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War and Peace, Simplified Names Edition
By Leo Tolstoy
Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude.
Edited by Tomkin Coleman.
Note: This online text does not have any words italicized, nor does it include the cover. For the full version, download the EPUB, MOBI, PDF, or editable version (RTF or DOCX).
BOOK 1: 1805
***
CHAPTER 1
“Well, Baron Vasili, so the Italian cities of Genoa and Lucca are now just Napoleon’s family estates. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist named Napoleon—I really believe he is the Antichrist—then I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you—sit down and tell me all the news.”
It was in July 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pavlovna, a favorite of the Mother of the Tzar. With these words, she greeted Baron Vasili, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from a flu she called the grippe; “grippe” being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.
All of Anna Pavlovna’s invitations, without exception, were written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:
“If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Baron), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10—Anna Pavlovna.”
“Heavens! what an intense attack!” replied Baron Vasili, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. Baron Vasili spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presented to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa.
“First of all, dear Anna Pavlovna, tell me how you are. Set your friend’s mind at rest,” said Baron Vasili without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned.
“Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feelings?” said Anna Pavlovna. “You are staying the whole evening, I hope?”
“And the fete at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there,” said Baron Vasili. “My daughter is coming for me to take me there.”
“I thought today’s fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome.”
“If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been put off,” said Baron Vasili who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.
“Don’t tease! Well, what has been decided about General Novosíltsev’s dispatch? You know everything.”
“What can one say about it?” replied Baron Vasili in a cold, listless tone. “What has been decided? They have decided that Napoleon has “burnt his boats” as a commitment to the war and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.”
Baron Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna Pavlovna, on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. Anna Pavlovna’s subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played around her lips, and expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.
During a conversation on political matters Anna Pavlovna burst out:
“Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don’t understand things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign, the Tzar, recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the murder of the just one, Duc d’Enghien... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand the Tzar’s loftiness of soul. England has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive for our actions. What answer did General Novosíltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Tzar who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have the English promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has always declared that Napoleon is invincible and that all of Europe is powerless before him... And I don’t believe a word that the Prussian statesman Hardenburg says, or statesman Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored monarch, the Tzar. He will save Europe!”
Anna Pavlovna suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.
“I think,” said Baron Vasili with a smile, “that if you had been sent instead of our dear General Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia’s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of tea?”
“In a moment. About that,” she added, becoming calm again, “I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, a viscount who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families. The viscount is one of the genuine emigres, the good ones. And also the Abbot Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Tzar. Had you heard?”
“I shall be delighted to meet them,” said Baron Vasili. “But tell me,” he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, “is it true that the Mother of the Tzar wants Baron Funke to be appointed as first secretary at Vienna? Baron Funke by all accounts is a poor creature.”
Baron Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, Anatole, but others were trying through the Mother of the Tzar to secure it for Baron Funke.
Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Mother of the Tzar desired or was pleased with.
“Baron Funke has been recommended to the Mother of the Tzar by her sister,” was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.
As she named the Mother of the Tzar, Anna Pavlovna’s face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that the Mother of the Tzar had deigned to show Baron Funke much respect, and again her face clouded over with sadness.
Baron Vasili was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtier-like quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man recommended to the Mother of the Tzar) and at the same time to console him, so she said:
“Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter, Helene, came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful.”
Baron Vasili bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.
“I often think,” Anna Pavlovna continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the Baron and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation—“I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don’t speak of Anatole, your youngest son. I don’t like him,” she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. “Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don’t deserve to have them.”
Anna Pavlovna smiled her ecstatic smile.
“I can’t help it,” said Baron Vasili. “The poet Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity.”
“Don’t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am dissatisfied with Anatole? Between ourselves” (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), “he was mentioned at the Mother of the Tzar’s and you were pitied...”
Baron Vasili answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned.
“What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I did all a father could do for their education, and they have both turned out fools. My other son, Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them.” He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual so that the wrinkles around his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant.
“And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna Pavlovna, looking up pensively.
“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can’t be helped!”
Baron Vasili said no more but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.
“Have you never thought of marrying off your prodigal son, Anatole?” she asked. “They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don’t feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a young woman who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Marya Bolkonski.”
Baron Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information.
“Do you know,” Baron Vasili said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in five years if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s what we fathers have to put up with... Is this Marya of yours rich?”
“Marya’s father is very rich but stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Baron Bolkonski who had to retire from the army under the late Tzar, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ Baron Bolkonski is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl Marya is very unhappy. She has a brother named Andrei; I think you know him, he married his wife, Lise, lately. Andrei is an aide-de-camp of General Kutuzov’s and will be here tonight.”
