisper in alarm. “From underneath … once more,” voices said, and the heavy breathing and foot-shuffling became more urgent, as though the weight they were carrying was more than they could manage. The bearers, whose number included Anna Mikhailovna, drew level with the young man, and for a moment he could see behind the people’s backs and heads the high, bloated, open chest and fat shoulders of the sick man, raised upwards by the people who were holding him under the arms, and the grey, curly lion’s mane. The head with the unusually broad brow and cheekbones, the beautiful, sensuous mouth and the majestically cool gaze had not been disfigured by the nearness of death. It was the same as Pierre had known it three months ago, when the count had sent him to St. Petersburg. But this head swayed helplessly to the uneven gait of the bearers and the cool, detached gaze did not know what to settle on. Several moments passed in commotion beside the tall bedstead: the people who had been carrying the sick man dispersed; Anna Mikhailovna touched Pierre’s arm and said: “Come.” She and Pierre approached the bed on which the sick man had been placed in a ceremonial pose that was evidently related to the sacrament that had just been celebrated. He was lying with his head propped up high on a pillow. His arms were laid out symmetrically on the green silk quilt, palms down. When Pierre approached, the count looked at him, but looked at him with that gaze, the meaning and import of which no man can understand. That gaze either said absolutely nothing at all, except that as long as one has eyes, one must look somewhere, or it said too much. Pierre halted, not knowing what he should do, and glanced enquiringly at his guide, Anna Mikhailovna. With a rapid gesture of her eyes, Anna Mikhailovna indicated the sick man’s hand, blowing a kiss to it with her lips. Pierre, painstakingly craning his neck forward to avoid catching the quilt, did as she advised and pressed his lips to the broad-boned, fleshy hand. The hand did not even twitch, nor did a single one of the count’s muscles. Pierre again glanced enquiringly at Anna Mikhailovna, asking what he ought to do now. With her eyes Anna Mihailovna indicated to him the armchair standing by the bed. Pierre obediently began sitting down on the chair, continuing to ask with his eyes whether he was doing as he ought. Anna Mikhailovna nodded approvingly. Pierre again assumed the symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, clearly regretting that his awkward and fat body occupied such a large amount of space and exerting all his inner strength to appear as small as possible. He looked at the count. The count looked at the spot where Pierre’s face had been when he was standing. Through her expression Anna Mikhailovna demonstrated her awareness of the touching gravity of this final moment of meeting between father and son. This continued for two minutes, which seemed like an hour to Pierre. Suddenly a trembling began in the large muscles and wrinkles of the count’s face. The trembling intensified, the handsome mouth twisted (it was only at this point that Pierre realised how close his father was to death) and a vague, hoarse sound issued from the distorted mouth. Anna Mikhailovna looked hard into the sick man’s eyes and, trying to guess what it was he wanted, pointed first to Pierre, then to the drink, then pronounced Prince Vasily’s name in a whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The sick man’s eyes and face expressed impatience. He made an effort to glance at the servant who was standing fixedly at the head of the bed. “His excellency wants to turn on his other side,” the servant whispered and stepped up in order to turn the count’s heavy body to face the wall. Pierre stood up in order to assist the servant. While they were turning the count over, one of his arms fell back helplessly, and he made a vain effort to pull it across. Whether or not the count noticed the glance of horror with which Pierre watched that helpless arm, or whether some other fleeting thought passed through his dying mind at that moment, he looked at the insubordinate arm, at the expression of horror on Pierre’s face, then again at the arm, and a weak smile of suffering, quite unsuited to his features, flickered across his face, seeming to express mockery at his own helplessness. At the sight of that smile, Pierre unexpectedly felt a trembling in his chest and a tingling in his nose, and tears clouded his vision. They turned the sick man onto his side, facing the wall. He sighed. “He has fallen asleep,” said Anna Mikhailovna, noticing one of the princesses coming to take their place. “Let us go.” Pierre left the room. XXXI There was no longer anyone in the reception room apart from Prince Vasily and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the Great and talking animatedly about something. As soon as they saw Pierre and his guide, they fell silent. The princess hid something, or so it seemed to Pierre, and whispered: “I hate the sight of that woman.” “Katish has ordered tea to be served in the small drawing room,” Prince Vasily said to Anna Mikhailovna, “why don’t you go and take some refreshment, my poor Anna Mikhailovna, or your strength will give out.” He said nothing to Pierre, merely squeezed his arm with feeling just below the shoulder. Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna went through into the small drawing room. “Nothing is so restorative after a sleepless night as a cup of this excellent Russian tea,” Lorrain said with an expression of restrained vivacity, sipping from a fine handleless Chinese cup as he stood in the small round drawing room in front of the table laid with a tea set and a cold supper. Everyone who was present in Count Bezukhov’s house that night had gathered round the table in order to restore their strength. Pierre remembered this little drawing room very well, with its mirrors and little tables. During balls at the count’s house Pierre, who did not know how to dance, had loved to sit in this small hall of mirrors and observe the ladies in their ball gowns, with diamonds and pearls adorning bare shoulders, passing through this room, examining themselves in the brightly illuminated mirrors that repeated their reflections several times over. Now that same room was barely lit by two candles in the middle of the night and a set of tea things and supper dishes stood untidily on a single little table, and a diverse collection of dull people were sitting there, talking to each other in whispers, demonstrating with their every movement and every word that no one was forgetting what was happening just then and what was yet to take place in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat, although he felt hungry. He glanced round enquiringly at his guide and saw her tiptoeing back out into the reception room, where Prince Vasily and the eldest princess had remained. Pierre assumed that this too was as it ought to be and, after waiting for a moment, he followed her. Anna Mikhailovna was standing beside the princess and they were both talking at the same time in excited whispers: “Be so good, my dear princess, as to permit me to know what is necessary and what is not,” said the younger woman, evidently still in the same state of excitement in which she had slammed the door of her room. “But my dear princess,” Anna Mikhailovna said mildly and earnestly, blocking the way from the bedroom and not allowing the eldest princess to pass, “will it not be too distressing for poor uncle at such a moment, when he is in need of rest? A discussion of worldly matters at such a moment, when his soul has already been prepared …” Prince Vasily was sitting in an armchair in his familiar pose, with one leg crossed high over the other. His cheeks were twitching violently and had sunk so that they appeared fatter at the bottom, but he had the air of a man little interested in the two ladies’ conversation. “Listen, my dear Anna Mikhailovna, leave Katish to do as she knows best. You know how the count loves her.” “I do not even know what is in this document,” said Katish, turning towards Prince Vasily and indicating the mosaic document case that she was holding. “I only know that the genuine will is in his bureau, and this forgotten piece of paper …” She tried to walk round Anna Mikhailovna, but with a little hop Anna Mikhailovna barred her way once again. “I know, my dear, kind princess,” said Anna Mikhailovna, grabbing hold of the document case with one hand so tightly that it was clear that she would not let it go easily. “My dear princess, I beg you, I implore you, have pity on him. I implore you.” The eldest princess said nothing. The only thing to be heard were the sounds of the struggle for the document case. It was evident that if she were to speak, it would be to say something unflattering to Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna was clinging on tight, but despite that, her voice remained as sweet and syrupy as ever. “Pierre, come over here, my friend. I think he has a place in a family council, does he not, prince?” “Why do you say nothing, cousin?” the eldest princess suddenly screeched so loudly that they heard it in the drawing room and took fright at the sound of her voice. “Why do you say nothing, when anyone who wishes to can take it upon themselves to interfere and make scenes at the door of a dying man’s room? Schemer!” she whispered venomously and tugged on the document case with all her strength, but Anna Mikhailovna took a few steps forward in order not to be separated from the case and renewed her grip. “Oh!” said Prince Vasily in reproachful amazement. He stood up. “This is absurd. Come now, let go, I tell you.” The eldest princess let go. “And you.” Anna Mikhailovna did not obey him. “Let go, I tell you. I take everything on myself. I shall go and ask him. I … enough of this from you.” “But prince, after such a great sacrament, allow him a moment’s peace. You, Pierre, tell us your opinion,” she said to the young man, who had come right up close to them and was staring in astonishment at the princess’s embittered face that had lost all decorum, and at Prince Vasily’s twitching cheeks. “Remember that you will answer for all the consequences,” Prince Vasily said severely. “You do not know what you are doing.” “Loathsome woman,” screeched the eldest princess, unexpectedly throwing herself at Anna Mikhailovna and snatching away the document case. Prince Vasily lowered his head and spread his arms in despair. At that moment the terrible door at which Pierre had been looking for so long and which had always opened so quietly, was noisily thrown wide open, banging against the wall, and the middle princess ran out fluttering her arms in the air. “What are you doing?” she said in a desperate voice. “He is dying, and you leave me alone!” The eldest princess dropped the document case. Anna Mikhailovna quickly bent down, snatched up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest princess and Prince Vasily came to their senses and followed her. The first to emerge a few minutes later was the eldest princess, her face pale and cold and her lower lip bitten. At the sight of Pierre, her face assumed an expression of irrepressible spite. “Yes, now you can rejoice,” she said, “this what you were waiting for.” Bursting into sobs, she hid her face in her handkerchief and ran out of the room. THE STRUGGLE FOR THE DOCUMENT CASE Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_ebb4c7a9-e312-534d-b1f6-2f4eaee92873) The eldest princess was followed out of the bedroom by Prince Vasily. He staggered as far as the divan on which Pierre was sitting and fell onto it, covering his eyes with his hand. Pierre noticed that he was pale and his lower jaw was jerking and shuddering feverishly. “Ah, my friend,” he said, taking Pierre by the elbow, and there was a sincerity and infirmity in his voice that Pierre had never noticed in it before. “We sin so much, we deceive so much, and all for what? I am over fifty, my friend … for me … Everything will end in death, everything. Death is terrible.” He burst into tears. Anna Mikhailovna was the last to emerge. She walked across to Pierre with slow, quiet steps. “Pierre!” she said. Pierre looked at her enquiringly. She kissed the young man on the forehead, wetting his face with her tears. She paused before speaking. “He has passed away …” Pierre looked at her through his spectacles. “Come with me, I will walk with you. Try to cry; nothing brings more relief than tears.” She led him into the dark drawing room, and Pierre was glad that no one there could see his face. Anna Mikhailovna left him there, and when she returned he was sound asleep with his head lying on his hand. The next morning Anna Mikhailovna said to Pierre: “Yes, my friend, it is a great loss for all of us, and especially for you. But God will support you, you are young and now, I hope, the owner of immense wealth. The will has not yet been opened. I know you well enough to be sure that it will not turn your head, but it imposes obligations on you, and you must be a man.” Pierre said nothing. “Afterwards perhaps I shall tell you that if I had not been there, God only knows what might have happened. You know that two days ago my uncle promised me not to forget Boris, but he had no time. I hope, my friend, that you will carry out your father’s wish.” Pierre did not understand anything and, blushing shyly, which was something that he rarely did, he stared at Anna Mikhailovna without speaking. After her talk with Pierre, Anna Mikhailovna drove back to the Rostovs’ house and went to bed. On waking in the morning, she told the Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details of Count Bezukhov’s death. She said that the count had died as she herself would wish to die, that his end was not merely touching but edifying, that she could not recall it without tears, and that she did not know who had behaved best during those terrible and solemn moments, the father, who had remembered everything and everyone in his final moments and spoken such touching words to his son, or Pierre, who had been a pitiful sight, he was so crushed, and how, despite that, he had tried to conceal his sorrow in order not to distress his dying father. “It is hard, but it is salutary; the soul is exalted when one sees such people as the old count and his worthy son,” she said. She also spoke, in disapproving terms, of the actions of the princess and Prince Vasily, but only in a whisper and as a great secret. XXXII At Bleak Hills, the estate of Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky, they were expecting the arrival of the young Prince Andrei and his princess any day, but this anticipation did not disrupt the strict order which life followed in the home of the old prince. Ever since he had been exiled to the country under Tsar Paul, General-in-Chief Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky, known in society as the King of Prussia, had never left Bleak Hills, living there with his daughter, Princess Marya, and her companion Mademoiselle Bourienne. Even during the present reign, although he had been granted permission to enter the two capitals, he had continued to live in the country without leaving it once, saying that if anybody needed him, then that person would have to travel the one hundred and fifty versts to Bleak Hills, but he had no need of anyone or anything. There were, he would say, only two sources of human vice: idleness and superstition; and only two virtues: activity and intelligence. He conducted his daughter’s education himself and, in order to develop in her both of the principal virtues, until the age of twenty he gave her lessons in algebra and arranged her entire life in a pattern of ceaseless study. He himself was constantly occupied either with writing his memoirs, or calculations from higher mathematics, or turning snuffboxes on a lathe, or working in the garden and supervising the construction projects which went on unceasingly on his estate, or reading his favourite authors. Since the primary condition of effective activity is order, in his life order was also carried to the ultimate degree of precision. His appearances at table were all made under the same unvarying conditions, not just at the same hour, but the same minute. With the people who surrounded him, from his daughter to the servants, the prince was brusque and unvaryingly demanding and therefore, not being cruel, he inspired fear and respect such as not even the most cruel of men could have easily commanded. Despite the fact that he was retired and now had no influence in affairs of state, every high official in the province where the prince’s estate lay regarded it as his duty to report to him and, just like the architect, the gardener and Princess Marya, waited for the appointed hour of the prince’s appearance in the high-ceilinged waiting room. Everyone in that waiting room experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear at that moment when the enormous, tall door of the study opened and the old man’s short figure appeared in that powdered wig, with those small, dry hands and grey, beetling brows which sometimes, when he scowled, veiled the bright gleam in his intelligent and youthful-looking eyes. On the morning of the day of the young couple’s arrival, Princess Marya, following her custom, entered the footman’s room at the usual time for the morning salutation, crossing herself fearfully and inwardly reciting a prayer. Every day she went in and every day she prayed for this daily meeting to pass successfully. The powdered old manservant sitting in the footman’s room rose quietly to his feet and declared in a whisper: “If you please!” From behind the door she could hear the regular sounds of a lathe. The princess timidly tugged at the door, which always opened easily and smoothly, and stopped in the doorway. The prince was working at the lathe and, after glancing round, he continued with what he was doing. The huge study was filled with things that were obviously in constant use. The large desk with books and maps lying on it, the tall glazed bookcases of the library with keys in their doors, the marble table for writing in a standing position, with an open notebook lying on it, the turner’s lathe with the tools laid out and wood shavings scattered around it – everything evinced constant, varied and ordered activity. The movements of the small foot shod in a Tatar boot sewn with silver thread and the firm pressure of the lean, sinewy hand betrayed in the prince the strength of fresh old age, still stubborn and capable of great endurance. After making a few more turns, he removed his foot from the pedal of the lathe, wiped off his chisel, dropped it into a leather pocket attached to the lathe, went over to the desk and called his daughter to him. He never blessed his children and, after presenting her with his stubbly cheek, still unshaven that day, he merely said, looking her over severely and yet at the same time with attentive affection: “Are you well? Well then, sit down!” (As always, he spoke curtly and abruptly, opening the geometry notebook written in his own hand and moving his armchair up with his foot.) “For tomorrow!” he said, rapidly locating the right page and marking from one paragraph to another with his tough nail. The princess bent down over the notebook on the table. “Wait, there’s a letter for you,” the old man said suddenly, taking an envelope written in a woman’s hand out of a pocket fixed above the desk and tossing it onto the desk. Blotches of red covered the princess’s face at the sight of the letter. She hastily took it and bent over it. “From H?loise?” the prince asked, his cold smile revealing teeth that were still sound, but gapped and yellowed. “Yes, from Julie Akhrosimova,” said the princess, with a timid glance and a timid smile. “I shall let two more letters through, but I shall read the third one,” the prince said strictly, “I fear you are writing a lot of drivel. I shall read the third one.” “Read this one if you wish, father,” replied the princess, blushing even more intensely and offering him the letter. “The third one I said, the third one,” the prince shouted curtly, pushing the letter away. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he pulled across the notebook with the geometry diagrams. “Well now, my lady,” the old man began, bending down close to his daughter and placing one hand on the back of the chair in which the princess was sitting, so that the princess felt herself enveloped on all sides by her father’s long-familiar acrid scent of tobacco and old age. “Well now, my lady, these triangles are congruent: be so good as to show me the angle abc…” The princess glanced in fright at her father’s gleaming eyes, so close to her: red blotches flooded across her face and it was clear that she did not understand anything and was so afraid that her fear would prevent her from understanding all of her father’s subsequent explanations, no matter how clear they might be. Whether the teacher was at fault or the pupil, every day the same scene was repeated: everything blurred in front of the princess’s eyes, she could not see anything, she could not hear anything, she could only feel her strict father’s dry, stern face beside her, feel his breath and his smell and only think about getting out of the study as quickly as possible and mastering the problem in the calm freedom of her own room. The old man lost his temper: he scraped the chair on which he was sitting away from the desk and then back towards it again, trying to control himself and not fly into a passion, yet almost every time he did fly into a passion, upbraiding her and sometimes flinging the notebook away. The princess gave the wrong answer. “Well, what a fool you are!” cried the prince pushing the notebook aside and turning away sharply: but he immediately rose to his feet, strode up and down, touched the princess’s hair with his hands and sat down again. He moved his chair up closer to the desk and continued his exposition in a forcibly restrained voice. “This will not do from you, princess,” he said as the princess, having picked up the notebook with the set lessons and closed it, was preparing to leave. “Mathematics is a great matter, my lady. And I do not want you to be like our stupid young ladies, I do not want that. You will enjoy it when you get used to it.” He patted her on the cheek. “You’ll forget all about this foolishness.” She was about to go out, but he stopped her with a gesture and took a new book with uncut pages off the tall table. THE MATHS LESSON Wood engraving by K.I. Rikhai after the drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1866 (#ulink_658a7392-5823-522f-9d9b-d05b33341d7e) “And here we have a certain Key to the Sacrament which your H?loise sends you. Religious. But I don’t interfere in anybody’s faith. I’ve looked it through. Take it. Right, off you go, off you go!” He patted her on the cheek and locked the door behind her himself. XXXIII Princess Marya went back to her room with the sad, frightened expression which rarely left her and made her unlovely, unhealthy face even less lovely, and sat down at her writing desk, adorned with miniature portraits and cluttered with notebooks and books. The princess was as disorganised as her father was organised. She put the geometry notebook down and impatiently unsealed the letter. Though she was not yet reading, but merely weighing, as it were, the pleasure to come, as she turned over the small pages of the letter her face was transformed; she became visibly calmer, she sat in her favourite armchair in the corner of the room, beside an immense pier glass, and began reading. The letter was from the princess’s closest friend since her childhood: this friend was that same Julie Akhrosimova who had been at the name-day celebrations at the Rostovs’ house. Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova’s estate bordered on Prince Bolkonsky’s and she spent two months of the summer in the country. The prince respected Marya Dmitrievna, although he made fun of her. Marya Dmitrievna addressed nobody but the prince with formal politeness, and she held him up as an example to all modern-day people. Julie wrote as follows: Ch?re et excellente amie. What a fearful and terrible thing separation is! However much I try to tell myself that half of my existence and my happiness lies in you, that despite the distance that separates us, the bonds that unite our hearts are indissoluble, my heart revolts against fate and, for all the pleasures and distractions by which I am surrounded, I cannot suppress a certain secret sadness that I have felt in the depths of my heart since the time of our separation. Why are we not together, like last summer, in our large study, on the blue divan, on the divan of ‘confessions’? Why can I not, as I did three months ago, draw new moral strength from your glance, so gentle, calm and astute, which I loved so much and which I see before me as I write to you? Having read to this point, Princess Marya sighed and glanced round into the pier glass that stood on her right. The mirror reflected her unlovely, weak body and thin face. The eyes, always sad, now regarded themselves in the mirror with especial hopelessness. “She is flattering me,” the princess thought, then turned away and continued reading. Julie, however, was not flattering her friend: the princess’s eyes, large, deep and radiant (sometimes it seemed as if beams of warm light radiated from them), really were so fine that very often, despite the plainness of all the rest of her face, these eyes became more alluring than beauty itself. But the princess had never seen the fine expression of her eyes, the expression that they assumed in those moments when she was not thinking about herself. Her face, like everybody else’s, assumed an artificial, unnatural, foolish expression whenever it looked at itself in the mirror. She continued reading: The whole of Moscow is talking of nothing but the war. One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are on the march to the border. Our dear sovereign is leaving St. Petersburg, and it is assumed that he intends to expose his own precious life to the fortunes of war. God grant that the ogre of Corsica who is subverting the order of Europe may be overthrown by the angel whom the Almighty in His mercy has set over us as our ruler. In addition to my brothers, this war has also deprived me of one of the connections that lie closest to my heart. I speak of the young Nikolai Rostov, who in his enthusiasm was unable to endure inaction and left the university in order to join the army. I confess to you, dear Marya, that despite his extreme youth, his departure for the army was a great sorrow for me. This young man, about whom I spoke to you last summer, has in him so much of the nobility and genuine youthful valour that one encounters so rarely in our times among the old men of twenty. In particular, he has such an open and feeling heart. He is so pure and full of poetry that my relations with him, for all their fleeting nature, have been one of the sweetest consolations of my own poor heart, which has already suffered so much. I will tell you some time about our parting and all that was said at that parting. It is all still too fresh … Ah! my dear friend, you are fortunate not to know these scalding delights, these scalding sorrows. You are fortunate because the latter are ordinarily stronger than the former. I know very well that Count Nikolai is too young to become anything other than a friend to me. But this sweet friendship, these relations that are so poetic and so pure, have been my heart’s necessity. But enough of that. The main news with which the whole of Moscow is occupied is the death of old Count Bezukhov and his legacy. Can you believe that the three princesses received some mere trifle, Prince Vasily received nothing at all and Pierre is the heir to everything and, in addition, has actually been declared a legitimate son and therefore Count Bezukhov and the owner of the largest fortune in Russia! They say that Prince Vasily played a quite disgusting role in this whole business and that he departed for St. Petersburg in a state of great confusion. I confess to you that I have a very poor understanding of all these affairs to do with last wills and testaments; I only know that since the young man whom we all knew by the simple name of Pierre became the Count Bezukhov and the owner of one of the finest fortunes in Russia, I have been amusing myself by observing the change in the tone of the mamans who have marriageable daughters and of the young ladies themselves with regard to this gentleman who, let it be said in parentheses, has always seemed to me quite insignificant. Only my maman continues to criticise him with her usual harshness. Since everyone has been amusing themselves for two years now by seeking out fianc?s for me, whom for the most part I do not even know, Moscow’s matrimonial gossip now makes me the Countess Bezukhova. But you understand that I do not desire that in the least. On the subject of marriages, do you know that recently the universal aunty, Anna Mikhailovna, confided to me in the very strictest secrecy a scheme to arrange your marriage? And to none other than Prince Vasily’s son Anatole, whom they wish to settle by marrying him to a wealthy noble spinster, and the parents’ choice has fallen on you. I do not know how you will regard this matter, but I considered it my duty to forewarn you. They say that he is very good-looking and a great hothead. That is all I was able to learn about him. But enough idle chatter. I am finishing my second page, and maman has sent for me in order to go to dinner at the Apraksins’. Read the mystical book that I am sending you. It is immensely popular here. Although there are some things in it which are hard for the feeble human intellect to comprehend, it is an excellent book, reading it calms and exalts the soul. Goodbye. My compliments to your father and my greetings to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you with all my heart. Julie P.S. Send me news of your brother and his delightful wife. The princess thought for a moment, smiling pensively, so that her face, lit up by her radiant eyes, was totally transformed, then suddenly, getting up and walking with ungainly steps across to the desk, she took out a sheet of paper and her hand began moving across it rapidly. This is what she wrote in reply: Ch?re et excellente amie. Your letter of the 13th brought me great joy. You still love me, my poetic Julie. The separation, concerning which you speak so very badly, has clearly not had its usual effect on you. You complain of separation, but what then should I say, if I but dared – I, who am deprived of all those who are dear to me? Ah, if we did not have religion to console us, life would indeed be dismal. Why do you attribute such a strict view to me when you speak of your weakness for a young man? In that regard I am strict only with myself. I know myself sufficiently well to understand completely that, without making myself ridiculous, I cannot experience those feelings of love which seem so sweet to you. I understand these feelings in others and although, never having experienced them, I cannot approve, neither do I condemn them. It only seems to me that Christian love, love for one’s neighbour, love for one’s enemies, is more worthy, sweeter and finer than those feelings which can be inspired by the beautiful eyes of a young man in a poetic and loving young girl such as you. News of the death of Count Bezukhov reached us before your letter and my father was very affected by it. He said he was the penultimate representative of a great age, and that now it was his turn, but he would do everything in his power to ensure that his turn came as late as possible. May God preserve us from that misfortune. I cannot share your opinion of Pierre, whom I knew as a child. It seemed to me that he always had a beautiful heart, and that is the quality which I value most highly in people. As for his inheritance and the role that was played in it by Prince Vasily, it is all very sad for both of them. Ah, my dear friend, the words of our dear Saviour that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven – those words are terribly just. I pity Prince Vasily, and Pierre even more. That such a young man should be burdened with such a huge fortune – the number of temptations that he will have to endure! If I were asked what I desire above all else in the world, then I desire to be poorer than the poorest of beggars. I thank you a thousand times, my dear friend, for the book you have sent me, and which is creating such a stir in Moscow. However, since you tell me that among the many good things it contains there are some that the feeble human intellect cannot fathom, it seems to me superfluous to engage in incomprehensible reading, which for that very reason could not be of any benefit. I have never been able to understand the passion that certain individuals have for confusing their own thoughts by their attachment to mystical books which merely provoke doubts in their minds, and inflame their imaginations, lending them an exaggerated character entirely contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the Apostles and the Gospel. Let us not attempt to fathom the mystical content of these books, for how can we, pitiful sinners, know the terrible and sacred mysteries of Providence while we are still prisoners of the fleshly integument that erects an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us rather limit ourselves to the study of the great laws which our Heavenly Saviour left to us for our guidance here on earth, let us try to follow them and try to realise that the less we allow our intellect to roam at will, the more pleasing we shall be to God, who rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him, and that the less we delve into that which He has preferred to conceal from us, the sooner He will grant us this revelation through his own divine reason. My father has said nothing to me about a bridegroom, he has said only that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasily; as far as marriage plans involving myself are concerned, I must tell you, my dear, inestimable friend, that in my opinion marriage is a divine institution to which one should submit. No matter how hard it might be for me, if it should please the Almighty to impose on me the obligations of a wife and a mother, I shall endeavour to fulfil them as faithfully as I can, with no concern for the study of my own feelings regarding the one whom He shall give me for a husband. I have received a letter from my brother which notifies me of his arrival in Bleak Hills, together with his wife. This joy will be short-lived, since he is leaving us in order to take part in this war, into which we have been drawn, God only knows how or why. The echoes of war are not only heard where you are, at the centre of affairs and society, they are heard and make themselves painfully felt here too, among the agrarian labours and peace and quiet that townspeople usually imagine in the country. My father talks of nothing but campaigns and marches, of which I understand nothing, and two days ago, as I was taking my usual stroll along the village street, I saw a heart-rending scene. It was a party of recruits, enlisted from among our peasants, being sent to the army. If you could have seen the state of the mothers, wives and children of those who were leaving, and heard the sobbing and wailing on both sides. Well might one think that humanity has forgotten the laws of its Heavenly Saviour, who taught us love and forgiveness, and that it believes the greatest virtue lies in the art of killing others. Goodbye, my dear, kind friend. May our Heavenly Saviour and his most Holy Mother preserve and keep you under their holy and mighty protection. Marya. “Ah, you send your letter, princess, I have already sent mine. I wrote to my poor mother,” the ever-smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne said in her rapid and pleasant voice, burring her r’s and introducing an entirely different, frivolously cheerful and complacent world into the aura of bleak, introspective melancholy surrounding Princess Marya. “I must warn you, princess,” she added, lowering her voice, “that the prince has quarrelled with Mikhail Ivanovich.” Burring her r’s with especial vigour and listening to herself with pleasure, she said, “He is very much out of sorts, so gloomy. I warn you, you know …” “Oh, no, no,” replied Princess Marya. “I asked you never to tell me what mood my father is in. I do not permit myself to judge him, and I would not wish others to judge him either.” The princess glanced at the clock and, noticing that she had already missed five minutes of the time that she should have been using to play the clavichord, she set off with a frightened air to the sitting room. Between twelve and two o’clock, in accordance with the established daily routine, the prince rested and the princess played the clavichord. XXXIV The grey-haired valet was dozing in his chair, listening to the count snoring in the huge study. From behind closed doors at the far side of the house, came the sounds of difficult passages, repeated for the twentieth time, in a sonata by Dussek. At this moment a carriage and a britzka drove up to the porch and Prince Andrei got out of the carriage, helping his little wife out politely but coldly, as always, and letting her go ahead of him. Grey-haired Tikhon, wearing a wig, stuck his head out of the door of the footman’s room, announced in a whisper that the prince was resting and hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that neither the arrival of the son of the house nor any other unusual events could be allowed to disrupt the daily routine. Prince Andrei clearly knew this quite as well as Tikhon; he looked at his watch, as if to check whether his father’s habits had changed since the last time he had seen him and, having ascertained that they had not, he addressed his wife. “He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go through to Princess Marya,” he said. The little princess had changed in the time that had elapsed. The bulge of her waist had become significantly larger, she bent further backwards now and had become extremely fat, but her eyes were still bright and her short, smiling lip with the faint moustache lifted just as merrily and endearingly when she spoke. “But this is a palace!” she said to her husband, looking around with the expression worn by people offering praise to the host at a ball. “Let’s go, come on, come on.” Looking around, she smiled at Tikhon and her husband and the footman showing them the way. “Is that Marie playing? Quiet, let us take her by surprise.” Prince Andrei followed her with a courteous, sad expression. “You have grown old, Tikhon,” he said as he walked past the old man, who kissed his hand, which he wiped with a fine lawn handkerchief. Just before the room from which they could hear the sound of the clavichord, a pretty blonde Frenchwoman skipped out of a side door. Mademoiselle Bourienne seemed quite beside herself with delight. “Ah, what a joy for the princess,” she said to them. “At last, I must let her know.” “No, no, please … You are Mademoiselle Bourienne; I am already acquainted with you from the friendship that my sister-in-law feels for you,” said the little princess, kissing the Frenchwoman. “She is not expecting us.” They approached the door of the divan room, from behind which they could hear the same passage being repeated over and over again. Prince Andrei stopped and frowned, as though in anticipation of something unpleasant. Princess Lise went in. The passage broke off in the middle, there was a cry, Princess Marya’s heavy footsteps and the sounds of kissing and muffled voices. When Prince Andrei went in, his wife and his sister, who had only seen each other once for a short time during Prince Andrei’s wedding, were clasped tightly in each other’s arms, still pressing their lips to the same spots which they had found in that first moment. Mademoiselle Bourienne was standing beside them, pressing her hands to her heart and smiling devoutly, obviously equally prepared either to burst into tears or burst out laughing. Prince Andrei shrugged and frowned, in the way that lovers of music frown when they hear a false note. The two women released each other and then once again, as though afraid of missing their chance, they grabbed each other by the hands, began kissing each other’s hands and pulling their own away, and then again began kissing each other on the face and then, to Prince Andrei’s absolute astonishment, they both burst into tears and started hugging and kissing each other again. Mademoiselle Bourienne burst into tears too. Prince Andrei obviously felt awkward and embarrassed, but to the two women it seemed quite natural that they should be crying, they seemed never to have imagined that this meeting could have taken place in any other way. “Ah, my dear! Ah, Marie.” Both women suddenly started talking at once and burst into laughter. “I had a dream …” – “So you were not expecting us? Ah, Marie, you have grown so thin …” – “And you have put on so much weight …” “I recognised the princess immediately,” interjected Mademoiselle Bourienne. “And I never even suspected,” exclaimed Princess Marya. “Ah, Andrei, I didn’t even see you there.” Prince Andrei and his sister kissed, hand in hand, and he told her that she was the same old cry-baby that she always used to be. Through her tears, Princess Marya turned on her brother the warm, loving, gentle gaze of her large, radiant eyes, so lovely at that moment that his sister, always so plain, seemed beautiful to him. But that very instant she turned back to her sister-in-law and began squeezing her hand without speaking. Princess Lise spoke incessantly. Every now and then her short upper lip with the light moustache flew down for an instant, touched the right spot on the rosy-pink lower lip and then once again her smile was revealed in a bright gleam of teeth and eyes. She related an incident that had happened to them on Mtsensk Mountain, which could have proved dangerous in her condition, and then immediately announced that she had left all her dresses behind in St. Petersburg and God only knew what she would wear here, and that Andrei had changed completely, and that Kitty Odyntsova had married an old man, and that there was a perfectly serious suitor for Princess Marya, but they would talk about that later. Princess Marya was still staring silently at her brother’s wife and her lovely eyes were filled with both love and sadness, as if she pitied this young woman but could not express to her the reason for her pity. She was clearly caught up in her own train of thought now, independently of what her sister-in-law was saying. In the middle of Lise’s account of the latest festivities in St. Petersburg, Princess Marya turned to her brother. “And are you definitely going to the war, Andrei?” she said with a sigh. Lise sighed too. “Tomorrow, in fact,” Marya’s brother replied. “He is abandoning me here, and God only knows why, when he could have had a promotion …” Princess Marya did not hear her out and, still following the thread of her own thought, she indicated her sister-in-law’s belly with an affectionate glance and asked: “Will it be soon now?” The little princess’s face changed. She sighed. “Two months,” she said. “And you are not afraid?” asked Princess Marya, kissing her again. Prince Andrei winced at this question. Lise’s lip moved down. She moved her face close to her sister-in-law’s and suddenly burst into tears again. “She needs to rest,” said Prince Andrei. “Don’t you, Lise? Take her to your room, and I shall go to father. How is he, still the same?” “The same, the very same, I do not know how you will find him,” the princess replied happily. “The same routine, and the walks along the avenues? The lathe?” asked Prince Andrei with a barely perceptible smile, indicating that, much as he loved and respected his father, he understood his weaknesses. “The same routine, and the lathe, and still mathematics and my geometry lessons,” Princess Marya replied happily, as though her lessons in geometry were one of the most joyful memories of her life. XXXV When the twenty minutes remaining until the time for the old prince to rise had elapsed, Tikhon came to announce the young prince to his father. The old man made an exception to his regular habits in honour of his son’s arrival: he ordered him to be admitted while he was dressing for dinner. The prince dressed in the old style, in a kaftan with powdered hair. As Prince Andrei entered his father’s apartments – not with the peevish expression and manners that he affected in society drawing rooms, but with the animated face that he wore when he was talking with Pierre – the old man was sitting in his dressing room on a broad armchair upholstered in morocco leather, wearing a dressing gown and presenting his head to Tikhon’s hands. “Ah! The soldier! So you want to conquer Bonaparte?” That was how the old man greeted his son. He shook his powdered head, as far as the plait being woven by Tikhon’s hands would allow it. “Make sure you set about him well, or he’ll soon be listing us among his subjects. Greetings.” And he proffered his cheek. The old man was in a good mood following his nap before dinner. (He said that sleep after dinner was silver, but sleep before dinner was golden.) He peered happily at his son from under his thick, beetling brows. Prince Andrei approached his father and kissed him on the spot he indicated. He did not respond to his father’s favourite topic of conversation – poking fun at modern military men, and especially at Bonaparte. “Yes, I have come to see you, father, and with a pregnant wife,” said Prince Andrei, following the movement of every feature of his father’s face with eager eyes full of respect. “How is your health?” “The only people who are unwell, brother, are fools and profligates, and you know me, busy from morning till night, abstemious, so I am well.” “Thank God,” said his son, smiling. “God has nothing to do with it. Well now, tell me,” he continued, returning to his favourite hobby-horse, “how the Germans and Bonaparte have taught you to fight according to this new science of yours that they call strategy.” Prince Andrei smiled. “Allow me to gather my wits, father,” he said with a smile which showed that his father’s weaknesses did not prevent him from respecting and loving him. “I’ve not even settled in yet.” “Lies, lies,” cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to see whether it was firmly plaited and grabbing his son by the arm. “The house is all ready for your wife. Princess Marya will show her around and chatter away nineteen to the dozen. That is their womanish business. I am glad she is here. Sit down, talk to me. Mikhelson’s army I can understand. Tolstoy’s too … a simultaneous expedition … But what is the southern army going to do? Prussia, neutrality … that I know. But what of Austria?” He talked on in this way, rising from his armchair and walking around the room with Tikhon chasing after him and handing him articles of clothing. “And what about Switzerland? How will they cross Pomerania?” Prince Andrei, seeing the urgency of his father’s demands, began expounding the plan of operations for the proposed campaign, unwillingly at first, but then growing ever more animated and from force of habit unwittingly switching over from Russian to French in the middle of his narrative. He told his father how an army of ninety thousand was to threaten Prussia in order to draw her out of neutrality and involve her in the war, how a part of these forces was to combine with the Swedish forces at Strahlsund, how two hundred and twenty thousand Austrians in combination with a hundred thousand Russians were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine, how fifty thousand Russians and fifty thousand English would land in Naples, and how in the end an army of five hundred thousand was to attack the French from all sides. The old prince showed not the slightest interest in this account, as if he were not listening, continuing to dress himself as he walked, but he interrupted it unexpectedly three times. Once he halted it by shouting: “White, the white one!” This meant that Tikhon had not handed him the waistcoat he wanted. The second time he halted it by asking: “Will she have the child soon?” And on being told in reply that it would be soon, he shook his head reproachfully and said: “Not good! Carry on, carry on.” The third time, as Prince Andrei was concluding his description, the old man began singing in an old man’s voice, out of tune: “Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra.” His son only smiled. “I don’t say this is a plan of which I approve,” said the son, “I have only told you what is the case. Napoleon has already drawn up his own plan, no worse than this one.” “Well, you have not told me anything new.” And he muttered rapidly and pensively to himself: “God knows when he’ll come back.” “Go to the dining room.” Prince Andrei went out. Father and son had not spoken at all about their own affairs. At the appointed hour the prince, powdered, fresh and shaved, entered the dining room, where his daughter-in-law, Princess Marya, Mademoiselle Bourienne and the prince’s architect were waiting for him. By a strange whim of the prince, the architect was allowed at the table, although according to his station this insignificant individual could not possibly have expected any such honour. The prince, who in his life firmly maintained the distinctions between the various estates and rarely allowed even important provincial officials to join him at table, had suddenly decided to use the architect Mikhail Ivanovich, who was blowing his nose into a checked handkerchief in the corner, to demonstrate that all people are equal, and repeatedly impressed on his daughter that Mikhail Ivanovich was in no way inferior to either of them. At table, when he expounded his sometimes strange ideas, it was to the tongue-tied Mikhail Ivanovich that he appealed most often. In the dining room, as immense and high-ceilinged as all the rooms in the house, the prince’s entrance was awaited by the members of the household and the footmen standing behind each chair: the butler, with a napkin over his arm, surveyed the table setting and winked at the menservants, his agitated gaze constantly flitting from the wall clock to the door through which the prince was due to appear. Prince Andrei looked at the huge gold frame, which was new to him, containing a chart of the genealogical tree of the princes Bolkonsky, which was hung opposite an equally huge frame with a badly painted depiction (evidently by the hand of a household artist) of a crowned prince, who was supposed to have been a descendant of Riurik and the founder of the Bolkonsky line. Prince Andrei looked at this genealogical tree, shaking his head and laughing, in the manner in which people gaze at a portrait that is funny because it is such a good likeness. “How clearly I recognise him in all of this,” he said to Princess Marya, who had come over to him. Princess Marya looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand what he was smiling at. Everything that their father did inspired in her a respect that was not subject to discussion. “Everyone has his own Achilles’ heel,” Prince Andrei continued. “With his immense intelligence, to give way to such triviality!” To Princess Marya the audacity of her brother’s judgement was incomprehensible and she was preparing to protest, when the anticipated footfalls were heard from the study; the prince entered briskly, as he always did, elated and in disarray as though deliberately representing in his hastiness the antithesis of the strict order of the house. At that very moment the large clock struck two and another clock responded in a thin voice from the drawing room; the prince halted and, from beneath the dense, beetling brows, his animated, glittering, stern eyes surveyed them all and came to rest on the young Princess Lise. At that moment the young princess experienced the same feeling that is experienced by courtiers at the entrance of the Tsar, the feeling of fear and respect which this old man inspired in everyone close to him. He stroked the princess’s hair and then patted the back of her head with a movement that was clumsy, but to which she felt herself obliged to submit. “I am glad, very glad,” he said and, glancing keenly into her eyes once again, he walked quickly away and sat in his place. “Sit down! Sit down! Mikhail Ivanovich, sit down!” He indicated the place beside himself to his daughter-in-law and a footman moved the chair out for her. In her pregnant condition the space was cramped. “Oho!” said the old man, surveying her rounded waist. “You were in a hurry, that’s not good.” He gave a dry, cold, disagreeable laugh, the way he always laughed, with his mouth alone and not his eyes. “You need to walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,” he said. The little princess did not hear, or did not want to hear, what he said. She said nothing and seemed embarrassed. The prince asked her about her father, and the princess began speaking and smiled. He asked her about acquaintances that they had in common, the princess brightened up even more and began to tell him about them, conveying greetings to the prince and relating the town gossip. As soon as the conversation touched on things that had happened, the princess became visibly more at ease. “Princess Apraksina, the poor thing, lost her husband and cried her eyes out,” she said, growing more and more animated. As she became ever more animated, the prince regarded her ever more severely, and suddenly, as though he had now studied her sufficiently and formed a clear impression of her, he turned away and addressed Mikhail Ivanovich. XXXVI “Well now, Mikhail Ivanovich, our Buonaparte is having a hard time of it. From what Prince Andrei” (he always referred to his son in this way in the third person) “has told me, huge forces are gathering against him! Yet you and I have always considered him an insignificant individual.” Mikhail Ivanovich, who quite definitely did not know when you and I had said any such thing about Bonaparte, but realised that he was necessary for the preamble to this favourite topic of discussion, glanced in surprise at the young prince, wondering to himself what would come of this. “I have a great tactician here!” the prince said to his son, indicating the architect, and the conversation moved on to Bonaparte and the modern-day generals and statesmen. The old prince seemed convinced, not only that all the current public figures were mere boys with no grasp of the essentials of either warfare or statecraft, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant little Frenchman, who was only successful because there were no Potemkins and Suvorovs to oppose him; he was even convinced there were not really any political troubles in Europe, nor any war either, but that there was a comic puppet play of some kind being acted out by modern-day people pretending that they were doing something serious. Prince Andrei cheerfully endured his father’s jibes at the new men, challenging his father to discussion and listening to him with evident pleasure. “Everything from the old times may seem so fine,” he said, “but did not that same Suvorov fall into a trap set for him by Moreau and was he not unable to get out of it?” “Who told you that? Who told you?” cried the prince. “Suvorov!” And he swept aside his plate, which Tikhon deftly caught. “Suvorov!… Two of them, Friedrich and Suvorov … Moreau! Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvorov had had a free hand, but he had the Hofskriegswurstschnappsrat sitting on his hands. You go and you’ll recognise those Hofskriegswurstrats soon enough. Suvorov couldn’t best them, so how will Mikhailo Kutuzov cope? No, my friend,” he continued, “you and your generals can’t manage against Bonaparte, you have to get in a Frenchman, you set a thief to catch a thief. They’ve sent the German Pahlen to New York, to America, to get the Frenchman Moreau,” he said, alluding to the invitation that had been sent that year to Moreau to enter service with the Russians. “Wonderful! Tell me, were the Potemkins, Suvorovs and Orlovs all Germans, then? I tell you, brother, either all of you up there have lost your minds or I’m so old that I’ve lost mine. May God be with you, but we shall see. Bonaparte’s a great general for them now! Hm! “Mikhail Ivanych!” the old prince cried to the architect, who was setting about his entr?e in the hope they had forgotten about him. “Didn’t I tell you that Bonaparte was a great tactician? He says so too.” “But of course, your excellency,” replied the architect. The prince laughed his cold laugh once again. “Bonaparte was born under a lucky star. He has excellent soldiers. That’s all.” And the prince began analysing all the mistakes which, in his opinion, Bonaparte had made in all his wars, and even in affairs of state. His son did not object, but it was clear that, no matter what arguments might be presented to him, he was as little capable of changing his opinion as the old prince. Prince Andrei listened, suppressing his objections and marvelling, despite himself, at how this old man who had spent all these years alone out in the countryside could know all the military and political affairs of Europe in recent years in such great detail, and discuss them with such subtlety. “Do you think I am an old man and do not understand the present state of affairs?” said the prince in conclusion. “I have it all right here. I don’t sleep for nights at a time. Well, where is this great general of yours, where has he shown his mastery?” “That would be a long story,” his son replied. “Off you go to your Buonoparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, here is one more admirer of your lackey-emperor,” he shouted in excellent French. “You know, prince, that I am not a Bonapartist.” “‘God knows when he’ll be back …’,” the prince sang out of tune, and laughed on an even falser note as he got up from the table. Throughout the argument and the rest of dinner the little princess said nothing, but from time to time she glanced in fright, now at Princess Marya, now at her father-in-law. When they got up from the table, she took her sister-in-law by the hand and drew her into the next room. “What a clever man your father is,” she said. “Perhaps that is why I am afraid of him.” “Ah, but he is so kind!” said Princess Marya. XXXVII Prince Andrei was leaving in the evening of the next day. The old prince, not deviating from his routine, had gone to his own quarters after dinner. The little princess was with her sister-in-law. Prince Andrei, wearing a travelling frock coat without epaulettes, had packed with his valet in the rooms allocated to him. Having personally inspected the carriage and the packing of the trunks, he ordered them to be loaded. The only things left in the room were those that Prince Andrei always carried with him: a travelling casket, a large silver wine-case, two Turkish pistols and a sabre, a present from his father that had been brought from the Ochakov campaign. Prince Andrei’s travelling accessories were all in excellent order: everything was new and clean, packed in cloth covers and carefully tied with string. At moments of departure and change in their lives, people who are capable of reflecting on their actions are usually plunged into a serious state of mind. At such moments the past is usually reviewed and plans for the future are made. Prince Andrei’s expression was very pensive and tender. With his hands set behind his back, swinging round each time in a natural gesture untypical of him, he was striding quickly back and forth from corner to corner across the room, gazing straight ahead and shaking his head thoughtfully. Was he afraid of going to war, or sad at leaving his wife? Perhaps both? However, clearly not wishing to be seen in such a state, he halted when he heard footsteps in the passage, hastily unclasped his hands and stood by the table, as if he were tying on the lid of his casket, and assumed his perennial calm and impenetrable expression. They were the heavy footsteps of Princess Marya. “They told me you had ordered the luggage to be loaded,” she said, panting (she had evidently been running), “and I wanted so much to have another talk with you alone. God only knows for how long we are parting yet again. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so greatly, Andriusha,” she added, as though in explanation of her question. She smiled as she pronounced the word “Andriusha”. She clearly found it strange to think that this stern, handsome man was the same little boy Andriusha, the curly-headed, mischievous companion of her childhood. “But where is Lise?” he asked. “She was so tired, she fell asleep on the sofa in my room. Andrei! What a treasure your wife is,” she said, sitting on the divan facing her brother. “She is a perfect child, such a darling, cheerful child. I have quite fallen in love with her.” Prince Andrei said nothing, but the princess noticed the ironic and disdainful expression that appeared on his face. “But one must be tolerant of little weaknesses; who does not have them, Andrei? Do not forget that she was educated and grew up in high society. And then her present situation now is far from rosy. One must always put oneself in the other person’s place. To understand all is to forgive all. How do you think the poor thing feels, after the life to which she is accustomed, parting with her husband and being left alone in the country, and in her condition? It is very hard.” Prince Andrei smiled, looking at his sister, as we smile when listening to people whom we think we can see through. “You live in the country and you do not find this life so terrible,” he said. “I am a different case. What is the point of talking about me? I do not want any other life, I cannot want it, because I do not know any other life. But Andrei, think what it means for a young society woman to be buried in the country for the best years of her life, alone, because dear papa is always occupied and I … you know me … how meagre my interests are for a woman accustomed to the best society. Madame Bourienne is the only …” “I greatly dislike her, your Bourienne,” said Prince Andrei. “Oh no, she is very good and kind and, above all, to be pitied. She has no one, no one at all. To tell the truth, not only do I not need her, she is an inconvenience. You know I have always been solitary, and now more so than ever. I like to be alone … Father likes her very much. She and Mikhail Ivanich are the two people with whom he is always kind and gentle, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: ‘We don’t love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them.’ Father found her as an orphan in the street, and she is very good-natured. Father loves the way she reads, and she reads aloud to him in the evenings. She reads beautifully.” “But tell me truly, Marya, I think you must sometimes find father’s character hard to bear?” “I? I? What should I wish for?” she said, evidently speaking from the heart. “He has always been brusque, and now he is becoming rather difficult, I think,” said Prince Andrei, clearly in order to bewilder or test his sister by speaking of their father so lightly. “You have so many good points, Andrei, but you have a certain pride of intellect,” said the princess, as always following the train of her own thoughts rather than the course of the conversation, “and that is a great sin. How can we possibly judge our father? And even if it were possible, then what feeling, apart from profound respect, can a man such as our father inspire? I am so content and happy with him. My only wish would be for you all to be as happy as I am.” Her brother shook his head mistrustfully. “The one thing that I do find hard – I will tell you truly, Andrei – is father’s way of thinking where religion is concerned. I don’t understand how a man of such immense intelligence can fail to see what is as clear as day and can go so far astray! This is my only unhappiness. But even here I have recently seen some improvement. Lately his jibes have been less barbed, and he has received one particular monk and spent a long time talking with him.” “Well, I fear that you and the monk are wasting your efforts, Masha,” Prince Andrei said mockingly but affectionately. “Ah, mon ami! I only pray to God and hope that he will hear me. Andrei!” she said timidly after a moment of silence. “I have something very important to ask you.” “What, my dear?” “No, promise you won’t refuse. It will give you no trouble at all and is in no way unworthy of you. You will simply console me. Promise, Andriusha,” she said, thrusting her hand into her reticule and grasping something inside without withdrawing it, as though this something that she held was the object of her request and could not be revealed until she had received his promise to fulfil her request. She looked at her brother with a timid, imploring expression. “Even if it were a lot of trouble …” Prince Andrei replied, as if he could guess what it was all about. “You think what you like. I know you’re just the same as father. Think what you like, but do this for me. Do it, please! Father’s father, our grandfather, wore it in all the wars.” She still did not take the thing she was holding out of her reticule. “Well, do you promise me?” “Of course, but what is the problem?” “Andrei, I shall bless you with the icon, and you must promise me that you will never take it off. Do you promise?” “So long as it doesn’t weigh two poods and won’t sprain my neck. Anything to please you,” said Prince Andrei but, instantly noticing the sorrowful expression that his sister’s face had assumed at his jest, he repented. “I shall be very glad, truly, very glad, my dear friend,” he added. “Against your will He will save you and spare you and turn you to Him, because in Him alone lie both truth and peace,” she said in a voice trembling with feeling, solemnly holding up in front of her brother with both hands a little old oval icon of the Saviour with a dark face, set in a silver riza and hung on a finely worked little silver chain. She crossed herself, kissed the little icon and held it out to Andrei. “Please, for me …” Bright rays of kindly light shone from her timidly glowing eyes. Those radiant eyes illuminated her always sickly, thin face and made it beautiful. Andrei wanted to take the icon, but she stopped him. Andrei understood: he crossed himself and kissed the icon. At one and the same time his expression was tender (he was touched), loving, affectionate and mocking. “Thank you, my dear.” She kissed his clear, brown forehead and sat down on the divan again. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “I was telling you, Andrei, be kind and generous, as you always used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly,” she began. “She is so loving, so kind and her position now is very difficult.” “I do not believe, Masha, that I’ve ever told you I had reason to reproach my wife for anything or that I felt dissatisfied with her. Why are you saying this to me?” Princess Marya blushed in patches and fell silent, as though she felt guilty. “I have said nothing,” he went on, “but something has been said to you. And that makes me sad.” The red blotches grew even more intense on Princess Marya’s forehead, neck and cheeks. She wanted to say something, but could not utter the words. Her brother guessed. After dinner the little princess had wept, saying she had a premonition that the birth would be disastrous, that she was afraid, and she had complained of her wretched fate, her father-in-law and her husband. When the tears stopped, she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrei felt sorry for his sister. “Know one thing, Masha, there is nothing with which I can reproach my wife, I never have reproached her and never will; and there is nothing with which I can reproach myself concerning her, and it will always be so, no matter what my circumstances might be. But if you wish to know the truth … Do you wish to know if I am happy? No. Is she happy? No. Why is this? I do not know …” So saying, he got to his feet, walked over to his sister, bent down and kissed her on the forehead. The lustrous glow of her beautiful eyes was unusually pensive and kind; however, he was not looking at his sister, but over her head into the darkness of the open door. “Let us go to her, we must say goodbye. Or you go on without me, wake her up, and I will come in a moment. Petrushka!” he shouted to his valet. “Come here, take these things away. This goes on the seat, this on the right side.” Princess Marya stood up and went towards the door. She stopped. “If you had faith, you would turn to God in prayer for Him to grant you the love that you do not feel, and your prayer would be heard.” “Yes, is that so?” said Prince Andrei. “Go, Masha, I will come in a moment.” On the way to his sister’s room, in the gallery connecting one wing with the other, Prince Andrei encountered the sweetly smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne, crossing his path for the third time that day in remote passageways, with her rapturous and na?ve smile. “Ah, I thought you were in your room,” she said, for some reason blushing and lowering her pretty eyes. Prince Andrei glared hard at her. “I love this gallery, it’s so mysterious here.” An expression of bitter fury suddenly erupted on Prince Andrei’s face, as if she and her kind were to blame for some misfortune in his life. Remaining silent and avoiding her eyes, he stared at her forehead and hair, but with such disdain that the Frenchwoman blushed and walked away without a word. As he drew close to his sister’s room, the Princess Lise was already awake, and through the open door he could hear her merry little voice, hurrying out the words one after another. She was speaking as if she wanted to make up for lost time after long restraint. “Yes, just imagine, the old Countess Zubova with false curls and with false teeth, as if she were defiantly mocking the years … Ha-ha-ha.” Prince Andrei had already heard this precise phrase about the Countess Zubova and the same laugh from his wife in the company of strangers about five times. He quietly entered the room. The little princess, rotund and rosy, with her needlework in her hands, was sitting in an armchair, prattling incessantly, picking over her St. Petersburg reminiscences and running through her phrases. Prince Andrei went up to her, stroked her hair and asked if she was rested now after the journey. She made some reply and then continued with the same conversation. The coach and team of six horses were standing at the entrance. Outside it was a warm autumn night. The coachman could not see the shafts of the carriage. On the porch people were bustling about with lanterns. The large windows of the huge, beautiful house were ablaze with lights. The domestics were jostling in the lobby, wishing to say goodbye to the young prince; all the members of the household were standing in the hall: Mikhail Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Marya and Princess Lise. Prince Andrei had been called to the study by his father, who wanted to take his leave of him face to face. Everybody was waiting for them to come out. When Prince Andrei entered the study, the old prince was sitting writing at the desk in his old man’s spectacles and the white dressing gown in which he never received anyone. He glanced round. “Are you going?” And he started writing again. “I’ve come to take my leave.” “Kiss me here.” He pointed to his cheek. “Thank you, thank you.” “What are you thanking me for?” “For not putting things off, not clinging to a woman’s skirt. Duty above everything. Thank you, thank you!” And he carried on writing so that splashes of ink flew from his creaking pen. “If there is something you need to say, say it. I can do these two things at the same time,” he added. “About my wife … I already feel guilty for leaving a pregnant woman on your hands …” “Don’t tell lies. Say what you want to say.” “When the time comes for my wife to give birth, during the final days of November, send to Moscow for the accoucheur… Let him be here.” The old prince stopped what he was doing and fixed his son with a strict eye, as if he did not understand. “I know that no one can help, if nature will not,” said Prince Andrei, clearly embarrassed. “I agree that out of a million cases, only one turns out badly, but it is our fantasy, hers and mine. They have said things to her, she has seen it in a dream, and she is afraid.” “Hm … hm …” the old prince mused to himself, carrying on writing. “I will do it.” He dashed off his signature, suddenly turned quickly towards his son and laughed. “A bad business, eh?” “What is bad, father?” “The wife!” said the old prince with curt emphasis. “I do not understand,” said Prince Andrei. “But there is nothing to be done, my friend,” said the prince, “they are all like that, you can’t get unmarried again. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone, but you know it yourself.” He took hold of his son’s hand with his own bony little hand, shook it, glanced straight into his son’s face with his quick, lively eyes that seemed to see right through people, and laughed his cold laugh again. The son sighed, confessing with this sigh that his father had understood him. The old man continued folding and sealing letters, grabbing up and throwing down the sealing wax, seal and paper with his customary rapidity. “It can’t be helped. She’s a beauty! I will do everything. Don’t you worry,” he rattled out during the process of sealing. Andrei said nothing; he was glad to know that his father had understood him. The old man stood up and held out a letter to his son. “Listen,” he said, “do not concern yourself about your wife: everything that can possibly be done, will be done. Now listen: give this letter to Mikhail Illarionovich. I have written that he should place you somewhere really useful and not keep you as an adjutant for long. A loathsome position. You tell him that I remember him and love him. And write to say how he receives you. If he is good, serve him. The son of Nikolai Andreich Bolkonsky will never serve under anyone out of charity. Well, now come here.” He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was used to understanding him. He led his son over to the bureau, lowered the lid, pulled out a drawer and took out a notebook filled with his own large, tall, narrow handwriting. “I am certain to die before you. So that you know, here are my memoirs, send them to the Emperor after my death. Now, here is a bank note and a letter. It is a prize for the person who will write a history of Suvorov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are my remarks, when I am gone read them for yourself, you’ll find them useful.” Andrei did not tell his father that he was sure to live a long time yet. He realised that he should not say that. “I will do everything you say, father,” he said. “Well, and now goodbye.” He gave his son his hand to kiss and embraced him. “Remember one thing, Prince Andrei – if they kill you, it will hurt this old man badly …” He paused unexpectedly, then suddenly continued in a shrill voice: “But if I learn that you have not conducted yourself like the son of Nikolai Bolkonsky, I shall be ashamed.” “You did not need to tell me that, father,” said the son, smiling. The old man paused. “And I also wanted to ask you,” continued Prince Andrei, “if I should be killed and if I should have a son, keep him by your side, as I was telling you yesterday, let him grow up with you, please.” “Not let your wife have him?” the old man said and laughed joyfully. They stood facing each other without speaking. The old man’s quick, lively eyes gazed directly into his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince’s face. “Farewell, on your way,” he said suddenly said. “On your way!” he shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening the door of the study. “What is it, what?” the little princess and Princess Marya asked, catching sight of Prince Andrei and, for just a moment, the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, glancing out of the doorway, wearing his old man’s glasses and no wig, shouting in an angry voice. Prince Andrei heaved a deep sigh and gave no answer. “Well,” he said, turning to his wife, and this “well” sounded like a cold sneer, as if he were saying: now try getting up to your tricks. “Already, Andrei?” said the little princess, freezing like ice and looking at her husband in terror. He put his arms round her. She shrieked and fell on his shoulder in a faint. He carefully drew away the shoulder on which she had slumped and glanced into her face, then seated her gently in an armchair. “Goodbye, Marya,” he said quietly to his sister, then they kissed each other, holding hands, and he strode rapidly out of the room. Princess Lise lay in the armchair and Mademoiselle Bourienne massaged her temples. Princess Marya, with her tearful, beautiful eyes, supported her sister-in-law and continued to gaze at the door through which Prince Andrei had left, making the sign of the cross after him. From the study, like gunshots, came the rapidly repeated, angry sounds of the old man blowing his nose. As soon as Prince Andrei had left, the door of the study opened swiftly and the old man emerged, a severe figure in a white dressing gown. “Has he gone? That’s good, then,” he said and, casting a furious glance at the insensible little princess, he shook his head reproachfully and slammed the door shut again. PART II I In October 1805, Russian forces were occupying the villages and towns of the Archduchy of Austria, with the fresh regiments that kept arriving from Russia and burdening still further the local population on whom they were quartered, setting up camp around the Braunau fortress. Kutuzov had made his own headquarters in Braunau. On the 8th of October, one of the infantry regiments newly arrived at Braunau was stationed half a mile from the town, anticipating a review by the commander-in-chief. Despite the non-Russian countryside and surroundings – fruit orchards, stone walls, tiled roofs, mountains visible in the distance – the regiment adopted exactly the same attitude towards the non-Russian people who gazed at the soldiers full of curiosity, as might any Russian regiment who were preparing themselves for an inspection anywhere in the middle of Russia. The soldiers, in heavy uniforms with high-hoisted knapsacks and rolled-up greatcoats around their shoulders, and the officers, in light uniforms with long, slim swords that knocked against their legs, felt as much at home here as in any district of Russia, as they surveyed the familiar ranks all around them, and the familiar strings of carts behind the ranks, and the more familiar, even too-familiar, figures of their superiors ahead of the ranks and, up further ahead, the tethering-posts of the Uhlan Regiment and the artillery batteries that had travelled with them throughout the campaign. The evening before, during the final day’s march, an order had come through that the commander-in-chief would inspect the regiment in marching formation. However, the wording of the order had seemed unclear to the regimental commander and the question had arisen as to whether it meant in marching dress or not – but a council of battalion commanders had finally decided, on the grounds that it was always better to bow too low than not to bow low enough, to present the regiment in parade dress, which meant that the soldiers, after a day’s march of thirty versts, had not been allowed a wink of sleep, but had spent the whole night mending and cleaning, while the adjutants and company commanders had been numbering off and transferring men to the reserve, so that by morning, instead of the straggling, dirty crowd it had been the day before on the final leg of the march, the regiment presented a well-ordered body of three thousand men, every one of whom knew his place and his job and every one of whom had every button and strap in place, all brilliantly clean. Not only was the exterior in good order, but if the commander-in-chief had chosen to peep under the uniforms, then on every man he would have seen an equally clean shirt and in every knapsack he would have found the complete regulation number of items, “lock, stock and barrel”, as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance concerning which no one could feel assured. That was the footgear. More than half of the soldiers had boots that were badly battered and split, and no matter how much they tried to patch up these defects, they were an insult to military eyes accustomed to good order. However, this shortcoming was not due to any fault of the regimental commander since, despite repeated requests, he had not been allocated any supplies from the relevant Austrian department, and the regiment had covered three thousand versts on foot. The regimental commander was an ageing, ruddy-faced general with greying eyebrows and whiskers, stout, thickset, and deeper from front to back than across his shoulders. He was wearing a brand-new uniform that still bore the creases from being folded, with thick gold epaulettes which, rather than hanging down, seemed to raise his corpulent shoulders higher. The regimental commander had the air of a man who is happily performing one of life’s most solemn duties. He strode to and fro in front of the line and as he strode, he swaggered with every step, arching his back slightly. It was clear that the regimental commander was admiring his regiment, that he was happy with it and that all his mental powers were occupied with nothing other than the regiment. And yet despite this, his swaggering gait seemed to suggest that, in addition to military interests, no small place was occupied in his heart by the interests of social life and the fair sex. “Well, Mikolai Mitrich, dear fellow,” he said with feigned carelessness, addressing a battalion commander (the battalion commander leaned forward, smiling; it was clear that they were happy). “Well, Mikolai Mitrich, dear fellow, we had a pretty tough time of it all right last night” (he winked). “But things seem all right” (he looked over the regiment). “I don’t think the regiment looks too bad. Eh?” He was evidently speaking ironically. The battalion commander understood his jolly irony and laughed. “It wouldn’t be dismissed from a parade ground, even the Empress Meadow, what?” said the regimental commander, laughing. At this point, two horsemen hove into sight on the road from the town, which had been posted with signalmen. These were an adjutant and, riding behind him, a Cossack. The regimental commander looked hard at the adjutant and turned away, concealing beneath his demeanour of indifference the alarm that this sight had provoked. He only glanced round again when the adjutant was just three steps away, and with that subtle air of simultaneous civility and familiarity which field commanders use to address younger and more junior officers attached to their commanders-in-chief, he prepared to listen to what the adjutant had to say. The adjutant had been sent from the general staff to confirm to the regimental commander what had not been clearly expressed in the previous day’s order, that is to say, that the commander-in-chief wished to see the regiment in precisely the same condition in which it had marched, in greatcoats, guns covered and without any preparations. The previous day a member of the Hofkriegsrat in Vienna had arrived to see Kutuzov with proposals and demands to proceed as soon as possible to unification with the army of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutuzov, who did not consider this unification advantageous, was intending to present to the Austrian general, among other arguments in support of his opinion, the lamentable