“Listen, dear Anna Pavlovna,” said Baron Vasili, suddenly taking Anna‘s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange a marriage between this rich heiress, Marya, and my son, Andrei, and I shall always be your most devoted slave (“slafe” with an “f”, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports). Marya is rich and of a good family and that’s all I want.”
And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, Baron Vasili raised Anna Pavlovna’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.
“Wait,” said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to Lise, Baron Bolkonski’s daughter-in-law, this very evening, and perhaps the marriage can be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll start my apprenticeship as a matchmaker.”
***
CHAPTER 2
Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest St. Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Baron Vasili’s daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her father to the ambassador’s entertainment; Helene wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Lise Bolkonski, known as “the most fascinating woman in St. Petersburg”, was also there. Lise had been married to her husband Andrei, during the previous winter, and being pregnant, Lise did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Baron Vasili’s second son, Hippolyte, had come with a viscount whom he introduced. The abbe and many others had also come.
To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, “You have not yet seen my aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?” and very gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna mentioned each one’s name to her aunt and then left them.
Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared about; Anna Pavlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and silent approval. The elderly aunt spoke to each of the visitors in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of the Mother of the Tzar, “who, thank God, was better today.” And each visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening.
The young Lise had brought some needlework in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect—the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth—seemed to be Lise’s own special and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at Lise, after being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that day.
Lise went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and all around her. “I have brought my needlework,” said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. “Mind, Anna Pavlovna, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,” she added, turning to her hostess. “You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed.” And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.
“Stay calm, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone else,” replied Anna Pavlovna.
“Did you know,” said Lise in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, “that my husband, Andrei, is deserting me by going to war? He is going to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?” she added, addressing Baron Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.
“What a delightful woman this Lise is!” said Baron Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.
One of the next arrivals was Pierre, a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. Pierre was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine the Great’s time who now lay dying in Moscow. Pierre had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But despite this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over Anna Pavlovna’s face when she saw him enter. Though Pierre was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression that distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room.
“It is very good of you, Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid,” said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted Pierre to her.
Pierre murmured something unintelligible and continued to look around as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt, he bowed to Lise with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance.
Anna Pavlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the elderly aunt without waiting to hear her speech about the health of the Mother of the Tzar. Anna, in dismay, detained Pierre with the words: “Do you know the abbot? He is a most interesting man.”
“Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and while it is very interesting it is hardly feasible.”
“You think so?” rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say something and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a double act of impoliteness. First, he had left the elderly aunt before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, Pierre began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbot’s plan chimerical.
“We will talk of it later,” said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.
And having gotten rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, Anna Pavlovna resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. Like the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pavlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares, her anxiety about Pierre was evident. Anna Pavlovna kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group around the viscount to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbot.
Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna Pavlovna was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual lights of St. Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present, Pierre was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last, he came up to the abbot. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing.
***
CHAPTER 3
Anna Pavlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. Except for the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed around the abbot. Another, of young people, was grouped around the beautiful Helene, Baron Vasili’s daughter, and Lise, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered around the viscount and Anna Pavlovna.
The viscount was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. As a clever maître d’hôtel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests, first the viscount and then the abbot, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about the viscount immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d’Enghien in France. The viscount said that the Duc d’Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity and that there were particular reasons for Napoleon’s hatred of him.
“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, viscount,” said Anna Pavlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something in the manner of Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: “Do tell us all about it, viscount.”
The viscount bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group around him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale.
“The viscount knew the Duc d’Enghien personally,” whispered Anna Pavlovna to one of the guests. “The viscount is a wonderful raconteur,” said she to another. “How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she to a third; and the viscount was served up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot dish.
The viscount wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.
“Come over here, Helene, dear,” said Anna Pavlovna to the beautiful young Helene who was sitting some way off, the center of another group.
Helene smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which she had first entered the room—the smile of a perfectly beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom—which in the fashion of those days were very much exposed—and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna Pavlovna. Helene was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary, she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect.
“How lovely!” said everyone who saw Helene; and the viscount lifted his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile.
“I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said the viscount, smilingly inclining his head.
Helene rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect Helene glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.
Lise had also left the tea table and followed Helene.
“Wait a moment, I’ll get my needlework... Now then, what are you thinking of?” Lise went on, turning to Helene’s brother, Hippolyte. “Fetch me my workbag.”
There was a general movement as Lise, smiling and talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat.
“Now I am all right,” Lise said, and asking the viscount to begin, she took up her work.
Hippolyte, having brought Lise’s workbag, joined the circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.
The charmer Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, Helene, but yet more by the fact that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. Hippolyte’s features were like Helene’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.
“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” Hippolyte said, sitting down beside Lise and hastily adjusting his opera glasses, as if without this instrument he could not begin to speak.
“Why no, my dear fellow,” said the astonished viscount, shrugging his shoulders.
“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Hippolyte in a tone that showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had uttered them.
Hippolyte spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of the thigh of a frightened nymph, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.
The viscount told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current, to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit the famous actress, Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Napoleon, who also enjoyed the actress’s favors, and that in his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject, and was thus at the Duc d’Enghien’s mercy. The Duc d’Enghien’s spared Napoleon, however, and this magnanimity Napoleon subsequently repaid by death.
The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated.
“Charming!” said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance at Lise.
“Charming!” whispered Lise sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it.
The viscount appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on Pierre who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbot, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbot about the balance of power, and the abbot, evidently interested by the young man’s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.
“The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people,” the abbot was saying. “It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia—barbaric as she is said to be—to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and by heading the alliance, Russia would save the world!”
“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning.
At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the abbot how he stood the Russian climate. The abbot’s face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.
“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the climate,” said the abbot.
Not letting the abbot and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle.
***
CHAPTER 4
Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Andrei, Lise’s husband. Andrei was a very handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his quiet little wife, Lise. It was evident that Andrei not only knew everyone in the drawing room but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife, Lise. He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna Pavlovna’s hand, and screwed up his eyes to scan the whole company.
“You are off to the war, Andrei?” said Anna Pavlovna.
“Yes. General Kutuzov,” said Andrei, speaking French and stressing the last syllable of the general’s name like a Frenchman, “has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...”
“And Lise, your wife?”
“She will go to the country.”
“Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?”
“Andrei,” said Lise, addressing her husband in the same coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, “the viscount has been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Napoleon!”
Andrei screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from the moment Andrei entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked around Andrei frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre’s beaming face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.
“There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?” said Andrei to Pierre.
“I knew you would be here,” replied Pierre. “I will come to supper with you. May I?” he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the viscount who was continuing his story.
“No, impossible!” said Andrei, laughing and pressing Pierre’s hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Baron Vasili and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.
“You must excuse me, dear viscount,” said Baron Vasili, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising. “This unfortunate fete at the ambassador’s deprives me of a pleasure and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party,” said Baron Vasili, turning to Anna Pavlovna.
Baron Vasili’s daughter, Helene, passed between the chairs, lightly holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.
“Very lovely,” said Andrei.
“Very,” said Pierre.
In passing, Baron Vasili seized Pierre’s hand and said to Anna Pavlovna: “Educate this bear for me! Pierre has been staying with me for a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women.”
Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew Pierre’s father, Count Bezukhov, to be a connection of Baron Vasili’s. An elderly lady, Widow Drubetskoy, who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Baron Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed had left her kindly and tear-worn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear.
“How about my son, Boris, Baron Vasili?” said Widow Drubetskoy, hurrying after him into the anteroom. “I can’t remain any longer in St. Petersburg. Tell me what news I may take back to my poor boy.”
Although Baron Vasili listened reluctantly and not very politely to Widow Drubetskoy, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an ingratiating and appealing smile and took his hand that he might not go away.
“What would it cost you to say a word to the Tzar, and then Boris would be transferred to the Guards at once?” said Widow Drubetskoy.
“Believe me, I am ready to do all I can,” answered Baron Vasili, “but it is difficult for me to ask the Tzar. I should advise you to appeal to Chancellor Rumyántsev through Privy Councilor Golítsyn. That would be the best way.”
The elderly lady, Widow Drubetskoy, belonged to one of the best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to St. Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son, Boris. It was, in fact, solely to meet Baron Vasili that she had obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna’s reception and had sat listening to the viscount’s story. Baron Vasili’s words frightened her, an embittered look clouded her once beautiful face, but only for a moment; then she smiled again and clutched Baron Vasili’s arm more tightly.
“Listen to me, Baron Vasili,” said Widow Drubetskoy. “I have never yet asked you for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my father’s friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God’s sake to do this for my son, Boris—and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,” she added hurriedly. “No, don’t be angry, but promise! I have already asked Privy Councilor Golítsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were,” she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.
“Papa, we shall be late,” said Helene, turning her beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she stood waiting by the door.
Influence in society, however, is a capital that has to be economized if it is to last. Baron Vasili knew this, and having once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But in Widow Drubetskoy’s case, he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded him of what was quite true; Baron Vasili had been indebted to her father for the first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of those women—mostly mothers—who, having once made up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved him.
“My dear Widow Drubetskoy,” said Baron Vasili with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father’s memory, I will do the impossible—your son Boris shall be transferred to the Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?”
“My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I knew your kindness!”
Baron Vasili turned to go.
“Wait—just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards...” Widow Drubetskoy faltered. “You are on good terms with General Kutuzov ... recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then...”