condition in which troops were arriving from Russia. This was the commander-in-chief’s purpose in wishing to meet the regiment: the worse the condition of the regiment, the more pleased its commander-in-chief would be. Although the adjutant did not actually know all these details, he conveyed to the regimental commander the commander-in-chief’s absolute insistence that the men should be in greatcoats with guns covered, otherwise the commander-in-chief would be displeased. After listening to these words, the regimental commander lowered his head, twitched his shoulders and, without speaking, spread his arms wide in a sanguine gesture. “A fine mess we’ve made of it now,” he said, without raising his head. “I told you so, Mikolai Mitrich, in marching order means in greatcoats,” he told the battalion commander reproachfully. “Oh, my God!” he added, but there was not a trace of irritation in his words and his gesture, only zeal to serve his commander and the fear of failing to please him. He stepped forward resolutely. “Company commanders!” he shouted in a voice accustomed to command. “Sergeant-majors! How soon will his excellency be here?” he asked the adjutant with an expression of polite respect that was evidently intended for the individual of whom he was speaking. “In an hour, I think.” “Will we have time to change them?” “I don’t know, general …” The regimental commander, approaching the ranks himself, gave instructions to change back into greatcoats. The company commanders went dashing to their companies, the sergeant-majors began bustling about (the greatcoats were not in perfect order), and all at once the previously orderly and silent squares of men heaved and sprawled and began buzzing with talk. On all sides soldiers began running off or running back, hoisting up knapsacks with a jerk of the shoulder and tugging the straps over their heads, unrolling greatcoats and raising their arms high to thrust them into the sleeves. Half an hour later they were all back in their previous formation, except now the squares had changed from black to grey. The regimental commander walked out in front of the regiment, again with his swaggering gait, and looked it over from a distance. “What’s this now? What’s this?” he shouted, halting and grabbing at his sword-knot with his hand twisted inwards. “Number three company commander to the general!” “Commander to the general! Number three company to the general,” murmured voices in the ranks and an adjutant ran off to look for the tardy officer. When the sounds of the zealous voices, now crying “the general to number three company” reached their intended destination, the officer required appeared from behind the company, and although he was an elderly man and no longer accustomed to running, he set off at a trot towards the general, tripping clumsily over the toes of his boots. The captain’s face expressed the anxiety of a schoolboy who has been told to recite a lesson that he has not properly learned. Blotches appeared on a nose already red, evidently from over-indulgence, and the shape of his mouth kept shifting. The regimental commander looked the captain over from head to toe as he approached, wheezing and checking his stride as he drew closer. “You’ll be dressing the men in sarafans soon! What’s that?” shouted the regimental commander, thrusting out his lower jaw and pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat the colour of high-quality factory cloth that was different from the other greatcoats. “Where were you? When the commander-in-chief is expected, you leave your post? Eh? I’ll teach you to dress men up for an inspection in fancy kaftans! Eh?” Keeping his eyes fixed on his superior, the company commander pressed his two fingers harder and harder against the peak of his cap, as though he now saw his only salvation in this pressing. The battalion commanders and adjutants stood somewhat further back, not knowing which way to look. “Well, why don’t you say anything? Who’s that you’ve got dressed up like a Hungarian?” the regimental commander joked sternly. “Your excellency …” “What’s that, ‘your excellency’? Your excellency, your excellency! But what’s wrong, your excellency, nobody knows.” “Your excellency, that’s Dolokhov, the demoted …” the captain said quietly, with an expression which seemed to suggest that in a case of demotion, an exception could be made. “What, has he been demoted to field-marshal, or to private? If he’s a private, he must be dressed the same as everyone else, in regulation uniform.” “Your excellency, you yourself gave him permission on the march.” “Permission? I gave permission? You’re always the same, you young people,” said the regimental commander, cooling down a little. “I gave permission. Say anything to you and you go and … What?” he said, growing irritated again. “Be so good as to dress the men properly.” And, after glancing round at the adjutant, the regimental commander set off towards the regiment, with that swaggering gait that still somehow expressed a certain partiality for the fair sex. It was clear that he was enjoying his own irritation and as he passed along the line of the regiment, he sought further pretexts for his wrath. After upbraiding one officer for a poorly polished badge and another for the unevenness of his line, he approached the third company. “What way is that to stand? Where’s your leg? Where is it?” the regimental commander yelled with a note of suffering in his voice, when he was still five men away from the soldier dressed in the bluish greatcoat. This soldier, who differed from all the others in the fresh complexion of his face and especially of his neck, slowly straightened out his bent leg and looked the general straight in the face with his bright and insolent gaze. “Why the blue greatcoat? Off with it! Sergeant-major! Change his coat … the rott …” He was not able to finish what he was saying. “General, I am obliged to carry out orders, but not obliged to endure …” the soldier said with passionate haste. “No talking in the ranks! No talking, no talking!” “… not obliged to endure insults,” Dolokhov said in a loud, resonant voice with an expression of unnatural solemnity that struck everyone who heard him unpleasantly. The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general fell silent, and he angrily tugged at his tight scarf. “Be so good as to change your dress, if you please,” he said, walking away. II “He’s coming!” a signalman shouted at just that moment. The regimental commander, flushing, ran up to his horse, took hold of the stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body across, righted himself, drew his sword and, with a cheerfully resolute face, his mouth opened to one side, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird settling its feathers and froze. “Atten-tion!” shouted the regimental commander in a heart-stopping voice that was happy for himself, strict towards the regiment and welcoming to his approaching superior. With its springs rattling gently, the tall, light-blue Viennese carriage harnessed in tandem raced at a brisk trot along the broad unsurfaced road lined with trees, and galloping behind the carriage came the retinue and an escort of Croats. Sitting beside Kutuzov was an Austrian general in a white uniform that looked strange among the black Russian ones. The carriage halted at the regiment. Kutuzov and the Austrian general were talking quietly and Kutuzov smiled gently as stepped down heavily, lowering his foot from the footboard. It was exactly as if those three thousand men holding their breath as they gazed at the two of them and the regimental commander did not even exist. A shout of command rang out and again the regiment shuddered as it jangled and presented arms. The commander-in-chief’s weak voice rang out in the deathly silence. The regiment bellowed: “Good Health to You, Your Ex-ex-ex-ency!” And then everything froze again. At first Kutuzov stood still on one spot while the regiment moved, then Kutuzov began walking along the ranks, with the white general beside him and accompanied by the retinue. From the way in which the regimental commander saluted the commander-in-chief, boring into him with his eyes, standing to attention and drawing himself up, the way he leaned forward as he followed the generals along the ranks, scarcely restraining his quivering swagger, the way he jumped at the commander-in-chief’s every word and movement, it was clear that he took even greater pleasure in carrying out the duties of a subordinate than the duties of a superior. Thanks to the strict discipline and diligence of the regimental commander, the regiment was in capital condition in comparison with others that were arriving in Braunau at that time. There were only two hundred and seventeen stragglers and sick. In reply to the chief-of-staff’s question concerning the needs of the regiment the regimental commander, leaning forward, made bold to report in a whisper and with a deep sigh that their footwear had suffered very, very badly. KUTUZOV Engraving by Cardelli (#ulink_d5245ae9-0a77-54a9-847d-b9926ac48716) “Well, it’s the same song everywhere,” the chief-of-staff said nonchalantly, smiling at the general’s na?vety and thereby indicating that what seemed to the regimental commander to be a peculiar misfortune was the common lot of all the forces who were arriving and it had been foreseen. “You’ll set that to rights here, if you’re quartered here a while.” Kutuzov walked along the ranks, halting from time to time and saying a few warm words to officers whom he knew from the Turkish War, and sometimes even to soldiers. Glancing at their shoes, he shook his head sadly several times and pointed them out to the Austrian general with an expression as if he were not reproaching anyone for this, but could not help seeing how bad it was. Each time this happened, the regimental commander ran forwards, afraid of missing what the commander-in-chief was saying about the regiment. Walking behind Kutuzov at a distance from which every softly spoken word could be heard, came the twenty or so members of his retinue. The gentlemen of the retinue clearly did not feel the same superhuman fear and respect for Kutuzov as the regimental commander was exhibiting. They were talking among themselves and sometimes laughing. Walking closest of all behind the commander-in-chief was a handsome adjutant. It was Prince Bolkonsky. Walking alongside him was a tall cavalry staff officer, extremely fat, with a kind, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. This massive officer could hardly restrain the laughter provoked by the dark-haired officer of the hussars walking alongside him. This cornet officer of the hussars was staring, with a straight face and fixed expression in his eyes, at the regimental commander’s back and mimicking his every movement with a serious expression. Every time the regimental commander quivered and leaned forward, the officer of hussars quivered and leaned forward in precisely the same way. The fat adjutant laughed and nudged the others to get them to watch the amusing fellow. “Mais voyez donc, do look,” said the fat officer, nudging Prince Andrei. Kutuzov walked slowly and listlessly past the thousands of eyes that were rolling out of their sockets as they tried to follow the commander. On drawing level with the third company, he suddenly halted. The retinue, not having anticipated this halt, involuntarily advanced closer to him. “Ah, Timokhin!” said the commander-in-chief, recognising the captain with the red nose who had been rebuked for the blue greatcoat. It had seemed quite impossible to stand more rigidly to attention than Timokhin had stood when the regimental commander was rebuking him. But when the commander-in-chief addressed him, he drew himself up so very far that had the commander-in-chief looked at him a moment longer, the captain would have been quite incapable of sustaining his pose, and so Kutuzov, clearly understanding his situation and wishing the captain, on the contrary, nothing but good, hastily turned away. A barely perceptible smile ran across Kutuzov’s plump face. “A comrade from back at Izmail,” he said. “A brave officer. Are you pleased with him?” Kutuzov asked the regimental commander. And the regimental commander, reflected yet again in the hussar cornet’s movements as if in an invisible mirror, quivered, stepped forward and replied: “Very pleased, your excellency.” “He had a weakness,” said Kutuzov, smiling and moving away from him. “He drank.” The regimental commander took fright, wondering whether he was to blame in this matter and made no reply. Kutuzov began telling the Austrian general something, speaking in French. At that moment the cornet of the hussars noticed the face of the captain with the red nose and tightly tucked-in belly, and mimicked his face and pose so precisely that the fat officer was unable to restrain his laughter. Kutuzov swung round. The cornet was clearly able to control his face just as he wanted; in the moment it took for Kutuzov to turn round, the cornet had already managed to assume first a grimace and then the most serious, respectful and innocent expression. But there was something ingratiating and ignoble in his bird-like face and twitching figure with its high-raised shoulders and long, thin legs. Prince Andrei turned away from him with a frown. The third company was the last, and Kutuzov began thinking, clearly trying to recall something. Prince Andrei stepped out of the retinue and, speaking in French, said quietly: “You instructed me to remind you about the demoted man Dolokhov in this regiment.” “Where is Dolokhov here?” asked Kutuzov. Dolokhov, now kitted out in a grey soldier’s greatcoat, did not wait to be called out. A handsome, trim figure of a soldier with blond hair and clear blue eyes stepped out from the ranks. He measured out his stride with a perfection that made his skill strikingly obvious and left an unpleasant impression precisely because of its excessive precision. He walked up to the commander-in-chief and presented arms. “A complaint?” asked Kutuzov, frowning slightly. Dolokhov did not reply. He was playing on his position, without feeling the slightest embarrassment, and noted with evident delight that the regimental commander shuddered and blanched at the word “complaint”. “This is Dolokhov,” said Prince Andrei. “Ah!” said Kutuzov. “I hope that this lesson will reform you, be a good soldier now. The Emperor is merciful. And I shall not forget you if you deserve it.” The wide-open, light-blue eyes gazed at the commander-in-chief as insolently as at the regimental commander, as if tearing asunder with their expression the veil of convention that set the commander-in-chief and the soldier so far apart. “I have one request to make, your excellency,” he said in his resonant, firm, unhurried voice, with its dry, ecstatically bombastic tone. “I request you to give me a chance to make amends and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia.” Dolokhov uttered this theatrical speech with animation (he flushed brightly as he said it). But Kutuzov turned away. The same smile that altered only the eyes flitted across his face as when he had turned away from Captain Timokhin. This time too he turned away and frowned, as if wishing in this way to state that everything that Dolokhov had said to him, and everything that he could have said, had already been known to him for a long, long time, that he was tired of all this, and that all this was not at all what was needed. He turned away and set off towards the carriage. III The regiment broke up into companies and set out for its appointed quarters not far from Braunau, where it hoped to obtain shoes and clothes and to rest after its days of hard marching. “Don’t hold it against me, Prokhor Ignatych,” said the regimental commander, overtaking the third company as it moved towards its quarters and approaching its captain, Timokhin, who was walking at the front. Having dealt successfully with the review the regimental commander’s face expressed irrepressible joy. “Service to the Tsar … I have to … sometimes you give someone in the ranks a dressing down …” (he seized Timokhin’s hand with joyful agitation). “I’ll be the first to apologise, you know me … well … I hope … Most grateful.” And he held his hand out again to the company commander. “For goodness’ sake, general, how would I dare,” the captain replied, his nose reddening. He smiled, revealing with his smile the lack of two front teeth, smashed out with a musket butt at Izmail … “Yes, inform Mr Dolokhov that I shall not forget him, he needn’t worry. But tell me, please, I have been wanting to ask what … how is he behaving himself? And all that …” “In the line of service he’s very correct, your excellency … as for his character …” said Timokhin. “What, what about his character?” asked the regimental commander. THE MILITARY REVIEW: KUTUZOV AND DOLOKHOV Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867 (#ulink_6da4a207-b18f-5e93-9637-aa16d79829ef) “There are days on end, your excellency,” said the captain, “when he comes over all bright and clever and good-natured. Then all the soldiers love him, your excellency. But some days he’s a wild beast. In Poland he nearly killed a yid, by your leave …” “Well yes, well yes,” said the regimental commander, “still, one must have pity on a young man in misfortune. Important connections, after all … connections … So just you mind …” “Yes, your excellency,” said Timokhin, making it clear with his smile that he understood his superior’s wishes. “Well yes, yes.” The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and reined in his horse. “Till the first action, then epaulettes,” he said, addressing Dolokhov. Dolokhov glanced round but did not say anything and did not alter the expression of his sneering, smiling mouth. “Well, that’s all right, then,” the regimental commander continued. “A glass of vodka each for the men from me,” he added loudly, so that the soldiers would hear. “I thank you all. God be praised!” And he rode round the company and approached the next one. “Now he really is a good man, someone you can serve under,” Timokhin said to a subaltern walking beside him. “Heart’s the word all right …” (the regimental commander was nicknamed the king of hearts). “Didn’t he say anything about extra pay?” asked the subaltern. “No.” “That’s bad.” The regimental commander’s happy mood had infected Timokhin. After talking with the subaltern, he went up to Dolokhov. “Well, old man,” he said to Dolokhov, “after you talking to the commander-in-chief, our general’s turned sweet on you as well.” “Our general’s a swine,” said Dolokhov. “It won’t do to go saying things like that.” “Why not, if it’s true?” “But it won’t do, and by saying that you’re offending me.” “I don’t wish to offend you, because you’re a good man, but he …” “Come, come, that won’t do.” “All right, I won’t.” The commander’s happy mood after the review was transmitted to the soldiers as well. The company marched along merrily. On all sides there were soldiers’ voices talking to each other. “How come they said Kutuzov was half-blind, with one eye.” “Well he is! As one-eyed as they come.” “Nah … brother, he’s sharper-eyed than you are, boots and leg wrappings and all, he looked everything over.” “The way he looked at my feet, brother … Well! I thought …” “And that other one with him was an Austrian, looked like he’d been daubed with whitewash. White as flour. Scours it up, I reckon, like a weapon.” “What about it, Fedeshou, did he say as when the counter-attack will start, you were standing closer? Everyone was saying Boonaparte himself is stationed at Braunovo.” “Boonaparte stationed! They’re talking nonsense, the fools! Don’t know a thing. The Prussian’s up in arms now! And the Austrian, you know, he’s putting him down. Soon as he makes peace, then the war with Boonaparte will start up. And he says Boonaparte’s stationed at Braunovo! Shows you what kind of fool he is. Don’t go believing everything you hear.” “Look, those damn billeting officers! There’s the fifth company already turning into a village, they’ll have their gruel cooked and ready before we even get to where we’re going.” “Give us a rusk, you devil.” “Did you give me that baccy, yesterday? So there, brother. Well, never mind, have it anyway.” “They could at least call a halt, or we’ll cover another five versts without a bite.” “Wasn’t it really grand the way the Germans gave us carriages at Olm?tz! Riding along real grand, like.” “But the folks round here, my friend, are a desperate lot altogether. Back there they was like the Poles, all under the Russian crown, but now, brother, there’s nothing but Germans everywhere.” “Singers to the front!” the captain’s voice shouted. About twenty men ran out in front of the company from various lines. The choirmaster drummer turned to face the singers and with a wave of his hand launched into a long, drawn-out soldier’s song that began: “Barely dawn, the sun was just rising …” and ended with the words: “And so, brothers, there’ll be glory for us and Father Kamensky …” This song had been composed in Turkey, and now it was being sung in Austria, the only change being that they replaced “Father Kamensky” with “Father Kutuzov”. After rattling off these final words in smart soldier fashion and waving his hands as if he were throwing something down on the ground, the drummer, a lean and handsome soldier of forty or so, looked the singer-soldiers over sternly and screwed his eyes shut briefly. Then, after making certain that all eyes were fixed on him, he seemed to lift some invisible, precious object above his head cautiously with both hands, hold it there for a few seconds and suddenly fling it down recklessly. “Ah, you bowers, bowers mine …” – “Ah, new bowers mine,” twenty voices sang, joining in, and the spoon-player, despite the weight of his equipment, bounded forward and started walking backwards in front of the company, working his shoulders and menacing someone here and there with his spoons. The soldiers walked with a broad stride, swinging their arms in time to the song, falling into step despite themselves. From behind the company there came the sound of wheels, the crunch of springs and the clatter of horses’ hooves. Kutuzov and his retinue were returning to the town. The commander-in-chief gave a sign for the men to continue marching freely, and his face and the faces of all his retinue expressed pleasure at the sound of the song, at the sight of the dancing soldier and the soldiers of the company marching along merrily and briskly. In the second row, on the right flank, the side on which the carriage was overtaking the company, they could not help but notice a handsome blue-eyed, broad, thickset soldier who was marching along especially briskly and gracefully in time to the song and who glanced merrily at the faces of the men riding past with an expression that seemed to say he pitied everyone who was not marching with the company just then. The cornet of hussars with the high shoulders fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov. The cornet of the hussars, Zherkov, had at one time belonged to the wild social circle led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met Dolokhov abroad as a private, but at the time had not deemed it necessary to recognise him. Now he addressed him with the joyful greeting of an old friend. “My dearest friend, how are you?” he said to the sounds of the song, matching his horse’s stride to the stride of the company. “Greetings, brother,” Dolokhov replied coldly, “as you can see.” The brisk song lent a special significance to the tone of rakishly familiar merriment with which Zherkov spoke, and to the deliberate coldness of Dolokhov’s replies. “Well, how are you getting on with your people, with the commander?” asked Zherkov. “All right, they’re fine people. How did you worm your way on to the staff?” “I was attached. I’m on duty.” They said nothing for a moment. “She loosed the brave falcon from out her right sleeve,” said the song, making them feel spry and cheerful despite themselves. Their conversation would probably have been rather different, had they not been speaking against the sound of singing. “Is it true then, they’ve beaten the Austrians?” asked Dolokhov. “God only knows, they say so.” “I’m glad,” Dolokhov replied curtly and clearly, as the song required. “Why not come to see us some evening, you can have a game of faro,” said Zherkov. “Have you come into big money, then?” “Come.” “I can’t. I swore an oath. I don’t drink and I don’t play until they promote me.” “Well then, that’s until the first action …” “We’ll see that when the time comes …” They were silent again. “Do call in if you need anything, everyone at headquarters will help,” said Zherkov. Dolokhov laughed. “No need to worry about me. If I want something, I won’t bother to ask, I’ll take it.” And Dolokhov glared spitefully into Zherkov’s face. “All right, I was only …” “Well, and I was only.” “Goodbye.” “Good health.” And way up high, and far away, To mine own native parts … Zherkov spurred on his horse, which grew frisky and shuffled its feet three times, deciding which one to start with before it galloped off, overtaking the company and catching up with the carriage, all in time to the song. IV On returning from the review, Kutuzov went through into his study with the Austrian general and, calling to an adjutant, ordered him to bring several documents relating to the condition of the troops that were arriving and the letters received so far from the Archduke Ferdinand. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky entered the commander-in-chief’s study with the required papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrat were sitting in front of a plan laid out on the desk. “Ah …” said Kutuzov, glancing round at Bolkonsky and seeming with this sound to invite the adjutant to wait, then he continued with the conversation he had begun in French. “I say only one thing, general,” Kutuzov said with a pleasing elegance of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen closely to every single unhurriedly spoken word. It was clear that even Kutuzov listened to himself with pleasure. “I say only one thing, general, that if the business depended on my personal wishes, then the will of His Majesty the Emperor Franz would have been carried out long since. I would have joined with the archduke long ago. And believe me, on my honour, that for me personally to hand over the supreme command of the army to a general more knowledgeable and skilled than I am, of which Austria has such an abundance, and lay down this entire onerous responsibility, for me personally it would be a real joy. But circumstances are sometimes stronger than we are, general.” And Kutuzov smiled with an expression which suggested that he was saying: “You have every right not to believe me, and it is actually all the same to me whether you believe me or not, but you have no excuse for telling me so. And that is the entire point.” The Austrian general appeared dissatisfied, but he could not help replying to Kutuzov in the same tone of voice. “On the contrary,” he said in a peevish and angry tone that contradicted the flattering meaning of the words he was speaking, “on the contrary, your excellency’s contribution to the common cause is highly valued by His Majesty, but we believe that the present delay is depriving the glorious Russian troops and their commanders-in-chief of the laurels which they are accustomed to reap in battles” – concluding with a phrase that he had obviously prepared. Kutuzov bowed, without altering his smile. “I am convinced of it, and, on the basis of the last letter with which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has favoured me, I believe that the Austrian forces, under the command of such a skilled aide as General Mack, have already won a decisive victory and are no longer in need of our assistance,” said Kutuzov. The general shuddered and frowned. Although there had been no positive news of the Austrians’ defeat, there were too many circumstances that confirmed the general unfavourable rumours, and therefore Kutuzov’s assumption of an Austrian victory sounded very much like a jibe. But Kutuzov smiled meekly, still with the same expression, which said that he had the right to assume this. Indeed, the latest letter that he had received from Mack’s army had informed him of a victory and the highly advantageous strategic position of the army. “Let me have that letter,” said Kutuzov, addressing Prince Andrei. “There, if you would kindly look,” and with a mocking smile on the corners of his lips, Kutuzov read the Austrian general the following passage in German from Archduke Ferdinand’s letter: “We have fully consolidated forces, about seventy thousand men, so that we can attack and smash the enemy if he should cross the Lech. Since we already control the Ulm, we can, if the enemy should not cross the Lech, retain the advantage of commanding both banks of the Danube, then at any moment, cross the Danube, assault his line of communication, recross the Danube lower down and, if the enemy should think of turning his entire force against our faithful allies, prevent him from realising that intention. We shall accordingly await in good spirits the time when the Imperial Russian Army shall be fully prepared and then together we shall easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate which he deserves.” Kutuzov sighed heavily as he finished this sentence and gave the member of the Hofkriegsrat an attentive and affectionate look. “But you are aware, your excellency, of the wise rule that enjoins us to assume the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done with the jokes and get on with business. He glanced round with displeasure at the adjutant. “I beg your pardon, general,” Kutuzov interrupted him and also turned to face Prince Andrei. “Listen, my dear fellow, you get all our scouts’ reports from Kozlovsky. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz, here is a letter from His Highness Archduke Ferdinand, and there is this too,” he said, handing him several papers. “And out of all this you compose a memorandum in immaculate French, a note to present clearly all the news that we have had about the operations of the Austrian army. Right, that’s it, and present it to his excellency.” Prince Andrei inclined his head politely as a sign that, from the very first words, he had understood not only what was said, but also what Kutuzov would have liked to say to him. He gathered up the papers and, taking his leave with a bow, he walked quietly across the carpet and went out into the reception room. Despite the fact that it was less than three months since Prince Andrei had left Russia, he had changed greatly in that time. In the expression of his face, his movements and his gait there was almost no trace of the former dissembling and weary lassitude. He had the air of a man who did not have time to think about the impression he was producing on others, and was occupied with something agreeable and interesting. His face expressed greater contentment with himself and the people around him; his smile and his glance were more cheerful and attractive. Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very warmly, promising not to forget him, and had singled him out from the other adjutants, taking him with him to Vienna and giving him the more serious assignments. On Kutuzov’s staff, among his comrades and colleagues, and in the army in general, Prince Andrei had two entirely opposite reputations, just as he had had in St. Petersburg society. Some, the minority, recognised that Prince Andrei was different in some way from themselves and from everyone else and, expecting great things from him, they heeded, admired and imitated him. And with these people Prince Andrei was simple and agreeable. Others, the majority, did not like Prince Andrei, and thought him a puffed-up, cold and disagreeable individual. But with these people the prince knew how to comport himself in such a way that they respected and even feared him. He was closest of all to two people: one of them was a St. Petersburg friend, the good-hearted, fat Prince Nesvitsky. Prince Nesvitsky, immensely rich, carefree and jolly, fed the entire headquarters staff and bought their drink, always laughing at anything that was even remotely funny, and incapable of understanding or believing in the possibility of acting basely or of hating anyone. The other was a man with no title, Captain Kozlovsky from the infantry regiment, who had had no education to prepare him for society and even spoke French badly, but who was carving out a career by hard work, zeal and intelligence, and for this campaign had been recommended and taken on for special assignments for the commander-in-chief. Bolkonsky had befriended him willingly, if patronisingly. On emerging from Kutuzov’s study into the reception room, Prince Andrei took his papers across to Kozlovsky, the man on duty, who was sitting by the window with a book on fortification. Several military men in full uniform with timid expressions on their faces were waiting patiently at the other side of the room. “Well, what is it, prince?” asked Kozlovsky. “I have been ordered to draw up a memorandum about why we are not advancing.” “And why is that?” Prince Andrei shrugged. “I think you were right,” he said. “And is there no news from Mack?” asked Kozlovsky. “No.” “Well, if it were true that he has been defeated, then news would have reached us.” “I’m not so sure,” said Prince Andrei. “As I told you, prince, the Austrians have taken us over, no good will come of it.” Prince Andrei smiled and stepped towards the door, but just at that moment, an Austrian general, obviously just recently arrived, with his head bandaged in a black kerchief and an Order of Marya-Theresa round his neck, hurried into the room, banging the door behind him. Prince Andrei came to a halt. The Austrian general’s tall figure, his wrinkled, determined face and rapid movements were so strikingly consequential and disquieting that everyone in the room involuntarily rose to their feet. “General-in-chief Kutuzov?” the new arrival said rapidly, with a harsh German accent, glancing about on both sides as he walked without stopping across to the door of the study. “The general-in-chief is busy,” said Kozlovsky with the sombre briskness with which he always carried out his duties, and he approached the unknown general to block his way to the door. “How shall I announce you?” The unknown general glanced down contemptuously at the short Kozlovsky, as if amazed that that anyone might not know him. “The general-in-chief is busy,” Kozlovsky repeated calmly. The general’s face turned sullen, his lips twitched and began trembling. He took out a notebook, dashed off something hastily with a pencil, tore out the page, handed it to Kozlovsky, walked quickly over to the window, hurled his body into a chair and looked round at everybody in the room as if asking why they were all looking at him. The general raised his head, stretched out his neck and half-turned towards Prince Andrei, who was standing closest of all to him, as though intending to say something, but immediately turned away again and made a strange sound, as though he were beginning to hum something nonchalantly to himself, but the sound immediately broke off. The door of the study opened and Kutuzov appeared on the threshold. In a moment the general with the bandaged head, ducking down as if fleeing from danger, moved swiftly across the room with long strides on thin legs which brought him close to Kutuzov’s face. His own elderly, wrinkled face turned pale, and he was unable to prevent his lower lip from trembling nervously as he uttered the following words in badly pronounced French in a voice that faltered and was too loud: “You see before you the unfortunate Mack.” For a few moments, as Kutuzov stood there in the doorway of his study, his broad face, disfigured by wounds, remained absolutely motionless. Then, like a wave, a frown rippled across his face and his forehead smoothed out again; he inclined his head respectfully, closed his eyes and, without a word, allowed Mack to go past him into the room, closing the door behind himself. The rumour which had been spread earlier, concerning the defeat of the Austrians and the surrender of the entire army at the Ulm, proved to be correct. The members of headquarters staff related to each other the details of Mack’s conversation with the commander-in-chief, which not one of them had been able to hear. Half an hour later adjutants had already been despatched in various directions with orders clearly indicating that the Russian forces, which had so far not seen action, were also certain to encounter the enemy soon. “That half-crazy old fanatic Mack wanted to fight the greatest military genius since Caesar!” thought Prince Andrei as he went back to his room. “What did I tell Kozlovsky? What did I write to my father?” he thought. “Now it has happened.” And despite himself he experienced a feeling of joyful excitement at thinking of arrogant Austria’s disgrace and that perhaps in a week’s time he would see and take part in an armed conflict between the Russians and the French, the first since Suvorov. Once he got back downstairs to the room that he shared with Nesvitsky, Prince Andrei put the now unnecessary papers on the table and, holding his hands behind his back, he began walking to and fro across the room, smiling at his own thoughts. He feared the genius of Bonaparte, which might prove stronger than all the bravery of the Russian troops, yet at the same time he was unable to conceive of his hero being disgraced. The only possible solution to this contradiction was that he himself should command the Russian army against Bonaparte. But when could that be? In ten years – ten years that seem like an eternity when they amount to more than a third of one’s life so far. “Ah! Do what duty requires, come what may,” he said, rehearsing to himself the motto that he had chosen. He called for his servant, took off his uniform coat, put on his smoking jacket and sat down at the table. Despite life on the march and the cramped room that he shared with Nesvitsky, Prince Andrei, just as he had been in Russia, was as fastidious as a woman, careful of his own person, neat and tidy. Nesvitsky knew that nothing could make his room-mate more angry than disorder among his things, and Bolkonsky’s two tables, one a writing-desk that was set, like his desk in St. Petersburg, with bronze writing accessories, the other arrayed with brushes, soap-dishes and a mirror, were always arranged symmetrically and without a single speck of dust. Since his departure from St. Petersburg and, most importantly, since parting from his wife, Prince Andrei had entered a new era of activity and seemed to be reliving his youth. He read and studied a lot. Campaign life gave him a good deal of free time, and the books he had acquired abroad opened up new interests to him. The greater part of these books were works of philosophy. Apart from its intrinsic interest, philosophy was for him one of those pedestals of pride which he loved to ascend in front of other people. Although he had many different pedestals from which he could look down on people – birth, connections, wealth – philosophy represented for him the one from which he could feel superior even to people such as Kutuzov, and feeling that was essential for Prince Andrei’s peace of mind. He picked up Kant’s latest work, which was lying on his table with half its pages cut, and began reading. But his thoughts were far away, and he constantly imagined that he saw before him his most cherished dream – the banner of the Bridge at Arcole. “Well, brother, I owe you a bottle,” said the immense, fat Nesvitsky as he entered the room, accompanied, as always, by Zherkov. “What do you make of this business with Mack?” “Yes, he must have just spent an unpleasant quarter of an hour upstairs,” said Prince Andrei. (They had had a wager. Prince Andrei had asserted that Mack would be routed, so he had won.) “I owe you a bottle,” said Nesvitsky, unbuttoning his uniform coat, which squeezed his plump neck. “But what a dinner we’ll have today, brother! Wild goat, I got a fresh one, and turkey with chestnuts.” “I told you Mack would get stuck in your teeth,” said Zherkov, but his jest was not appreciated. Prince Andrei glanced round coldly at him and turned to Nesvitsky. “What have you heard, when are they setting out?” he asked. “They have sent for the second division to be moved,” Zherkov said in his ingratiating manner. “Ah!” said Prince Andrei, then turned away and began reading. “Right, that’s enough of your philosophising,” cried Nesvitsky, throwing himself onto his bed and panting for breath. “Let’s talk. How I laughed just now! Imagine it, we’d just come out, and there was Strauch walking along. You should have seen the capers Zherkov cut in front of him.” “That’s all right, I was saluting an ally,” said Zherkov, and Nesvitsky began laughing so hard that the bed creaked under him. Strauch, the Austrian general sent from Vienna to oversee the supply of provisions to the Russian army, had for some reason become Zherkov’s favourite victim. Zherkov mimicked him with deadly accuracy and every time he encountered him, Zherkov would stand to attention, pretending to be afraid of him, and at every opportunity he could find, he would begin speaking with him in broken German, making himself out to be a na?ve fool, to Nesvitsky’s great delight. “Ah, yes!” said Nesvitsky, turning to Prince Andrei. “By the way, about Strauch. There’s an infantry officer here who’s been waiting a long time to see you.” “What officer?” “Remember, they sent you to investigate the case, he stole a cow or something from the Germans.” “What does he want?” said Prince Andrei, frowning and twisting the ring on his small white hand. “He’s a pitiful sort, come to petition you. Zherkov, what was his name? Well, what was it he said?” Zherkov pulled a face and began imitating the officer. “I … didn’t, not that, not at all … the soldiers … they bought the beast, because the owners … The beast … the owners … the beast …” Prince Andrei got up and put on his uniform jacket. “Yes, do hush it up somehow,” said Nesvitsky. “My God, how pitiful he is.” “I do not wish either to hush it up or to be unfair to anyone. I was sent, and I reported what had happened. I never take pity on scoundrels nor do I laugh at them,” he added, glancing at Zherkov. He went out to speak with the officer, and explained haughtily that he had no personal business with him and did not wish to have any. “But after all, you know yourself, your … prince,” said the officer, evidently unsure about the right way to address this adjutant: he was equally afraid of abasing himself and of not being polite enough. “After all, you yourself know, prince, that we’d been on the march for days, the soldiers hadn’t eaten, so how could I forbid it … judge for yourself …” “If you require my personal conviction,” said Prince Andrei, “then I can tell you that in my opinion, pillaging is always a serious offence, and there is no punishment severe enough for it in the country of one’s allies. But above all, please understand that there is nothing I can do; my job is to report to the commander-in-chief what I have found. I cannot lie for you.” And, with a smile at this odd idea, he bowed to the officer and left to return to his room. In the corridor, he saw General Strauch and the member of the Hofkriegsrat walking ahead of him. Nesvitsky and Zherkov were coming the other way, towards them. There was enough space in the broad corridor for the generals to pass the two officers, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitsky to one side with his hand, said in a breathless voice: “They’re coming! They’re coming! Move over, make way! Please, make way!” The generals were walking along with an air that suggested they wished to avoid bothersome expressions of respect. Zherkov’s face was suddenly transformed by a stupid smile of joy, as if he were unable to restrain it. “You excellency,” he said in German, advancing and addressing the Austrian general. “Please permit me to congratulate you.” He inclined his head and began scraping first one foot, then the other, in a clumsy fashion, like a child learning to dance. The general who was a member of the Hofkriegsrat glanced sternly at him but, noticing the seriousness of the stupid smile, felt obliged to grant him a moment of attention. He lowered his gaze, to show he was listening. “Allow me to congratulate you on General Mack’s arriving quite unhurt, with only a little bump here,” Zherkov went on, smiling radiantly and pointing to his own head. The general scowled, turned away and began to walk on. “Gott, how na?ve!” he said angrily after a few steps. Nesvitsky embraced Prince Andrei with a laugh and pulled him towards their room. Ignoring the laughter, Prince Andrei followed Nesvitsky inside, and going over to where Zherkov’s cap was lying on his table, he knocked it to the floor. “Yes, did you see that face?” Nesvitsky said through his laughter. “It was marvellous! Just a little bump here … ha, ha, ha!” “There’s nothing funny about it,” said Prince Andrei. “Nothing funny? Why, his face alone …” “Nothing funny. I am no great friend of the Austrians. However, there are proprieties that this villain may not be aware of, but which you and I should observe.” “Do stop that, he’ll come in any moment,” Nesvitsky interrupted, taking fright. “I do not care. What a good light it shows us in to our allies, how very tactful it is! That officer who stole a cow for his company is no worse than your Zherkov. He, at least, needed that cow.” “Just as you wish, brother, it’s all very pitiful, but it’s funny nonetheless. If only you …” “There’s nothing funny about it. Forty thousand men have been killed and our ally’s army has been destroyed, and you joke about it,” he said in French, as though reinforcing his opinion. “It is forgivable for a contemptible little fellow like this gentleman whom you have made your friend, but not for you, not for you,” said Prince Andrei in Russian. He had uttered “little fellow” with a French accent, on noticing Zherkov enter the room. He waited to see if the cornet would make any reply. But the cornet said nothing; he picked up his cap, winked at Nesvitsky and went out again. “Come for dinner,” shouted Nesvitsky. Prince Andrei had been watching the cornet intently and, when he had gone, he sat down at his table. “I have been wanting to say something for a long time,” he said to Nesvitsky, who was now looking at Prince Andrei with a smile in his eyes, as though for him any amusement was agreeable, and now he was rather enjoying listening to the sound of Prince Andrei’s voice and what he was saying. “I have wanted to say for a long time that it is your passion to be familiar with everyone, feed absolutely everyone and buy drink indiscriminately. This is all very fine, and even though I live with you, I do not find it awkward, because I know how to make these gentlemen aware of their place. And I am speaking not for myself, but for you. You can joke with me. We understand each other and we know the limits to jokes, but you should not be on such familiar terms with this Zherkov. His only goal is to be noticed in some way, to win some little cross for himself, and for you to give him food and drink for free; he sees nothing beyond that and is prepared to amuse you in any way necessary, without the slightest awareness of the significance of his own jokes, but you must not do this.” “Oh, come now, he’s a fine fellow,” interceded Nesvitsky, “a fine fellow.” “It is possible to give these Zherkovs drink after dinner and get them to perform their comedies, that I can understand, but no more that that.” “That’s enough, now, brother, this is really too awkward … Well, all right, I won’t do it again, just don’t say another word,” Nesvitsky cried, laughing and leaping up from the divan. He embraced Prince Andrei and kissed him. Prince Andrei smiled like a teacher smiling at a fawning pupil. “It makes me sick to the stomach when these Zherkovs worm their way into your intimate friendship. He wishes to be elevated and cleansed through his closeness with you, but he will not be cleansed, he will only besmirch you.” V The Pavlograd Hussars Regiment was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolai Rostov was serving as a cadet was located in the German village of Salzenek. The squadron commander, Captain Denisov, known to the entire cavalry division by the name of Vaska Denisov, had been allocated the best quarters in the village. Cadet Rostov had been living with the squadron commander since he overtook the regiment in Poland. On the 8th of October, the same day when, at general headquarters, everyone was spurred into action by the news of Mack’s defeat, life at the squadron headquarters continued calmly in the same way as usual. Denisov, who had spent the entire night playing cards, was still asleep when Rostov returned on horseback early in the morning. In breeches and a hussar’s jacket, Rostov rode up to the porch and, giving his horse a pat, flung one leg over its back with a fluid, youthful movement, standing in the stirrup for a moment, as though not wishing to be parted from his horse, before finally jumping down and turning his flushed, sunburnt face with its young growth of moustache to call to his orderly. “Ah, Bondarenko, my good friend,” he said to the hussar who came dashing headlong to his horse. “Walk him for me, dear friend,” he said with that fraternal, jolly affection with which good-hearted young men address everybody when they are happy. “Yes, your excellency,” replied the Ukrainian, tossing his head merrily. “Take care now, a good walk!” Another hussar also dashed up to the horse, but Bondarenko had already brought the reins of the snaffle-bridle over the horse’s head. It was obvious that the cadet tipped well and it was profitable to do him a service. Rostov ran his hand over the horse’s neck, then its rump, and stood still by the porch. “Glorious,” he said to himself, smiling and holding his sabre down as he ran up the porch and clicked his heels and spurs together, as they do in the mazurka. The German landlord, in a quilted jacket and cap, holding the fork he was using for mucking out, glanced out of the cowshed. The German’s face suddenly brightened when he saw Rostov. He smiled cheerfully and winked: “Sch?n gut Morgen! Fine, good morning!” he repeated, evidently taking pleasure in the young man’s greeting. “Already at work,” said Nikolai, still with the same joyful, fraternal smile, which never left his animated face. “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!” he said to the German, repeating the words frequently spoken by the German landlord. The German laughed, and coming all the way out of the cowshed, he pulled off his cap, waving it over his head, and shouted: “And hurrah for all the world!” Just like the German, Rostov waved his forage cap over his head and shouted with a laugh: “And hurrah for all the world!” Although neither of them – not the German, who was mucking out his cowshed, nor Nikolai, who had taken a platoon to fetch hay – had any special reason for merriment, these two men looked at each other in transports of happiness and brotherly love, shook their heads as a sign of their mutual love and went their separate ways with a smile, the German back into the cowshed and Nikolai into the hut that he and Denisov occupied. The previous day the officers of this squadron had gathered at the quarters of the captain of the fourth squadron in a different village and spent the whole night playing cards. Rostov had been there, but he had left early. For all his desire to be the complete hussar and comrade, he could not drink more than a glass of wine without feeling ill, and he fell asleep at cards. He had too much money, and did not know what to do with it, so he could not understand the pleasure of winning. Every time he placed a stake on the advice of the officers, he won money that he did not need and observed how disagreeable this was for the man whose money it was, but he was unable to help him. Even though the squadron commander had never reprimanded him in connection with his duties, Rostov had decided for himself that in military service the most important thing was to be conscientious in performing one’s duty, and he had informed all the officers that he would regard himself as worthless trash if he ever permitted himself to skip his turn for a duty assignment or a mission. Subsequently he discovered for himself that the duties of serving as a non-commissioned officer, which no one had forced him to undertake, were onerous, but he remembered the incautious pledge that he had given and did not betray it. Having been given, as part of his duties as a non-commissioned officer, the order of the day by the sergeant-major the previous evening, he had accordingly given orders to be woken before dawn so as to take a platoon out to get hay. While Denisov was still sleeping, Rostov had already had a long talk with the hussars, taken a good look at a German girl, the daughter of the schoolteacher in Salzenek, started to feel hungry and arrived back in that happy state of mind in which all people are kind, lovable and agreeable. Quietly jingling his soldier’s spurs, he walked backwards and forwards across the squeaking floor, glancing at Denisov sleeping with his head tucked under the blanket. He wanted to talk. Denisov coughed and turned over. Rostov went up to him and tugged on the blanket. “Time to get up, Denisov! It’s time!” he shouted. Out from under the blanket popped a dark, hirsute, shaggy head with red cheeks and glittering pitch-black eyes. “Time!” shouted Denisov. “What time? Time to get the hell out of this … kingdom of salami. Such bad luck! Such bad luck! It started the moment you left. I was cleaned wight out yesterday, bwother, like a weal son of a bitch! Hey there, some tea!” Denisov leapt up on brown naked legs that were covered with black hairs as dense as a monkey’s, and he screwed up his face, as if smiling, to display short, strong teeth, while with both hands he tousled his thick black hair and moustache, which were as curly and tangled as a forest. It was clear from Denisov’s first words that he was feeling down-at-heart, that his body was weakened by wine and sleepless nights, and his cheery manner was not an expression of his feelings, but merely a habit. “What devil made me go to that wat’s place” (the officer was nicknamed “the rat”) said Denisov, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. “Can you believe that yesterday, after you left, he didn’t give me a single card, not one, not even one card,” Denisov went on, raising his voice to a shout and turning completely crimson in his excitement. Denisov was one of those people who had his blood let regularly twice a year and who were called hot-headed. “Now, that’s enough, it’s all over now,” said Rostov, noticing that Denisov was about to fly into a passion at the mere memory of his bad luck. “Let’s have some tea instead.” It was clear that Rostov had not yet grown accustomed to his position and he found it pleasant to speak so familiarly to such an old person. But Denisov was already getting carried away, his eyes turned bloodshot, he took the lighted pipe held out to him, squeezed it in his fist, struck it against the floor, scattering sparks, and carried on shouting. “No, it’s such devilish bad luck I have – he gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles, gives you the singles, then beats you on the doubles.” He scattered sparks and broke the pipe, tossed it away and threatened the orderly with his hand. But by the time Rostov began speaking a moment later, the fit of fury had already passed. “And I had such a glorious ride. We went past that park, where the teacher’s daughter is, remember?” said Rostov, blushing and smiling. “That’s young blood for you,” said Denisov, speaking calmly now, grabbing the cadet’s hand and shaking it. “The