Baron Vasili smiled.
“No, I won’t promise that. You don’t know how General Kutuzov is pestered since his appointment. He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants.”
“No, but do promise! I won’t let you go! My dear benefactor...”
“Papa,” said his beautiful daughter, Helene, in the same tone as before, “we shall be late.”
“Well, goodbye! Goodbye! You hear her?”
“Then tomorrow you will speak to the Tzar?”
“Certainly; but about General Kutuzov, I don’t promise.”
“Do promise, do promise, Baron Vasili!” cried Widow Drubetskoy as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.
Apparently, Widow Drubetskoy had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as Baron Vasili had gone, her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the group where the viscount was still talking and again pretended to listen while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished.
***
CHAPTER 5
“And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at Milan?” asked Anna Pavlovna, “and of the comedy of the people of the cities of Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before Napoleon, and Napoleon sitting on a throne and granting the petitions of the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one’s head whirl! It is as if the whole world had gone crazy.”
Andrei looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face with a sarcastic smile.
“‘God has given the crown to me, let him who touches it beware!’’ They say Napoleon was very grand when he said that,” Andrei remarked, repeating the words in Italian: “‘God has given the crown to me, let him who touches it beware!’’
“I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run over,” Anna Pavlovna continued. “The sovereigns of Europe will not be able to endure this man Napoleon who is a menace to everything.”
“The sovereigns of Europe? I do not speak of Russia,” said the viscount, polite but hopeless: “The sovereigns of Europe, madame... What have they done for the French King Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for the famous actress Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!” and the viscount became more animated. “And believe me, these sovereigns are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the French cause. The sovereigns of Europe! Why, they are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper Napoleon.”
And sighing disdainfully, the viscount again changed his position.
Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the viscount for some time through his opera glasses, suddenly turned completely round toward Lise, and having asked for a needle, began tracing the Conde coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked him to do it.
“A bar of red running diagonally across three fleurs-de-lis on a background of blue—this is the Conde coat of arms,” said the viscount.
Lise listened, smiling.
“If Napoleon remains on the throne of France a year longer,” the viscount continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others but follows the current of his own thoughts, “things will have gone too far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society—I mean good French society—will have been forever destroyed, and then...”
The viscount shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pavlovna, who had him under observation, interrupted:
“The Tzar,” said Anna Pavlovna, with the melancholy which always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, “has declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to choose their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the usurper Napoleon, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms of its rightful king,” she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist emigrant, the viscount.
“That is doubtful,” said Andrei. “The viscount quite rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it will be difficult for France to return to the old regime.”
“From what I have heard,” said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the conversation, “almost all the French aristocracy has already gone over to Napoleon’s side.”
“It is the pro-Napoleon faction who says that,” replied the viscount without looking at Pierre. “At the present time, it is difficult to know the real state of French public opinion.”
“Napoleon has said so,” remarked Andrei with a sarcastic smile.
It was evident that Andrei did not like the viscount and was aiming his remarks at him, though without looking at him.
“‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,’” Andrei continued after a short silence, again quoting Napoleon’s words. “‘I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.’ I do not know, however, how far Napoleon was justified in saying so.”
“Not in the least,” replied the viscount. “After the murder of the Duc d’Enghien, even the most partial ceased to regard Napoleon as a hero. If to some people,” the viscount went on, turning to Anna Pavlovna, “Napoleon ever was a hero, after the murder of the Duc d’Enghien there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth.”
Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation of the viscount’s epigram, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him.
“Napoleon’s execution of the Duc d’Enghien,” declared Pierre, “was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that deed.”
“God! My God!” muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified whisper.
“What, Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows greatness of soul?” said Lise, smiling and drawing her needlework nearer to her.
“Oh! Oh!” exclaimed several voices.
“Capital!” said Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his knee with the palm of his hand.
The viscount merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued.
“I say so,” Pierre continued desperately, “because the French nobility fled from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good, Napoleon could not stop short for the sake of one man’s life.”
“Won’t you come over to the other table?” suggested Anna Pavlovna.
But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.
“No,” cried he, becoming more and more eager, “Napoleon is great because he rose above to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserved all that was good in it—equality of citizenship and freedom of speech and of the press—and only for that reason did he obtain power.”
“Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to commit murder, Napoleon had restored the power to the rightful king, I should have called him a great man,” remarked the viscount.
“Napoleon could not do that. The people only gave him power so that he might rid them of the Bourbon kings and because they saw that he was a great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!” continued Pierre, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind.
“What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... But won’t you come to this other table?” repeated Anna Pavlovna.
“Rousseau’s Social Contract,” said the viscount with a tolerant smile.
“I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas.”
“Yes, ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,” again interjected an ironical voice.
“Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon has retained in full force.”
“Liberty and equality,” said the viscount contemptuously, as if at last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish Pierre’s words were, “high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who does not love liberty and equality? Even our Savior Jesus Christ preached liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the contrary. Our people in France wanted liberty, but Napoleon has destroyed it.”
Andrei kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the viscount and from the viscount to their hostess, Anna Pavlovna. In the first moment of Pierre’s outburst Anna Pavlovna, despite her social experience, was horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre’s sacrilegious words had not exasperated the viscount, and had convinced herself that it was impossible to stop Pierre, she rallied her forces and joined the viscount in a vigorous attack on the orator.
“But, my dear Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, “how do you explain the fact of a great man executing a duke—or even an ordinary man who—is innocent and untried?”
“I should like,” said the viscount, “to ask how Pierre explains Napoleon’s coup; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at all like the conduct of a great man!”
“And the prisoners Napoleon killed in Africa? That was horrible!” said Lise, shrugging her shoulders.
“Napoleon’s a low fellow, say what you will,” remarked Hippolyte.
Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled. His smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When Pierre smiled, his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by another—a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to ask forgiveness.
The viscount who was meeting Pierre for the first time saw clearly that this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested. All were silent.
“How do you expect him to answer you all at once?” said Andrei. “Besides, in the actions of a statesman, one has to distinguish between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as a Tzar. So it seems to me.”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of this reinforcement.
“One must admit,” continued Andrei, “that Napoleon as a man was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts which it is difficult to justify.”
Andrei, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness of Pierre’s remarks, rose and made a sign to Lise that it was time to go.
Suddenly Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to pay attention, and asking them all to be seated began:
“I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it. Excuse me, viscount—I must tell it in Russian or the point will be lost...” And Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia. Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their attention to his story.
“There is in Moscow a lady, a grand woman, and she is very stingy. She must have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was her taste. And she had a lady’s maid, also big. So the lady said...”
Here Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with difficulty.
“The grand lady said... Oh yes! She said to the maid, ‘Girl, put on a livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some calls.’”
Here Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pavlovna, did however smile.
“The grand lady went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and her long hair came down...” Here Hippolyte could contain himself no longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: “And the whole world knew...”
And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why Hippolyte had told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, yet Anna Pavlovna and the others appreciated Hippolyte’s social tact in so agreeably ending Pierre’s unpleasant and awkward outburst. After the anecdote, the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last and next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and where.
***
CHAPTER 6
Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charming soiree, the guests began to take their leave.
Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge red hands; Pierre did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something particularly agreeable before going away. Besides this he was absent-minded. When he rose to go, he took up instead of his own hat, the general’s three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the plume, until the general asked him to restore it. All of Pierre’s absent-mindedness and inability to enter a room and converse in it were, however, redeemed by his kindly, simple, and modest expression. Anna Pavlovna turned toward him and, with a Christian mildness that expressed forgiveness of his indiscretion, nodded and said: “I hope to see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, my dear Pierre.”
When Anna Pavlovna said this, Pierre did not reply and only bowed, but again everybody saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, “Opinions are opinions, but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am.” And everyone, including Anna Pavlovna, felt this.
Andrei had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened indifferently to Lise’s chatter with Hippolyte who had also come into the hall. Hippolyte stood close to the pretty, pregnant Lise, and stared fixedly at her through his opera glasses.
“Go in, Anna Pavlovna, or you will catch a cold,” said Lise, taking leave of Anna Pavlovna. “It is settled,” Lise added in a low voice.
Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match she contemplated between Baron Vasili’s son, Anatole, and Lise’s sister-in-law, Marya.
“I rely on you, my dear,” said Anna Pavlovna, also in a low tone. “Write to Marya and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Goodbye! ”—and she left the hall.
Hippolyte approached Lise and, bending his face close to her, began to whisper something.
Two footmen, Lise’s and his own, stood holding a shawl and a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. The footmen listened to the French sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of understanding but not wishing to appear to do so. Lise as usual spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh.
“I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador’s fete,” said Hippolyte. “So dull. It has been a delightful evening, has it not? Delightful!”
“They say the ball will be very good,” replied Lise, drawing up her downy little lip. “All the pretty women in society will be there.”
“Not all, for you will not be there; not all,” said Hippolyte smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom Hippolyte even pushed aside, he began wrapping it around Lise. Either from awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after the shawl had been adjusted, Hippolyte kept his arm around Lise for a long time, as though embracing her.
Still smiling, Lise gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at Andrei. His eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he seem.
“Are you ready?” Andrei asked his wife, opening his eyes and looking past her.
Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest fashion reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out into the porch following Lise, whom a footman was helping into the carriage.
“Lise, goodbye,” cried Hippolyte, stumbling with his tongue as well as with his feet.