youth is blushing, it’s quite wepulsive …” “I saw her again …” “Wight then, brother, clearly I’ll have to set about the fair sex – I’ve no money, that’s enough gambling for me. Nikita, my fwiend, give me my purse,” he said to the orderly whom he had almost struck. “Right then. What a blockhead, damn it! Where’s that you’re wummaging? Under the pillow! Wight, thank you, dear fellow,” he said, taking the purse and tipping several gold coins out on to the table. “Squadwon money, fowage money, it’s all here,” he said. “There must be forty-five of fowage money alone. Ah no, why bother counting! It won’t fix me up.” He pushed the gold coins aside. “Never mind, take some from me,” said Rostov. “If they don’t bwing the pay on Sunday, things’ll be weally bad,” said Denisov, not answering him. “Well take some from me,” said Rostov, blushing in the way that young men always do when it is a matter of money. The vague thought flashed through his mind that Denisov was already in his debt, together with the thought that Denisov was insulting him by not accepting his offer. Denisov’s face fell and became sad. “I tell you what! You take Bedouin fwom me,” he said seriously, after thinking for a moment. “I paid one and a half thousand for him in Russia myself, I’ll let you have him for the same price. Nothing is sacred except the sabre. Take him! Let’s shake hands on it …” “I won’t, not for anything. The finest horse in the regiment,” said Rostov, blushing furiously again. Bedouin really was a fine horse, and Rostov would have very much liked to own him, but he felt ashamed to admit it to Denisov. He felt as if he were to blame for having money. Denisov fell silent and again began tousling his hair thoughtfully. “Hey, who’s there?” he said, turning towards the door on hearing the footfalls of thick boots with jingling spurs and a short, respectful cough. “The sergeant-major,” said Nikita. Denisov frowned even more darkly. “That’s weally bad,” he said. “Wostov, my dear fellow, count up how much is left there and chuck the purse under my pillow,” he said, going out to the sergeant-major. Rostov, already imagining himself having bought Bedouin and riding him as a cornet at the rear of the squadron, began counting the money, mechanically setting the old and new gold coins apart in equal heaps (there were seven old and sixteen new ones). “Ah! Telyanin! Gweetings! They cleaned me out yesterday,” Denisov’s sad voice said in the next room. “Where? At Bykov the rat’s place? I knew it,” said another thin voice, and then Lieutenant Telyanin, a foppish little officer from the same squadron, entered the room. Rostov tossed the purse under the pillow and shook the moist little hand extended towards him. Before the campaign, Telyanin had for some reason or other been transferred from the Guards. He was disliked in the squadron for his stand-offish manner. Rostov had bought his horse from him. “Well now, young cavalryman, how’s my Grachik serving you?” he asked. The lieutenant never looked into the eyes of the person with whom he was talking; his eyes constantly shifted about from one object to another. “I saw you ride past today …” “Well enough, a sound mount,” Rostov replied in the serious tone of an experienced cavalryman, even though the horse that he had bought for seven hundred roubles had bad legs and was not worth half that price. “He’s started limping a bit on his left foreleg …” he added. “Is the hoof split? That’s all right. I’ll teach you how, I’ll show you what kind of brace to put on.” Telyanin’s eyes never settled, despite the fact that his entire small figure had assumed an indolently nonchalant pose and the tone of his speech was slightly superior and patronising. “Would you like some tea? Yes, please do show me how to do that brace,” said Rostov. “I’ll show you, I’ll show you, it’s no secret. And you’ll thank me for that horse.” “I’ll order the horse to be led round then.” And Rostov went out to have it brought. Out in the lobby Denisov, wearing a short padded kaftan, was sitting hunched over his pipe on the doorstep in front of the sergeant-major, who was reporting something. Catching sight of Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb into the room that Telyanin had entered, he frowned and shook his head in disgust. “Oh, I don’t like that fine fellow,” he said, unembarrassed by the presence of the sergeant-major. Rostov shrugged, as if to say: “Neither do I, but what can you do?” and, after giving his instructions, he went back to Telyanin. Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands. “What a station – not a single house or a single woman since we left Poland,” said Telyanin, standing up and glancing casually around himself. “Well then, did you tell them to bring the horse?” he added. “Yes.” “Let’s go then.” “But what about tea?” “No, I don’t want any. I only called in to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you received it, Denisov?” “Not yet. Where are you going?” “I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Telyanin. They went out through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant showed him how to put on the brace and went back to his quarters. When Rostov returned there was vodka and ham standing on the table and Denisov, now dressed, was walking backwards and forwards across the room with rapid strides. He looked into Rostov’s face sombrely. “It’s not often I don’t like someone,” said Denisov, “but I find that Telyanin as repulsive as milk with sugar. He swindled you with that Grachik of his, that’s for sure. Let’s go to the stable. Take Bedouin anyway, cash in hand on the nail, and two bottles of champagne.” Rostov blushed fiercely again, like a girl. “No, please, Denisov … I won’t take the horse, not for anything. If you won’t take money as a comrade, you’ll offend me. Really. I have money.” Denisov frowned, turned away and began tousling his hair. He was clearly displeased by this. “Well, have it your way!” Rostov made to take out his money. “Later, later, I still have some. Chuchela, send in the sergeant-major,” Denisov shouted to Nikita, “I have to pay him back some money.” He went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow. “Where did you put it?” “Under the bottom pillow.” “I’m looking under the bottom pillow.” Denisov threw both pillows on to the floor. The purse was not there. “That’s incredible!” “Wait, perhaps you might have dropped it,” said Rostov, picking up the pillows by turn and shaking them. He took off the blanket and shook it out. The purse was not there. “Could I really have forgotten? No, I even had a thought that you kept your treasure under your head,” said Rostov. “I put the purse here. Where is it?” he said, turning to the servant. “I haven’t been in here. It ought to be where you left it.” “But it’s not …” “You’re always throwing things down somewhere and then forgetting. Look in your pockets.” “No, I wouldn’t have had that thought about the treasure,” said Rostov, “I remember putting it there.” Nikita rummaged through the entire bed, looking under it, under the table, rummaging through the whole room, but the purse was not there. Denisov, having turned out his own pockets, followed Nikita’s movements without speaking, and when Nikita shrugged and spread his arms in amazement, saying it was not in his pocket, he gave Rostov a glance. “Rostov, you’re playing a schoolboy …” He didn’t finish. Rostov was standing there with both hands in his pockets and his head bowed. Sensing Denisov’s gaze on him, he looked up and instantly lowered his eyes again. At that instant all of his blood, which had been locked somewhere below his throat, rushed up into his face and eyes. The young man was clearly unable to catch his breath. Denisov hastily turned away, winced and began tousling his hair. “And there was no one in the room, apart from the lieutenant and you yourself. It’s in here somewhere.” “Right, you devil’s puppet, get cracking, look for it,” Denisov suddenly shouted, turning crimson and rushing at the orderly with a threatening gesture. “I’ll have that purse, or I’ll whip you!” Gasping for breath and avoiding looking at Denisov, Rostov began buttoning up his jacket. He fastened on his sabre and put on his forage cap. “Come on, you devil. I tell you, find me that purse,” shouted Denisov, senselessly shaking the orderly by the shoulders and pushing him against the wall. “Denisov, leave him. I’ll be back straightaway,” said Rostov, walking to the door without looking up. “Rostov! Rostov!” Denisov shouted so hard that the veins on his neck and forehead swelled up like ropes. “I tell you, you’ve gone crazy, I won’t allow it.” And Denisov grabbed Rostov by the arm. “The purse is here, I’ll flay all the orderlies, and it will be here.” “But I know where the purse is,” Rostov replied in a trembling voice. They looked each other in the eye. “But I’m telling you, don’t do this,” Denisov shouted at the top of his voice, lunging at the cadet in order to hold him back. “I tell you, to hell with that money! This cannot be, I won’t allow it. It’s lost, so to hell with it …” But despite the resolute sense of his words, the captain’s hirsute face now expressed indecision and fear. Rostov pulled his arm free and fixed his eyes directly and firmly on Denisov with as much malice as if he were his greatest enemy. “Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling voice. “Apart from me, there was no one in the room. That means, if not …” He couldn’t finish what he was saying and ran out of the room. “Ah, to hell with you and everybody,” were the last words that Rostov heard. He reached Telyanin’s quarters. “The master’s not at home, he’s gone to staff headquarters,” Telyanin’s orderly told him. “Why, has something happened?” the orderly added, surprised at the cadet’s distraught expression. “No, nothing.” “You only just missed him,” said the orderly. The staff building was located three versts from Salzenek. Without returning to base, Rostov took his horse and rode to headquarters. In the village occupied by the headquarters there was an inn that was frequented by the officers. Rostov arrived at the inn and he saw Telyanin’s horse by the porch. The lieutenant was sitting in the second room of the inn, with a dish of sausages and a bottle in front of him. “Ah, you’ve called in too, young man,” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows very high. “Yes,” said Rostov, as though it cost him a great effort to pronounce the word, and sat at the next table. Neither of them said anything, there was no one else in the room and all that could be heard were the sounds of the knife against the plate and the lieutenant’s chomping. When Telyanin finished his breakfast he took a double purse out of his pocket, parted the rings with his little white fingers curved upwards, took out a gold coin and, raising his eyebrows slightly, handed the money to the servant. “Be quick, if you please,” he said. The gold coin was new. Rostov stood up and approached Telyanin. “Permit me to take a look at your purse,” he said in a low, barely audible voice. With his eyes shifting restlessly, but his eyebrows still raised, Telyanin held out the purse. “It’s a souvenir from a little Polish girl … yes …” he said and suddenly turned pale. “Take a look, young man,” he added. Rostov took hold of the purse and looked at it and the money that was in it, and at Telyanin. The lieutenant was glancing around himself in his habitual manner and he seemed suddenly to have become very jolly. “When we’re in Vienna, I’ll get rid of it all there, but there’s nothing to do with it now in these wretched little towns,” he said. “Right, come on young man, I’ll be going.” Rostov said nothing. “Well, are you buying the horse from Denisov? A fine steed,” Telyanin continued. “Give it back now.” He held out his hand and took hold of the purse. Rostov let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began lowering it into the pocket of his breeches, and his eyebrows rose carelessly, and his lips parted slightly, as if he were saying: “Yes, I’m putting my purse in my pocket, and it’s nobody’s business but mine.” “Well then, young man?” he asked with a sigh and looked into Rostov’s eyes from under his raised eyebrows. A strange light leapt with the speed of an electric spark from Telyanin’s eyes to Rostov’s eyes and back, back and forth, back and forth, all in a single instant. “Come here,” said Rostov, grabbing Telyanin by the arm. He pulled him almost over to the window. “You are a thief!” he whispered into his ear. “What? What? How dare you? What?” But these words sounded like a pitiful, desperate cry appealing for forgiveness. As soon as Rostov heard the sound of that voice, a heavy stone of doubt fell from his heart. He felt joy and at the same moment he felt so sorry for the miserable man standing before him that tears sprang to his eyes. “There are people here, God knows what they might think,” Telyanin muttered, snatching up his cap and walking towards a small empty room. “Explain yourself, what’s wrong with you?” When they entered the little room, Telyanin looked pale, grey and short, as though he had lost weight after a long illness. “Just now you stole the purse from under Denisov’s pillow,” said Rostov, emphasising each word. Telyanin was on the point of saying something. “I know this, I shall prove it.” “I …” The grey face had lost all of its attractiveness now, every muscle in it began trembling, the eyes shifted about in a different way from before, somewhere low down, not rising to look at the cadet’s face, and Rostov could hear sobbing. “Count! Do not ruin … a young man … Here is the miserable … money, take it …” He tossed it on to a table. “I have an old father, a mother!” Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin’s eyes and, without saying a word, walked out of the room. But at the door he stopped and turned back. “My God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?” “Count,” said Telyanin imploringly, approaching the cadet. “Don’t touch me,” said Rostov, moving away from him. “If you need this money, take it.” He tossed the purse to him. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” And Rostov ran out of the inn, scarcely able to conceal his tears. That evening there was a lively discussion between the squadron’s officers in Denisov’s quarters. “And I tell you, Rostov, that you should apologise to the regimental commander,” said a tall staff-captain with greying hair, immense moustaches and a wrinkled face with large features, addressing a crimson-faced, agitated Rostov. Staff-Captain Kiersten had twice been reduced to the ranks on a matter of honour and twice won promotion again. A man who did not believe in God would have been less odd in the regiment than a man who did not respect Staff-Captain Kiersten. “I will not permit anyone to say that I am a liar!” exclaimed Rostov. “He told me that I was lying, and I told him that he was lying. That is the way it will remain. He can assign me duty every day and place me under arrest, but no one will make me apologise, because if he, as the regimental commander, regards it as unworthy of him to give me satisfaction, then …” “Just you hang on, old man, you listen to me,” the staff-captain interrupted in his deep bass voice, calmly stroking his long moustaches. “In the presence of other officers you told the regimental commander that an officer stole.” “I cannot be a diplomat, I do not know how, and I am not to blame that the conversation took place in the presence of other officers. That was why I went into the hussars, I thought there was no need for such niceties here, and he told me that I was lying … then let him give me satisfaction …” “That’s all very well, no one thinks that you’re a coward, that’s not the point. Ask Denisov, does it make any sense for a cadet to demand satisfaction from the regimental commander?” Denisov was listening to the conversation with a morose air, biting on his moustache and clearly not wishing to join in. He replied to the staff-captain’s question with a shake of his head. “I told you,” he said, addressing the staff officer, “judge for yourself, as best you can. All I know is that if I hadn’t listened to you and I’d given this petty thief’s head a good battewing a long time ago (I couldn’t bear the sight of him from the vewy beginning), then nothing would have happened, there’d be none of this shameful business.” “Yes, but what’s done is done,” the staff-captain continued. “You tell the regimental commander about this filthy trick in the presence of other officers. Bogdanich” (Bogdanich was what they called the regimental commander) “put you in your place, you said a lot of stupid things to him and you ought to apologise.” “Not for anything!” cried Rostov. “I didn’t expect this of you,” the staff-captain said seriously and sternly. “You don’t want to apologise, but it’s not only him you’ve offended, old man, it’s the whole regiment, all of us, you’ve offended everyone. That’s the way of it: if only you’d thought about it and taken some advice on how to deal with this business, but you blurted it straight out, and in the presence of officers. What can the regimental commander do now? Does he have to hand an officer over to trial and besmirch the entire regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of a single scoundrel? Is that what you think? It’s not what we think. And Bogdanich did right to tell you that you were lying. It’s not nice, but what’s to be done, old man, you jumped in with both feet. And now that they want to hush the business up, out of some snobbish ideas of your own, you don’t want to apologise, you want to tell the whole story. You’re offended because you’ll be on duty detail, but what’s it to you to apologise to an old and honest officer? Whatever Bogdanich may be like, he’s still an honest and brave old colonel, what if you are offended, don’t you mind besmirching the regiment?” The staff-captain’s voice was beginning to tremble. “You’ve hardly even been in the regiment two minutes, old man, here today and tomorrow you’ve moved somewhere as a little adjutant, you don’t give a damn that people will say there are thieves among the Pavlogradsk officers! But we do care. Isn’t that right, Denisov? We do care?” “Yes, brother, I’d let them chop off my right hand, if only this business had never happened,” said Denisov, banging his fist on the table. “Your snobbish ideas mean a lot to you, you don’t want to apologise,” the staff-captain continued, “but we old men have grown up in the regiment and, God willing, we’ll die in it, so the honour of the regiment means a lot to us, and Bogdanich knows it. Oh, it means such a lot, old man! And this is not right, it’s not right. You can take offence if you like, but I always tell the honest truth. It’s not right.” And the staff-captain stood up and turned away from Rostov. “It’s true, damn it!” shouted Denisov, beginning to get worked up and glancing repeatedly at Rostov. “Come on, Wostov! Come on, Wostov! To hell with false shame, come on!” Rostov, turning red and white by turns, looked first at one officer, then at the other. “No, gentlemen, no … you, don’t think … I do understand, you’re wrong to think that about me … I … for myself … for the honour of the regiment … but what good is …? I’ll prove it to you in action, and for me the honour of the standard … all right, all the same, it’s true, I’m at fault!” There were tears in his eyes. “I’m at fault, in every way! Well, what else do you want?” “That’s the way, count,” cried the staff-captain, turning round and slapping him on the shoulder with a large hand. “Didn’t I tell you?” shouted Denisov, “devil take it, but he’s a fine chap.” “It’s the best way, count,” repeated the staff-captain, as if rewarding him for his admission by beginning to use his title. “Yes sir, go and apologise, your excellency, do.” “Gentlemen, I will do anything, no one will hear a single word from me,” Rostov said in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologise, honest to God I can’t, no matter what! How am I going to apologise, like a little child asking for forgiveness?” Denisov laughed. “It’ll be worse for you, Bogdanich never forgives, you’ll pay for your stubbornness.” “By God, it’s not stubbornness! I can’t describe to you the kind of feeling it is, I can’t …” “Well, as you wish,” said the staff-captain. “Tell me now, where’s that rogue got to?” he asked Denisov. “He’s claiming to be sick and the instwuction’s been given to dismiss him from the wegiment tomorrow. Oh, if he just cwosses my path,” said Denisov, “I’ll squash him like a fly.” “It’s a sickness, there’s no other way to explain it,” said the staff-captain. “Maybe it’s an illness, maybe not, but I’d gladly shoot him,” Denisov shouted in a bloodthirsty voice. Zherkov came into the room. “What are you doing here?” the officers all asked the new arrival. “Action, gentlemen. Mack has surrendered with his entire army and all.” “You’re lying!” “I’ve seen him myself.” “What you saw Mack, alive? With arms and legs?” “Action! Action! Give him a bottle for news like that. How do you come to be here?” “They’ve sent me back to the regiment again, because of that devil Mack. An Austrian general complained. I congratulated him on Mack’s arrival. What’s wrong with you, Rostov, you look like you’re straight out of the bathhouse.” “We’ve got a weal mess going on here, brother, it’s the second day now.” The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by Zherkov. The order was to advance the next day. “Action, gentlemen.” “Well, thank God for that. We’ve been sitting here too long.” VI Kutuzov withdrew towards Vienna, destroying the bridges on the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (at Linz) behind him. On the 23rd of October the Russian forces crossed the river Enns. By the middle of the day the Russian transports, artillery and troop columns were extended right through the town of Enns, on both sides of the bridge. It was a warm, rainy autumn day. The great panorama that opened out from the elevation on which the Russian batteries were positioned to defend the bridge would suddenly be veiled by a muslin curtain of slanting rain, but then just as suddenly clear again to reveal distant objects shining brightly in the sunlight, as if coated with lacquer. The little town could be seen down below, with its white houses and red roofs, cathedral and bridge, with the massed throng of the Russian troops streaming along on both sides. In the bend of the Danube, ships and an island could be seen, and a castle with a park, surrounded by the watery confluence of the Enns and the Danube; the rocky, pine-clad left bank of the Danube could be seen with its mysterious distant expanse of green tree-tops and bluish ravines. The towers of monasteries could be seen, jutting up out of the apparently virgin, wild pine forest, and also, far ahead, on a mountain on the other side of the Rhine, could the enemy’s mounted patrols. Standing at the front, up among the artillery pieces on the elevation, were the commander of the rearguard, a general, and an officer of his retinue, who were examining the locality through a spy-glass. A short distance behind them Prince Nesvitsky, sent to the rearguard by the commander-in-chief, was sitting on the tail of a gun-carriage. The Cossack accompanying Nesvitsky had handed him a bag and a flask and Nesvitsky was now regaling the officers with pies and genuine Doppel-K?mmel. The officers gladly crowded around him, some kneeling, some sitting cross-legged on the wet grass. “Yes, the Austrian prince who built a castle over there was no fool. A glorious spot. Why are you not eating, gentlemen?” said Nesvitsky. “Thank you so much, prince,” replied one of the officers, pleased to be talking to such an important staff official. “It is a fine spot. We marched right past that park and saw two deer, and the house is quite wonderful!” “Look, prince,” said another, who greatly wanted to take another pie, but felt too embarrassed, and therefore pretended to be surveying the locality, “look over there, see how far our infantry have already reached. And over there, on that little meadow beyond the village, three of them are dragging something away. They’ll clean that palace right out,” he said with evident approval. “That they will,” said Nesvitsky. “Yes, but what I should like,” he added, chewing on a pie with his lovely, moist mouth, “is to get way over there.” He pointed to a convent with towers that could be seen on the mountain. He smiled, his eyes narrowed and sparkled. “Now that would be good, gentlemen.” The officers laughed. “If only to give those little nuns a fright. They say there are young Italian girls. Truly, I’d give five years of my life.” “They must be bored, too, prince,” said one officer who was a bit bolder, laughing. Meanwhile the officer of the retinue standing at the front was pointing out something to the general: the general was looking through the spy-glass. “Yes, that’s it all right, that’s it,” the general said angrily, lowering the spy-glass from his eye with a shrug of his shoulders, “that’s it all right, they’ll shoot at the crossing. But why are they dawdling like that?” On the other side of the river, the enemy could be seen with the naked eye, and also his gun-battery, above which appeared a puff of milky-white smoke. Following the smoke there came the distant sound of a shot and they could see our troops begin to bustle at the crossing. Nesvitsky got up, puffing and panting, and walked over, smiling, to the general. “Would your excellency care for a bite to eat?” he said. “A bad business,” said the general, not answering him, “our people have delayed too long.” “Shall I go to them, your excellency?” asked Nesvitsky. “Yes, do please go,” said the general, repeating an order that had already been spelled out in detail, “and tell the hussars that they are to cross last and torch the bridge, as I ordered, and to inspect the combustible materials on the bridge.” “Very good,” replied Nesvitsky. He called the Cossack with his horse, ordered him to clear away the bag and flask, and swung his heavy body lightly into the saddle. “I really will call in to see the little nuns,” he said to the officers, who were looking at him with cunning smiles, and set off downhill along a winding little track. “Right then, as far as it will reach, captain, give it a try,” said the general, turning to the gunner. “Amuse yourself a bit, keep the boredom at bay.” “Man the guns!” the officer commanded, and a moment later the artillerymen came running from their campfires and loaded up. “Fire number one!” came the command. Gun number one recoiled sharply. The artillery piece gave a deafening metallic clang, a grenade flew, whistling, over the heads of our men below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a puff of smoke showing the spot where it burst. The faces of the officers and soldiers brightened at this sound: they all stood up and began observing the movements of our forces, spread out clearly below them, and, straight ahead, the movements of the approaching enemy. At that very moment the sun emerged completely from behind the clouds, and the beautiful sound of this solitary shot and the brilliance of the bright sunshine fused into a single cheerful, uplifting impression. VII Two enemy shots had already flown over the bridge, and on the bridge itself there was a crush. In the middle of the bridge, dismounted from his horse, his fat body pressed against the railings, stood Prince Nesvitsky. He glanced back, laughing, at his Cossack, who was standing a few paces behind him, holding the two horses’ bridles. No sooner did Prince Nesvitsky try to move forward than the soldiers and wagons bore down on him and squeezed him against the railings again, and there was nothing left for him to do but smile. “Hey, you, little brother!” the Cossack said to a transport soldier with a wagon, who was trying to force his way through the infantry crowding close around his wheels and horse. “Look at you! Can’t be bothered to wait to let the general through.” But the soldier, paying no heed to the title of general, shouted at the