Lise, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the dark carriage, Andrei was adjusting his saber; Hippolyte, under the pretense of helping, was in everyone’s way.
“Allow me, sir,” said Andrei in Russian in a cold, disagreeable tone to Hippolyte who was blocking his path.
“I am expecting you, Pierre,” also called out Andrei, but gently and affectionately.
The carriage started, the wheels rattling. Hippolyte laughed spasmodically as he stood on the porch waiting for the viscount whom he had promised to take home.
“Well, my dear,” said the viscount, having seated himself beside Hippolyte in his carriage, “your Lise is very nice, very nice indeed, quite French,” and he kissed the tips of his fingers. Hippolyte burst out laughing.
“Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,” continued the viscount. “I pity the poor husband, Andrei, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch.”
Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, “And you were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to know how to deal with them.”
Pierre, reaching the house first, went into Andrei’s study like one who was quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa, took from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was Caesar’s Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle.
“What have you done to Anna Pavlovna? She will be quite ill now,” said Andrei, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white hands.
Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his eager face to Andrei, smiled, and waved his hand.
“That abbot is very interesting but he does not see the thing in the right light... In my opinion, perpetual peace is possible but—I do not know how to express it ... not by a balance of political power...”
It was evident that Andrei was not interested in such an abstract conversation.
“One can’t everywhere say all one thinks, my dear. Well, have you at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a diplomatist?” asked Andrei after a momentary silence.
Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.
“Really, I don’t yet know. I don’t like either the one career or the other.”
“But you must decide on something! Your father, Count Bezukhov, expects it.”
Pierre was the illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a very rich man. At the age of ten, Pierre had been sent abroad with a tutor and had remained away till he was twenty. When Pierre returned to Moscow, Count Bezukhov dismissed the tutor and said to Pierre, “Now go to St. Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to anything. Here is a letter to Baron Vasili, and here is money. Write to me all about it, and I will help you with everything.” Pierre had already been choosing a career for three months and had not decided on anything. It was about this choice that Andrei was speaking. Pierre rubbed his forehead.
“But he must be a Freemason,” said Pierre, referring to the optimistic abbot whom he had met that evening.
“That is all nonsense.” Andrei again interrupted him, “let us talk business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?”
“No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and wanted to tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it was a war for freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the army; but to help England and Austria against Napoleon, the greatest man in the world, is not right.”
Andrei only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre’s childish words. He put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to such nonsense, but it would have been difficult to give any other answer than the one Andrei gave to this naive question.
“If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no wars,” Andrei said.
“And that would be splendid,” said Pierre.
Andrei smiled ironically.
“Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about...”
“Well, why are you going to the war?” asked Pierre.
“What for? I don’t know. I must. Besides that, I am going...” Andrei paused. “I am going because the life I am leading here does not suit me!”
***
CHAPTER 7
The rustle of a woman’s dress was heard in the next room. Andrei shook himself as if waking up and his face assumed the look it had had in Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from the sofa. Lise came in. She had changed her gown for a house dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Andrei rose and politely placed a chair for her.
“How is it,” Lise began, as usual in French, settling down briskly and fussily in the easy chair, “how is it Anna Pavlovna never got married? How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for saying so, but you have no sense of women. What an argumentative fellow you are, Pierre!”
“And I am still arguing with Andrei. I can’t understand why he wants to go to the war,” replied Pierre, addressing Lise with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their discussions with young women.
Lise started. Evidently, Pierre’s words touched her to the quick.
“Ah, that is just what I tell him!” said Lise. “I don’t understand it; I don’t in the least understand why men can’t live without wars. How is it that we women don’t want anything of the kind, don’t need it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here Andrei is my uncle’s aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well known, and so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the Apráksins’ I heard a lady asking, ‘Is that the famous Andrei?’ I did indeed.” Lise laughed. “He is so well received everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Tzar. You know the Tzar spoke to Andrei most graciously. Anna Pavlovna and I were speaking about how to arrange such a position. What do you think?”
Pierre looked at Andrei and, noticing that he did not like the conversation, gave no reply.
“When are you leaving?” Pierre asked.
“Oh, don’t speak of his going, don’t! I won’t hear it spoken of,” said Lise in the same petulantly playful tone in which she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member. “Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations must be broken off ... and then you know, Andrei...” (she looked significantly at her husband) “I’m afraid, I’m afraid!” she whispered, and a shudder ran down her back.
Andrei looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of frigid politeness.
“What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don’t understand,” said he.
“There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a whim of his own, goodness only knows why, Andrei leaves me and locks me up alone in the country.”
“With my father and sister, remember,” said Andrei gently.
“Alone all the same, without my friends... And Andrei expects me not to be afraid.”
Lise’s tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the gist of the matter lay in that.
“I still can’t understand what you are afraid of,” said Andrei slowly, not taking his eyes off Lise.
She blushed and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.
“No, Andrei, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have...”
“Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,” said Andrei. “You had better go.”
Lise said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered. Andrei rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room.
Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.
“Why should I mind Pierre being here?” exclaimed Lise suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a tearful grimace. “I have long wanted to ask you, Andrei, why you have changed so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to war and have no pity for me. Why is it?”
“Lise!” was all Andrei said. But that one word expressed an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself regret her words. But she went on hurriedly:
“You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave like that six months ago?”
“Lise, I beg you to desist,” said Andrei still more emphatically.
Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened to all this, rose and approached Lise. He seemed unable to bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.
“Calm yourself, Lise! It seems so to you because... I assure you I myself have experienced ... and so ... because ... No, excuse me! An outsider is out of place here... No, don’t distress yourself... Goodbye!”
Andrei caught him by the hand.
“No, wait, Pierre! Lise is too kind to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you.”
“No, Andrei thinks only of himself,” muttered Lise without restraining her angry tears.
“Lise!” said Andrei dryly, raising his voice to the pitch which indicates that patience is exhausted.
Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression on Lise’s pretty face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful eyes glanced askance at Andrei’s face, and her own assumed the timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its drooping tail.
“My God, my God!” she muttered, and lifting her dress with one hand she went up to Andrei and kissed him on the forehead.
“Good night, Lise,” said Andrei, rising and courteously kissing her hand as he would have done to a stranger.
***
CHAPTER 8
Pierre and Andrei were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre continually glanced at Andrei; Andrei rubbed his forehead with his small hand.
“Let us go and have supper,” Andrei said with a sigh, going to the door.
They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining room. Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and glass bore that imprint of newness found in the households of the newly married.
Halfway through supper, Andrei leaned his elbows on the table and, with a look of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on his face, began to talk—as one who has long had something on his mind and suddenly ia determined to speak out.
“Never, never marry, my dear Pierre! That’s my advice: never marry till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of, and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing—or all that is good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t look at me with such surprise. If you marry expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at every step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the drawing room, where you will be ranged side by side with a court lackey and an idiot!... But what’s the good?...” Andrei said as he waved his arm.
Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend in amazement.
“My wife,” continued Andrei, “is an excellent woman, one of those rare women with whom a man’s honor is safe; but, oh, God, what would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to whom I mention this because I like you.”
As he said this, Andrei was less than ever like that man who had lolled in Anna Pavlovna’s easy chairs and with half-closed eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in which the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost morbid irritation.
“You don’t understand why I say this,” Andrei continued, “but it is the whole story of life. You talk of Napoleon and his career,” said he (though Pierre had not mentioned Napoleon), “but Napoleon, when he worked, went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality—these are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am now going to the war, the greatest war there ever was, and I know nothing and am fit for nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit,” continued Andrei, “and at Anna Pavlovna’s they listen to me. And that stupid set without whom my wife cannot exist, and those women... If you only knew what those society women are, and women in general! My father is right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in everything—that’s what women are when you see them in their true colors! When you meet them in society it seems as if there were something in them, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don’t marry, my dear fellow; don’t marry!” concluded Andrei.
“It seems funny to me,” said Pierre, “that you, you should consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have everything before you, everything. And you...”
Pierre did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he thought of Andrei and how much he expected of him in the future.
“How can Andrei talk like that?” thought Pierre. He considered his friend a model of perfection because Andrei possessed in the highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, which might be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at Andrei’s calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything, and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by Andrei’s lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a sign of strength.
Even in the best, most friendly, and simplest relations of life, praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels so that they may run smoothly.
“My part is played out,” said Andrei. “What’s the use of talking about me? Let us talk about you,” he added after a silence, smiling at his reassuring thoughts.
That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre’s face.
“But what is there to say about me?” said Pierre, his face relaxing into a careless, merry smile. “What am I? An illegitimate son!” He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great effort to say this. “Without a name and without means... And it really...” But he did not say what “it really” was. “For the present, I am free and am all right. Only I haven’t the least idea what I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously.”
Andrei looked kindly at him, yet his glance—friendly and affectionate as it was—expressed a sense of his own superiority.
“I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our whole set. Yes, you’re all right! Choose what career you will; it’s all the same. You’ll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting those like Baron Vasili and his family and leading that sort of life. It suits you so badly—all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!”
“What would you have, my dear fellow?” answered Pierre, shrugging his shoulders. “Women, my dear fellow; women!”
“I don’t understand it,” replied Andrei. “Women who are correct in behavior, that’s a different matter; but Baron Vasili’s family, his set of women, ‘women and wine’, I don’t understand!”