soldiers who were blocking his way. “Hey there, brothers! Keep to the left, wait!” But his fellow countrymen, crowding shoulder to shoulder and interlocking bayonets in an unbroken line, moved along the bridge in a single compact mass. Glancing down over the railings, Nesvitsky saw the swift, turbid, low waves of the Enns pursuing and overtaking each other, fusing together, rippling and curving around the piles of the bridge. Glancing at the bridge, he saw the equally uniform, living waves of soldiers, the tasselled cords, shakos with hoods, knapsacks, bayonets and long guns, and under the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks and resignedly weary expressions, and feet moving through the sticky mud that had been dragged onto the wooden boards of the bridge. Sometimes among the uniform waves of soldiers, like a splash of white foam in the waves of the Enns, an officer in a cloak squeezed his way through the soldiers, with features that were different from theirs, sometimes, like a chip of wood swirling along the river, a hussar on foot, an orderly or a local resident was carried along the bridge by the waves of infantry, sometimes, like a log floating along the river, a company cart or officer’s cart, loaded up to the top and covered with sheets of leather, floated along the bridge. “Look at them, like a dam’s burst,” said the Cossack, coming dejectedly to a halt. “Are there many more of you over there?” “A mellion, nigh on!” said a jolly soldier, winking, as he walked past in a torn greatcoat and was lost to view; behind him came another, old, soldier. “Just watch how he” (he was the enemy) “starts peppering the bridge now,” the old soldier said gloomily to his comrade, “that’ll stop you scratching yourself.” And the soldier passed on. Behind him came another soldier riding on a cart. “Where the hell did you stick those puttees?” said an orderly, running after the cart and rummaging in the back of it. And he too passed by with the cart. He was followed by some jolly soldiers who were clearly tipsy. “The way he let him have it, the darling man, smashed his musket-butt right in his teeth …” one soldier with his greatcoat tucked up high said gleefully, flinging his arms out. “That’s right enough, sweet, tasty ham,” another chortled. And they passed on by, so that Nesvitsky never did find out who was hit in the teeth and what the ham had to do with anything. “The rush they’re in, because he fired one shot from a distance. You’d think they were going to kill everyone,” a non-commissioned officer said in angry reproach. “The moment that thing flew past me, uncle, that shot,” a young soldier with a huge mouth said cheerfully, barely able to stop himself laughing, “I just froze. Really, honest to God, I was that frightened, it was terrible!” this soldier said, as though boasting that he had been frightened. That soldier also passed by: following behind him came a cart unlike all those that had passed by so far. It was a German Vorspan with a pair of horses pulling a load that seemed to be an entire household: tethered behind the Vorspan, which was driven by a German, was a beautiful brindled cow with an immense udder. Sitting on feather mattresses were a woman with a babe-in-arms, an old woman and a young, healthy German girl with a crimson flush on her cheeks. Evidently these local evacuees had been allowed through by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned to the women and while the cart was passing by, moving along step by step, all of the soldiers’ remarks concerned only the women. All of their faces bore an almost identical smile of obscene thoughts about the one woman. “What, a kraut clearing out as well.” “Sell me the missus,” said another soldier, emphasising the last word, to the German who was walking with long strides, angry and frightened, with his eyes cast down. “Just look how dolled up she is! Devils they are!” “You ought to get billeted with them, Fedotov!” “We’ve seen their kind, brother!” “Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer who was eating an apple, also half-smiling as he looked at the beautiful girl. The German showed by closing his eyes that he did not understand. RUSSIAN ARMY MARCHING ACROSS THE RIVER ENNS Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867 (#ulink_c83fba03-b0a2-5f12-9f67-ff4c09105255) “Take it if you like,” said the officer, handing the apple to the girl. The girl smiled and took it. Nesvitsky, like everyone on the bridge, kept his eyes fixed on the women until they had driven past. When they had driven past, the same kind of soldiers walked by, with the same kind of talk until finally, everyone came to a halt. As often happens, the horses in a company wagon had baulked at the end of the bridge and the entire crowd had to wait. “What are they stopping for? There’s no order at all!” said the soldiers. “Where are you pushing? Damn you! Can’t be bothered to wait. It’ll be worse again when he sets fire to the bridge. Look, they’ve got an officer jammed in here too,” the halted crowds said on all sides, looking each other over, and they all pressed forward towards the way out. Glancing at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvitsky suddenly heard another sound new to him, something drawing closer, something big that plopped into the water. “Look how far he’s flinging them!” a soldier standing close by said grimly, glancing round at the sound. “He’s encouraging us to get across quick,” another said agitatedly. The crowd began moving again. Nesvitsky realised that it had been a shot. “Hey, Cossack, give me my horse!” he said. “Right, you! Stand aside! Stand aside! Make way!” With a great effort he managed to reach his horse. Still continuing to shout, he began moving forward. The soldiers squeezed together to make way for him, but then bore against him again so strongly that they squeezed his leg tight, and the ones closest to him were not to blame, because they were being crushed even more powerfully. “Nesvitsky! Nesvitsky! You ugly pig!” a hoarse voice called out from behind at just that moment. Nesvitsky glanced round and fifteen paces away, separated from him by the living mass of moving infantry, he saw Vaska Denisov, red-faced, black-haired and tousled, with his cap on the back of his head and a hussar’s pelisse thrown dashingly across his shoulder. “Order these devils to make way,” shouted Denisov, evidently in the throes of a fit of passion, rolling his glittering eyes as black as coal in their inflamed whites and waving his sabre still in its scabbard, holding it in a naked little hand as red as his face. “Hey! Vasya!” Nesvitsky replied happily. “What are you up to?” “The squadron can’t get through,” shouted Vaska Denisov, baring his white teeth angrily, spurring on his beautiful black thoroughbred Bedouin, who, twitching his ears as he ran up against bayonets, was snorting and scattering spray around himself from his curb-bit, beating his hooves resoundingly on the boards of the bridge, and seemed ready to leap over the railings of the bridge, if his rider would allow him. “What’s this? Like sheep! Exactly like sheep! Exactly … give way! Stop, over there, you, the cart, damn it! I’ll slice you with my sabre …” he shouted, actually baring his sabre and beginning to wave it about. The soldiers squeezed against each other with frightened faces, and Denisov joined Nesvitsky. “Why aren’t you drunk today, then?” Nesvitsky said to Denisov when he rode up to him. “They won’t even give you time to get drunk!” replied Vaska Denisov. “All day long, dragging the regiment this way and that way. Let’s fight, if we’re going to. But God only knows what’s going on!” “What a dandy you are today!” said Nesvitsky, examining Denisov’s new pelisse and saddlecloth. Denisov smiled, took a handkerchief that gave off a smell of perfume out of his flap pocket, and thrust it under Nesvitsky’s nose. “But of course, I’m going into action! I shaved, brushed my teeth and put on scent.” The imposing figure of Denisov, accompanied by the Cossack, and Denisov’s determination, waving his sabre and shouting wildly, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through to the other side of the bridge and halted the infantry. At the exit Nesvitsky found the colonel to whom he had to pass on the orders and, having carried out his assignment, set off back. After clearing the way, Denisov halted at the entrance to the bridge. Casually restraining the stallion that was straining to get to its fellows and stamping its foot, he looked at the squadron moving towards him. The hollow echoing of hoof beats rang along the boards of the bridge, as though there were several horses galloping, and the squadron, riding four men abreast in each row, with the officers in front, stretched out along the bridge and began emerging on to the other side. Handsome young Peronsky, the finest horseman in the regiment and a rich man, brought up the rear, weaving to and fro on his three-thousand-rouble stallion. The foot soldiers, forced to halt, jostled in the trampled mud by the bridge, watching the clean, dandified hussars riding past them in strict order with that special feeling of spiteful, derisive antipathy with which different kinds of troops meet each other. “Fine smart lads! Just the thing for the Podnovinskoe Park!” “What are they good for? They only keep them for show!” said another. “Don’t kick up the dust, infantry!” joked a hussar whose horse pranced and splashed mud on a foot soldier. “If I put you through a couple of days’ marching with a knapsack, your fancy laces would soon be looking tattered,” said the infantryman, wiping the mud from his face with his sleeve, “perched up there like a bird, not a man!” “And if they sat you on a horse, Zinkin, you’d manage really well,” said a corporal, mocking the thin little soldier hunched over under the weight of his knapsack. “Put a club between your legs, and that will be your steed,” the hussar responded. VIII The remaining infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, funnelling in tightly at the entrance. Eventually the carts all got across, the crush became less heavy and the final battalion stepped onto the bridge. Only the hussars of Denisov’s squadron were left at the other end of the bridge to face the enemy. The enemy, visible in the far distance from the facing mountain, could still not be seen from the bridge below, since the horizon of the depression along which the river flowed was bounded by the opposing elevation at a distance of no more than half a verst. Ahead of them lay a wasteland, across which a mounted patrol of our Cossacks was moving here and there in little clusters. Suddenly troops in blue coats and artillery appeared on the opposite elevation of the road. It was the French. The Cossack patrol withdrew downhill at a canter. All the officers and men of Denisov’s squadron, although they tried to talk about something else and look somewhere else, could not stop thinking about what was up there on the hill, and they all kept glancing constantly at the spots of colour appearing on the horizon, which they recognised as enemy troops. After midday the weather had cleared up again, the sun was bright as it moved lower over the Danube and the dark mountains surrounding it. It was quiet, and occasionally the sounds of horns and the shouts of the enemy reached them from that mountain. There was no one left now between the squadron and the enemy soldiers, apart from small mounted patrols. An empty space, about three hundred sazhens across, separated them from the enemy, who had stopped firing, so that the stern, menacing, unassailable and imperceptible line that separates two hostile forces could be sensed even more clearly. A single step across that line, which resembles the line separating the living from the dead, and there is the mystery of suffering and death. And what is over there? Who is there? There, beyond this field and village and roof lit up by the sunlight? Nobody knows, you want to know and at the same time you are afraid to cross this line, and you want to cross it, and you know that sooner or later you will have to cross it and learn what is over there, on the far side of the line, just as you will inevitably learn what is over there, on the far side of the death. And you are so strong, healthy, merry and excited and surrounded by such healthy and boisterously excited men. Although no one thinks this, every man senses it when he is within view of the enemy, and this feeling lends a particular brilliance and joyful clarity to the impressions of everything that takes place at such moments. The smoke-puff of a shot appeared on a hillock beside the enemy and the shot whistled over the heads of the squadron of hussars. The officers, who had been standing together, each went to their own places and the hussars began painstakingly drawing the horses up in lines. Everyone in the squadron fell silent. They all kept glancing straight ahead at the enemy and the squadron commander, waiting for the command. Another shot, the third, flew past. It was obvious that they were firing at the hussars; but the shot flew past over the hussars’ heads with a swift, uniform whistle and struck somewhere behind them. The hussars did not look round, but every time there was the sound of a shot flying over, the whole squadron, with its faces that were all identical but different, and its trimmed moustaches, held its breath as if by command while the shot was in the air and, tensing the muscles of all its legs in their tight blue breeches, half-stood in the stirrups and then sank down again. Without turning their heads, the soldiers squinted sideways at each other, curious to spy out the impression made on their comrades. On every face, from Denisov to the bugler, the single common expression of the struggle between irritation and excitement appeared around the lips and the chin. The sergeant-major frowned, surveying the soldiers as though he were threatening them with punishment. The cadet Mironov bent down every time a shot flew over. Rostov, standing on the left flank on his mount Grachik, handsome but with the bad legs, had the happy air of a pupil called out in front of a large audience to answer an examination question in which he was certain that he would distinguish himself. He glanced round at everyone with a clear, bright gaze, as though asking them to notice how calmly he stood his ground under fire. But in his face also, even against his will, that same expression of something new and stern appeared around the mouth. NAPOLEON IN 1807 Engraving by Debucourt (#ulink_2b01bdcf-01ea-5923-acbc-754f92d29119) “Who’s that bowing over there? Cadet Miwonov! That won’t do, look at me!” shouted Denisov, who could not stay still and was whirling round on his horse in front of the squadron. Vaska Denisov’s face, with its snub nose and black hair, and his entire stocky little figure with the short, hair-covered fingers of the sinewy hand in which he was grasping the hilt of his drawn sabre, was exactly the same as it always was, especially in the evening after he had drunk two bottles. He was only redder than usual and, throwing his shaggy head back and up as birds do when they sing, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his good Bedouin with his small feet and appearing to fall backwards, he galloped off to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice that they should inspect their pistols. As he rode by he glanced at the handsome officer Peronsky in the rear and hastily turned away. In his semi-dress hussar uniform, on his steed that cost thousands, Peronsky was very handsome. But his handsome face was as white as snow. His thoroughbred stallion, hearing the terrible sounds above its head, had entered into that fervent fury of the well-trained thoroughbred of which children and hussars are so fond. He kept snorting, jingling the chain and rings of his bit and striking at the ground with his slim, muscular leg, sometimes not reaching it and waving his foot through the air, or, turning his lean head to the right and the left as far as his bit allowed, he squinted at his rider with a black, bulging bloodshot eye. Turning fierily away from him, Denisov set off towards Kiersten. The staff-captain was riding at a walk towards Denisov on a broad, sedate mare. The staff-captain, with his long moustaches, was serious as always, only his eyes were gleaming more than usual. “What is this?” he said to Denisov. “This action won’t get as far as an attack. You’ll see, we’ll withdraw.” “God only knows what they’re doing!” shouted Denisov. “Ah! Wostov!” he cried to the cadet as he noticed him. “Well, here you are at last.” And he smiled approvingly as he looked at the cadet, evidently pleased for him. Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just at that moment the commander appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped towards him. “Your excellency! Permission to attack! I’ll thwow them back!” “What do you mean, attack?” said the commander in a bored voice, frowning as though at some tiresome fly. “And why are you holding position here? Can’t you see the flankers are withdrawing? Pull your squadron back.” The squadron crossed the bridge and moved out of range without losing a single man. They were followed across by the second squadron, which had been on the skirmish line, and the final Cossacks withdrew, clearing that side of the river. IX After crossing the bridge, one after another the two squadrons of Pavlograd Hussars set off back uphill. The regimental commander, Karl Bogdanovich Schubert, came across to Denisov’s squadron and rode at a walk not far from Rostov, not paying the slightest attention to him, even though this was the first time they had seen each other since the old clash over Telyanin. Rostov, feeling that at the front he was in the power of a man whom he now considered himself guilty of offending, kept his eyes fixed on the athletic back, blond head and red neck of the regimental commander. Sometimes it seemed to Rostov that Bogdanich was only pretending not to notice him and that his entire purpose now was to test the cadet’s courage, and he drew himself erect and gazed around cheerfully: sometimes it seemed to him that Bogdanich was deliberately riding close in order to demonstrate his own courage to Rostov. Sometimes Nikolai thought that now his enemy would deliberately send the squadron into a reckless attack in order to punish him. Sometimes he thought that after the attack the commander would walk up to him and magnanimously offer him, now a wounded man, the hand of reconciliation. Zherkov’s high-shouldered figure, well-known to the Pavlograders, rode up to the regimental commander. After his banishment from the central headquarters staff, Zherkov had not remained in the regiment, saying that he was no fool, to go slaving away at the front, when he would be better rewarded at staff headquarters for doing nothing, and he had managed to obtain a place as an orderly with Prince Bagration. He had come to his former commanding officer with an order from the commander of the rearguard. “Colonel,” he said with grim seriousness, addressing Nikolai’s enemy and surveying his comrades, “the order is to halt and fire the bridge.” “Who the ordered?” the colonel asked morosely. “That I do not know, colonel, who the ordered,” the cornet replied na?vely and seriously, “only that the prince told me: ‘Go and tell the colonel that the hussars must go back quickly and fire the bridge.’” Following Zherkov, an officer of the retinue rode up to the colonel of hussars with the same order. Following the officer of the retinue, the fat Nesvitsky rode up on a Cossack horse that was scarcely able to carry him at a gallop. “What’s this, colonel,” he cried as he was still riding up, “I told you to fire the bridge; and now someone’s garbled it, everyone’s going mad up there and you can’t make sense of anything.” The colonel unhurriedly halted the regiment and turned to Nesvitsky: “You telled me about the combustible substances,” he said, “but you don’t told me anything about setting fire to them.” “Come on now, old man,” Nesvitsky said when he came to a halt, taking off his cap and straightening his sweaty hair with a plump hand, “certainly I told you to fire the bridge when you had put the combustible substances in place.” “I’m not your ‘old man’, mister staff officer, and you did not told me fire the bridge! I know military service, and am in the habit of following strictly orders. You telled me they would set fire to the bridge. How by the Holy Spirit know can I …” “There, it is always the same,” said Nesvitsky with a wave of his hand. “What brings you here?” he asked, addressing Zherkov. “Why, the same thing. But you have become all damp, allow me to wring you out.” “You said, mister staff officer …” the colonel continued in an offended tone. “Colonel,” the officer of the retinue interrupted, “you need to hurry, or the enemy will have moved his guns close enough to fire grapeshot.” The colonel looked without speaking at the officer of the retinue, at the fat headquarters staff officer, at Zherkov and frowned. “I shall fire the bridge,” he said in a solemn tone of voice as though, despite all the problems they were causing him, this was how he showed his magnanimity. Striking his horse with his long, well-muscled legs, as if it were to blame for everything, the colonel rode out in front and commanded the second squadron, the very one in which Rostov was serving under Denisov’s command, to go back to the bridge. “So that’s how it is,” thought Rostov, “he wants to test me!” His heart faltered and the blood rushed to his face. “Then let him look and see if I’m a coward,” he thought. Again there appeared on all the jolly faces of the men in the squadron the same serious expression that they had worn when they were holding position under fire. Nikolai kept his eyes fixed on his enemy, the regimental commander, wishing to discover some confirmation of his guesses in his face, but the colonel did not even glance at Nikolai once and he looked stern and solemn, as he always did at the front. The command rang out. “Look lively, lively now!” said several voices around him. Snagging the reins with their sabres, jangling their spurs in their haste, the hussars dismounted, not knowing themselves what they were going to do. The hussars crossed themselves. Rostov was no longer looking at the regimental commander, he had no time for that. He was afraid, his heart was sinking in fear that he might somehow fall behind the hussars. His hand trembled as he handed his horse to the holder, and he could feel the blood pounding as it rushed to his heart. Denisov rode past him, lounging backwards and shouting something. Nikolai could not see anything apart from the hussars running around him, getting their spurs tangled and jangling their sabres. “A stretcher!” someone’s voice shouted behind him. Rostov did not think about what the demand for a stretcher meant, he ran, trying only to be ahead of all the others, but just at the bridge, not looking where he was putting his feet, he stepped into the sticky trampled mud, slipped and fell on to his hands. The others ran round him. “On both sides, captain,” he heard the regimental commander’s voice say. The commander, having ridden forward, had stopped on his horse not far from the bridge with a triumphant, jolly expression. Rostov, wiping his dirty hands on his breeches, glanced round at his enemy and started running further, assuming that the further forward he went, the better it would be. But Bogdanich, even though he had not been looking and did not recognise Rostov, shouted at him: “Who’s that running in the middle of the bridge? To the right side! Cadet, come back!” he shouted angrily. Even now, however, Karl Bogdanovich did not pay any attention to him: but he did turn to Denisov who, flaunting his courage, had ridden on to the boards of the bridge. “Why take a risk, captain! You should dismount,” said the colonel. “Eh! It’ll hit whoever it likes,” replied Vaska Denisov, turning round in the saddle. Meanwhile Nesvitsky, Zherkov and the officer of the retinue were standing together, out of range, and watching either one or another of the small groups of men in yellow shakos, dark-green jackets decorated with tasselled cords and blue breeches fussing about beside the bridge, or watching the far side, where in the distance the blue coats were drawing nearer, and the groups with horses which could easily be taken for gun crews. “Will they fire the bridge or won’t they? Who’ll be first? Will they get there and fire the bridge, or will the French get within grapeshot distance and kill them all?” Every one of the large number of troops who were standing above the bridge had his heart in his mouth and could not help asking himself this question, and in the bright evening light they watched the bridge and the hussars, and the far side where the blue hoods were advancing with bayonets and guns. “Oh! The hussars are in for it!” said Nesvitsky. “They’re within grapeshot range now.” “He shouldn’t have taken so many men,” said the officer of the suite. “No, he really shouldn’t,” said Nesvitsky. “He could have sent two brave lads, it would have been all the same.” “Ah, your excellency,” interjected Zherkov, keeping his eyes fixed on the hussars, but still speaking with that na?ve manner of his, which made it impossible to guess whether what he said was serious or not. “Ah, your excellency! What a way to think! Send two men, then who’s going to give us an Order of St. Vladimir with a ribbon? But this way, even though they’ll take a drubbing, you can still present the squadron and get a ribbon for yourself. Our Bogdanich knows the ways things are done.” “Well,” said the officer of the retinue, “that’s grapeshot.” He pointed to the French artillery pieces which were being uncoupled from their limbers and rapidly moving away. “But he’s wrong,” continued Zherkov, “I’ll be presented too, we were under fire as well.” At that moment a puff of smoke appeared again in the groups with the artillery pieces, then a second and a third and just as the sound of the first shot reached them, a fourth puff appeared. Two sounds one after the other, then a third. “O-oh!” gasped Nesvitsky, as if from some searing pain, clutching at the arm of the officer of the retinue. “Look, one of them has fallen, he’s fallen.” “Two, I think.” “If I were Tsar, I would never go to war. And why are they taking so long?” They were hastily reloading the French field guns. Again, this time at even intervals, the puffs of smoke appeared, and the grapeshot rattled and clattered along the bridge. But this time Nesvitsky could not see what was happening there. Thick smoke rose from the bridge. The hussars had managed to set fire to it, and the French batteries were no longer firing at them simply in order to hinder them, but because the guns were trained and there was someone to shoot at. The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars returned to the horse-holders. Two volleys were fired inaccurately and all the grapeshot carried too far, but the final shot landed in the middle of the group of hussars and felled three of them. Nikolai Rostov, obsessed by his relations with Bogdanovich, stayed on the bridge, not knowing what he ought to do. There was no one to hack at (in the way that he had always imagined battle) and he could not help in firing the bridge either, because he had not brought a plaited twist of straw with him, as the other soldiers had done. He was standing there looking around when suddenly there was a rattling sound like nuts being scattered along the bridge and one of the hussars closest to him fell on to the railings with a groan. Nikolai ran over to him together with some others. Again someone shouted: “Stretcher!” Four men grabbed hold of the hussar and began lifting him up. “Aaaagh! Leave me, for Christ’s sake,” cried the wounded man, but even so they lifted him and set him down. His cap fell off. They picked it up and threw it on to the stretcher. Nikolai Rostov turned away, as though looking for something, he began looking into the distance, at the water of the Danube, at the sky, at the sun. How good the sky looked, how blue, calm and deep! How bright and triumphant the descending sun was! How tenderly lustrous the gleaming water was in the distant Danube! And even better were the distant blue mountains beyond the Danube, the convent, the mysterious ravines, the pine forests filled up to the crowns of the trees with mist … it was quiet and happy there … “I wouldn’t want anything, anything at all, if only I were there,” thought Nikolai. “In just me and this sun there is so much happiness, but here … groaning, suffering, fear and this uncertainty, this haste … Now they’re shouting something again and again everyone has gone running back somewhere, and I’m running with them, and there it is, there is death above me, around me … another instant and I shall never see this sun again, this water, this ravine …” At that moment the sun began moving behind the clouds; ahead of Nikolai another stretcher appeared. The fear of death and the stretcher, and love of the sun and life, all fused together into a single, painfully disturbing impression. “Lord God Almighty! The One who is up there in this sky, save, forgive and protect me!” Nikolai whispered to himself. The hussars ran up to the horse-holders, their voices became louder and calmer, the stretcher disappeared from view … “Well, bwother, had a whiff of gunpowder?” Vaska Denisov’s voice shouted in his ear. “It’s all over, but I’m a coward, I’m a coward,” thought Nikolai, and, sighing deeply, he took his Grachik, who was holding one foot out to the side, and began to mount him. “What was that, grapeshot?” he asked Denisov. “The weal thing, all wight!” shouted Denisov. “We put up a fine show. And it was a foul job! An attack is pleasant work, you’re all on fire, you forget yourself, but this is God knows what, they shoot at you like a target.” And Denisov rode off to a group of men that had halted not far away from Rostov: the regimental commander, Nesvitsky, Zherkov and the officer of the retinue. “But it seems that no one noticed,” Rostov thought to himself. And indeed, no one had noticed, because everyone was familiar with the feeling that the cadet new to fire had experienced for the first time. “This will mean a report for you,” said Zherkov, “they might even promote me to second lieutenant.” “Inform the prince that the bridge I have fired,” the colonel said triumphantly and happily. “And if they ask about our losses?” “A mere trifle!” rumbled the colonel. “Two hussars wounded and one killed outright,” he said with evident delight, unable to restrain a happy smile as he loudly snapped out the lovely word outright. X Pursued by a French army of a hundred thousand men under the command of Bonaparte, met by an unfriendly local population, no longer trusting in their allies, suffering from a shortage of provisions and obliged to act outside all the anticipated conditions of warfare, the Russian army of thirty thousand, under the command of Kutuzov, hastily retreated downstream along the Danube, halting where the enemy closed in on it and defending itself with rearguard action only insofar as necessary to withdraw without loss of heavy equipment. There were actions at Lambach, Amstetten and Melk, but despite the courage and fortitude that were acknowledged even by the French against whom the Russians were fighting, the only consequence of these actions was even more rapid withdrawal. The Austrian troops who had avoided capture at the Ulm and joined with Kutuzov at Braunau, now separated from the Russian army and Kutuzov was left with only his own weak, exhausted forces. It was no longer possible even to think of defending Vienna. Instead of the offensive strategy of war, thoroughly considered according to the laws of the new science of military strategy, the plan for which had been transmitted to Kutuzov by the Austrian Hofkriegsrat while he was in Vienna, the only goal – an almost unattainable one – that now presented itself to Kutuzov was to unite with the forces on their way from Russia without destroying his army as Mack had done at the Ulm. On the 28th of October Kutuzov and his army crossed to the left bank of the Danube and halted for the first time, having put the Danube between them and the main forces of the French. On the 30th they attacked Mortier’s division on the left bank and routed it. In this action trophies were taken for the first time: a banner, guns and two enemy generals. For the first time, following two weeks of retreat, the Russian forces had halted and had not only been left holding the battlefield after the battle, but had also routed the French. Despite the fact that the troops were inadequately dressed and exhausted, with their numbers reduced by a third by stragglers and wounded, dead and sick, despite all this, the halt at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of the troops significantly. Throughout the army and at its headquarters there circulated extremely joyful, but inaccurate rumours of columns supposedly approaching from Russia, of some victory won by the Austrians and of Bonaparte retreating in fright. During the battle, Prince Andrei had been with the Austrian general Schmidt, who was killed in the course of the action. Bolkonsky’s horse was wounded under him and he himself received a slight graze on the arm from a bullet. As a sign of the commander-in-chief’s special favour, he was sent to carry the news of this victory to the Austrian court, at that time no longer located in Vienna, which was under threat from French forces, but in Br?nn. On the night following the battle an excited but unweary Prince Andrei (who, despite his delicate appearance, could bear physical fatigue far better than the very strongest of men) arrived in Krems on horseback with a report from Dokhturov for Kutuzov, and that same night Prince Andrei was sent as a courier to Br?nn. To be sent as a courier signified, in addition to awards, an important step towards promotion. Having received the dispatch, and letters and instructions from comrades, Prince Andrei set off at night, getting into a britzka by the light of a lantern. “Well, brother,” said Nesvitsky, embracing him as he saw him on his way. “I congratulate you in advance on the Order of Marya-Theresa.” “I tell you as an honest man,” replied Prince Andrei, “if they were to give me nothing, it is all the same to me. I am so happy, so happy … that I am carrying such news … that I myself saw it … you understand me.” The exciting sense of danger and awareness of one’s own courage that Prince Andrei had experienced during the battle had only been intensified by a sleepless night and the mission to the Austrian court. He was a different man, animated and affectionate. “Well, Christ be with you …” “Goodbye, my dear friend. Goodbye, Kozlovsky.” “Kiss the pretty hand of Baroness Seifer from me. And bring back at least a bottle of Cordial if you have room,” said Nesvitsky. “I’ll bring the bottle and give the kiss.” “Goodbye.” The whip cracked and the postal britzka set off at a gallop over the dark mud road, past the lights of the troops. It was a dark, starry night, the road was black against the white snow that had fallen the previous day, the day of the battle. Whether reviewing his impressions of the battle that had taken place, or happily imagining the impression that he would produce with the news of victory, recalling how he had been seen off by the commander-in-chief and by his comrades, Prince Andrei experienced the feeling of a man who has been waiting a long time for the happiness he desires to begin and has finally achieved it. No sooner did he close his eyes than his ears were filled with the roar of muskets and artillery, which fused with the hammering of the wheels and the impression of victory. Sometimes he began to dream that the Russians were running, that he himself had been killed, but he came to hurriedly, with a happy feeling, as if discovering anew that none of that had happened and, on the contrary, it was the French who had run. He recalled once again all the details of the victory, of his own calm courage during the battle and, reassured, he fell into a doze … The dark, starry night was followed by a bright, cheerful morning. The snow was melting in the sunshine, the horses were galloping along briskly and a diverse sequence of forests, fields and villages passed by on the right and left alike. At one of the post-stages he overtook a string of wagons carrying Russian wounded. Sprawling on the front wagon, the Russian officer leading the transport shouted something, abusing a soldier with coarse words. There were six or more pale, bandaged, dirty wounded jolting over the rocky road in each of the long German Vorspans. Some of them were talking (he could hear Russian speech), others were eating bread, the most seriously hurt silently watched the courier galloping past them with the meek, childish interest of the sick. “The poor unfortunates!” thought Prince Andrei. “But they are also inevitable …” He ordered the driver to stop and asked a soldier in which action they had been wounded. “The day before yesterday on the Danube,” the soldier replied. Prince Andrei took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold coins. “For everybody,” he added, addressing the officer who had come up to him. “Get well, lads,” he said to the soldiers, “there’s still plenty of work to do.” “Well, mister adjutant, what news?” asked the officer, evidently wishing to strike up a conversation. “Good news. Forward!” he called to the driver and galloped on. It was already completely dark when Prince Andrei drove into Br?nn and found himself surrounded by tall buildings, the lights of shops, windows, houses and street lamps, beautiful carriages rattling along the roadway and all the atmosphere of a big, bustling town that a military man always finds so attractive after camp. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, as Prince Andrei drove up to the palace, he felt even more lively than the evening before, only his eyes now gleamed with a feverish glitter, and his thoughts revolved with exceptional rapidity and clarity. All the details of the battle appeared vividly to him again, no longer vague, but quite definite, in the condensed exposition which he was making to the Emperor Franz in his imagination. He vividly imagined the Emperor’s face, and all the chance questions that might be put to him, and the answers he would give. He expected to be presented to the Emperor straight away. But at the main entrance to the palace, an official ran out to him and, recognising him as a courier, showed him to a different entrance. “Turn right out of this corridor, your excellency, there you will find the duty aide-de-camp. He will take you to the war minister.” The duty aide-de-camp, after greeting Andrei, asked him to wait and went to the war minister. Five minutes later the aide-de-camp came back and, bowing with especial politeness and allowing Prince Andrei to precede him, showed the prince along a corridor to the study where the war minister was at work. The war minister apparently wished to employ his refined courtesy to protect himself against any attempt at familiarity by the Russian adjutant. Prince Andrei’s jubilant exaltation faded significantly as he approached the door of the war minister’s study. He felt insulted and, as always happened in his proud heart, at that very moment the feeling of offence expanded, unperceived by him, into a feeling of contempt that was entirely without any basis. In that same instant his resourceful mind also suggested to him the viewpoint from which he had the right to despise both the adjutant and the war minister. “No doubt it will seem to them very easy to win a victory, without smelling gunpowder,” he thought. His eyes narrowed contemptuously, his arms slumped lifelessly at his sides and he walked into the war minister’s study as if he could barely drag his feet along. This feeling grew stronger still when he saw the war minister sitting at a large desk paying no attention, for the first two minutes, to the man who had just come in. The war minister, whose bald head with its grey temples was bent over the papers which he was reading, in the light of two wax candles, and marking with a pencil, went on to complete his reading, refusing to raise his head, even when the door had opened and he heard footsteps. “Take this and pass it on,” the war minister said to his adjutant, handing him some papers and still ignoring the courier. Prince Andrei sensed that, of all the affairs occupying the war minister, the actions of Kutuzov’s army were those least capable of holding his interest, or so he wished to make the Russian courier feel. “But that is all the same to me,” he thought. The war minister gathered up the rest of his papers, squared them together edge to edge and raised his head. He had an intelligent and distinctive face. But as soon as he addressed Prince Andrei, his intelligent and firm expression altered, in a manner that was clearly habitual and deliberate, and his face assumed a stupid, affected smile that did not attempt to conceal its own artificiality, the smile of a man who receives many petitioners one after another. “From General-Field-Marshal Kutuzov?” he asked. “Good news, I hope? There has been a clash with Mortier? A victory? About time!” He took the dispatch, which was addressed to him, and began reading it with a sad expression. “Ah, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he said in German. “What a misfortune! What a misfortune!” After quickly looking through the dispatch, he laid it on the desk and glanced at Prince Andrei, evidently pondering something. “Ah, what a misfortune! You say the action is conclusive? But Mortier has not been taken, even so.” He thought for a moment. “I am very glad you have brought good news, although the death of Schmidt is a high price to pay for victory. His Majesty will certainly wish to see you, but not today. Thank you, take a rest now. Tomorrow be at the exit after the parade. However, I will let you know.” The stupid smile that had disappeared during the conversation appeared once again on the war minister’s face. “Goodbye, thank you very much. His Majesty the Emperor will probably wish to see you,” he repeated and inclined his head. Prince Andrei went out into the waiting room. There were two adjutants sitting there, talking to each other, evidently about something entirely unrelated to Prince Andrei’s arrival. One of them stood up reluctantly and, with the same insolent politeness as before, asked Prince Andrei to write his rank, title and address in the book that he handed to him. Prince Andrei complied with his wish in silence and left the waiting room without even glancing in his direction. As he emerged from the palace, he felt that all the interest and joy that victory had brought him had now been left behind in the indifferent hands of the war minister and the polite adjutant. His entire frame of mind had changed instantly and the battle now seemed to him like a distant memory from long ago: what now seemed most vital and significant to him were his reception by the war minister, the politeness of the adjutant and his forthcoming presentation to the emperor. XI Prince Andrei went on to the house of the Russian diplomat, Bilibin. The diplomat’s German servant recognised Prince Andrei, who had stayed with Bilibin when he visited Vienna, and chatted garrulously as he received him. “Herr von Bilibin was obliged to leave his apartment in Vienna. That accursed Bonaparte!” said the diplomat’s servant. “He has created so many misfortunes, so much loss and disorder!” “Is Mr. Bilibin well?” asked Prince Andrei. “Not entirely well, he’s still not going out, and will be very glad to see you. This way, if you please. They will bring your things. Will the Cossack be staying here too? Look, here’s the master, he has heard you.” “Ah, dear prince, no guest is more welcome,” said Bilibin, coming out to greet his visitor. “Franz, put the prince’s things in my bedroom. Well, here as a herald of victory? Excellent. But I am a house-bound invalid, as you see.” “Yes, a herald of victory,” replied Prince Andrei, “but not, it would seem, a very welcome one.” “Well, if you are not too tired, tell me of your exalted feats over supper,” said Bilibin and, putting his feet up on a chaise-longue, he settled himself by the fire to wait until Prince Andrei, washed and changed, emerged into the diplomat’s luxurious study and sat down to the meal that had been prepared for him. “Franz, move the screen, or it will be too hot for the prince.” After his journey, and indeed after the entire campaign, throughout which he had been totally deprived of the comforts of cleanliness and a civilised life, Prince Andrei now felt pleasantly relaxed on being once more in the luxurious surroundings to which he had been accustomed since childhood. He also found it pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to talk, if not actually in Russian (for he and Bilibin spoke in French), then at least with someone Russian who, he knew, shared his own aversion (an aversion now felt with particular intensity) to the Austrians. The only thing that struck an unpleasant note was that Bilibin listened to his account with almost the same distrust and indifference as had the Austrian war minister. Bilibin was a man of about thirty-five, a bachelor, from the same social circles as Prince Andrei. They had already been acquainted in St. Petersburg, but had become particularly close during Prince Andrei’s last visit to Vienna with Kutuzov. Bilibin had told him on that occasion that should he ever come to Vienna, he must be sure to stay with him. Just as Prince Andrei was a young man who promised to go far in the military field, so Bilibin promised even greater things in the field of diplomacy. Though still young in years, he was not new to diplomacy, since he had entered the service at sixteen, and had been in Paris, in Copenhagen and now in Vienna where he held an important post. Both the chancellor and our envoy in Vienna knew and valued him. He was not one of those numerous diplomats who are expected to display purely negative qualities, doing nothing of great note and merely speaking French in order to be effective. He was, rather, a diplomat who loved his work and knew how to go about it and, despite his natural indolence, sometimes spent whole nights at his desk. Whatever the task, he always applied the same effort. It was not the question “why?” but the question “how?” that interested him. No matter what the content, it was the composing of a circular, a memorandum or a report with concise, deft elegance that gave him satisfaction. Aside from his writing, Bilibin’s wider capacities were also greatly valued, in particular his ability to establish contact with the higher spheres of power and maintain dialogue at that level. Bilibin loved conversation in the same way that he loved work, but only so long as it could be subtly witty. In company he was constantly alert for the chance to say something of note and he would only take part when he could do so. All Bilibin’s talk was spiced with sharply original, well-turned phrases that appealed to everyone. These witticisms were expressly forged in Bilibin’s internal laboratory to travel forth, so that lesser members of society might remember them with ease and bear them from one set of drawing rooms to another. And indeed, Bilibin’s opinions had spread through all the drawing rooms of Vienna, being frequently repeated and frequently having influence on matters deemed important. His thin, emaciated, unusually pale face was entirely covered with large, young wrinkles, which always looked as assiduously and scrupulously clean as the tips of one’s fingers after a bath. The movements of these wrinkles were his physiognomy’s main means of expression. Either his forehead would wrinkle into broad folds and his eyebrows would rise, or his eyebrows would be lowered and large folds would form on his cheeks. The gaze of the small, deep-set eyes was always direct and jovial. Despite his refinement of dress, refinement of manners and the elegant French that he spoke so well, there were nevertheless still Russian traits discernible in his whole face, figure and the modulations of his voice. Bolkonsky related the action in the most modest fashion, without once mentioning himself, and told about the reception by the war minister. “They made me as welcome with this news as a dog at a game of skittles,” he concluded. Bilibin laughed and relaxed the folds in his skin. “And yet, mon cher,” he said, contemplating his own fingernail from a distance and again puckering the skin above his left eye, “for all my respect for the Army of Orthodoxy, I’m bound to say that your victory was not an altogether brilliant one.” He went on in the same vein in French, pronouncing in Russian only those words that he wished to emphasise with contempt. “How could it be? You fell with the entire bulk of your army upon the unfortunate Mortier with his single division, and this Mortier slips through your hands? Where’s the victory in that?” “Come now, be serious,” Prince Andrei replied, pushing away his plate, “we can still claim without bragging that it’s somewhat better than the Ulm.” “Why did you not capture us a marshal, at least one?” “Because not everything happens as expected, or as smoothly as at a parade. We had planned, as I told you, to approach the rear by seven in the morning, but we had not reached it by five in the evening.” “And why did you not arrive at seven in the morning? You ought to have arrived by seven in the morning,” said Bilibin, smiling, “you really ought to have arrived by seven in the morning.” “And why did you not impress upon Bonaparte via diplomatic channels that it would be better for him to leave Genoa alone?” Prince Andrei asked in the same tone. “I know,” interrupted Bilibin, “you’re thinking it’s all very easy to capture marshals while sitting on a divan by the fireside. That is true, but even so, why did you not capture him? And don’t be surprised that not only the war minister, but also the most august Emperor and King Franz will not be over-delighted by your victory and even I, a miserable secretary at the Russian embassy, do not feel any need to express my joy by giving my Franz a thaler and letting him take time off to go to the Prater with his girlfriend … although of course, there’s no Prater around here.” BILIBIN Drawing by M.S. Bashilov, 1867 (#ulink_0c455d9a-b97d-56a0-8446-ed2b0a963198) He looked directly at Prince Andrei and suddenly released the gathered skin of his forehead. “Now it is my turn to ask you ‘why’, mon cher,” said Bolkonsky. “I must confess, I do not understand, perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intellect, but I do not understand. Mack loses an entire army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl show no signs of life and make mistake upon mistake, and finally only Kutuzov achieves a genuine victory and shatters the French spell, and the war minister is not even interested in knowing the details.” “That is precisely the reason why, my dear fellow. Take another piece of roast, there won’t be anything else.” “Merci.” “You see, mon cher – hoorah for the Tsar, for Rus, for the faith! – all that is fine and good but what interest, say I, have we, the Austrian court, in your victories? Bring us good news of a victory by Archduke Karl or Ferdinand – one archduke is as good as another, as you know – even if it’s only over Bonaparte’s fire brigade, and that is a different matter, we’ll set the cannon roaring. But this only seems deliberately intended to mock us. Archduke Karl does nothing, Archduke Ferdinand covers himself in shame. You abandon Vienna and no longer defend it, as if you had said to us: God is with us, but you go with God – and take your capital with you. The one general we all loved, Schmidt, you lead into the path of a bullet and then you regale us with a victory! You have captured a couple of navvies dressed up as Bonaparte’s generals. You are bound to admit that nothing more irritating than the news that you bring could possibly be imagined. As if you did it on purpose, quite on purpose. Apart from which, even if you did win a brilliant victory, even if Archduke Karl did win a brilliant victory, what would that change, in the general course of events? It’s already too late, with Vienna occupied by the French.” “Occupied, you say? Vienna is occupied?” “Not only is it occupied, but Bonaparte is in Sch?nbrunn and the count, your dear Count Vrbna, is on his way to receive his orders.” After the fatigue and impressions of the journey, the reception, and especially after the meal, Bolkonsky found it hard to grasp the full meaning of the words he had just heard. “That is a quite different kettle of fish,” he said, taking out a toothpick and moving closer to the hearth. “This morning Count Lichtenfels was here,” Bilibin continued, “and he showed me a letter which described the French parade in Vienna in detail. Prince Murat and the whole caboodle … You can see why your victory is not such a very joyous event and why you cannot be welcomed as saviour …” “Really, it makes no difference to me, absolutely no difference,” said Prince Andrei, beginning to understand that his news of the battle at Krems really was of little importance in view of such events as the occupation of the capital of Austria. “But how was Vienna taken? What of the bridge and its famous fortification, and Prince Auersperg? We heard rumours that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna,” he said. “Prince Auersperg is stationed on this side, our side, and defending us, defending us very poorly, I think, but nonetheless defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has still not been taken, and I hope it will not be taken, because it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should have been in the mountains of Bohemia long ago, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour caught between two fires.” “If that happens, the campaign is over,” said Prince Andrei. “That is what I think too. And the simpletons here think it as well, but they don’t dare to say so. It will be just as I said at the start of the campaign, this whole business will be decided not by your skirmish at D?renstein, and not by gunpowder at all, but by the people who dreamed it up,” said Bilibin, repeating one of his bons mots, releasing the skin on his forehead and pausing for a moment. “The only question is, what will come of the Berlin meeting between Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia? If Prussia joins the alliance, they will leave Austria no choice, and there will be war. But if not, then all that has to be done (take this pear, it is very good) is to agree on where to compose the initial articles of the new Campo Formio.” “But what exceptional genius this is!” Prince Andrei suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and banging it on the table. “And what luck this man has!” “Buonaparte?” enquired Bilibin, wrinkling his forehead to signal the approach of a bon mot. “Buonaparte?” he said, with special emphasis on the u. “I rather think that now he is dictating laws to Austria from Sch?nbrunn, he should be relieved of his u. I hereby declare an innovation, to call him simply Bonaparte. Wouldn’t you like some more coffee? Franz!” “No, joking apart,” said Prince Andrei, “you are in a position to know. What do you think, how will all this end?” “This is what I think. Austria has been left looking foolish, and she is not used to that, and she will repay the favour. And she has been left looking foolish because, in the first place, her provinces are ruined (they say the Army of Orthodoxy is terrible when it comes to plunder), her army is shattered, her capital is captured, and all this for his Sardinian Majesty’s beautiful eyes.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lev-tolstoy/war-and-peace-original-version/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.