Pierre was staying at Baron Vasili’s and sharing the dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to reform by marrying him to Andrei’s sister, Marya.
“Do you know?” said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy thought, “seriously, I have long been thinking of it... Leading such a life I can’t decide or think properly about anything. One’s head aches and one spends all one’s money. Anatole asked me to go out tonight, but I won’t go.”
“You give me your word of honor not to go?”
“On my honor!”
***
CHAPTER 9
It was past one o’clock when Pierre left Andrei. It was a cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to Anatole’s house the more he felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits with prostitutes, visits of which Pierre was very fond.
“I should like to go to Anatole’s,” thought Pierre.
But he immediately recalled his promise to Andrei not to go there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed to that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that his promise to Andrei was of no account because before he gave it he had already promised Anatole to come to his gathering; “Besides,” thought Pierre, “all such ‘words of honor’ are conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all the same!” Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went to Anatole’s.
Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards’ barracks in which Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance.
Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously around an open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one pulling the bear by his chain and trying to set him at the others.
“I bet a hundred on the Englishman!” shouted one.
“Remember, no holding on!” cried another.
“I bet on Dolokhov!” cried a third. “Anatole, you part our hands.”
“There, leave the bear alone; here’s a bet on.”
“At one draught, or he loses!” shouted a fourth.
“Footman, bring a bottle!” shouted Anatole, a tall, handsome fellow who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine linen shirt unfastened in front. “Wait a bit, you fellows... Here is Pierre! Good man!”
Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes, particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober ring, cried from the window: “Come here; part the bets!” This was Dolokhov, an officer, a notorious gambler, and duelist, who was living with Anatole.
Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily.
“I don’t understand. What’s it all about?”
“Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here,” said Anatole, and taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.
“First of all, you must drink!”
Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the tipsy guests who were again crowding around the window, and listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre’s glass while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with an English naval officer that he could drink an entire bottle of rum while sitting on the outer ledge of the third-floor window with his legs hanging out.
“Go on, you must drink it all,” said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, “or I won’t let you go!”
“No, I won’t,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the window.
Dolokhov was holding the Englishman’s hand and clearly and distinctly repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself, particularly to Anatole and Pierre.
Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers, he wore no mustache, so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played continually around the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it impossible not to notice his face. Dolokhov was a man of small means and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, Dolokhov lived with him and had placed himself on such a footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him more than they did Anatole. Dolokhov could play all games and nearly always won. However much he drank, he never lost his clear-headedness. Both Anatole and Dolokhov were at that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of St. Petersburg.
The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who were evidently flustered and intimidated by the directions and shouts of the gentlemen around.
Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but could not move it. Anatole smashed a pane.
“You have a try, big man,” said Anatole, turning to Pierre.
Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and suddenly wrenched the oak frame out with a crash.
“Take the frame right out, or they’ll think I’m holding on,” said Dolokhov.
“Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?” said Anatole.
“First-rate,” said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who with a bottle of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.
Dolokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window sill. “Listen!” he cried, standing there and addressing those in the room. All were silent.
“I bet fifty imperials”—Dolokhov spoke French so that the Englishman might understand him, but he did not speak it very well—“I bet fifty imperials ... or do you wish to make it a hundred?” added he, addressing the Englishman.
“No, fifty,” replied the Englishman.
“All right. Fifty imperials ... that I will drink a whole bottle of rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this spot” (Dolokhov stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window) “and without holding on to anything. Is that right?”
“Quite right,” said the Englishman.
Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons of his coat and looking down at him—the Englishman was short—began repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.
“Wait!” cried Dolokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill to attract attention. “Wait a bit, Anatole. Listen! If anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?”
The Englishman nodded but gave no indication whether he intended to accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating Dolokhov’s words into English. A thin young lad, a hussar of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the window sill, leaned over, and looked down.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” he muttered, looking down from the window at the stones of the pavement.
“Shut up!” cried Dolokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.
Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily, Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and placed them on the window sill, though it was already quite light. Dolokhov’s back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older than the others present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and angry look and wanted to seize hold of Dolokhov’s shirt.
“I say, this is folly! He’ll be killed,” said this more sensible man.
Anatole stopped him.
“Don’t touch him! You’ll startle him and then he will be killed. Eh?... What then?... Eh?”
Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged himself on his seat.
“If anyone comes meddling again,” said Dolokhov, emitting the words separately through his thin compressed lips, “I will throw him down there. Now then!”
Saying this Dolokhov again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the window and from Dolokhov’s back. Anatole stood erect with staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. Dolokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was thrown further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still higher and his head tilting yet further back. “Why is it so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had elapsed. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge. As Dolokhov began slipping down, his head and arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered his eyes and thought he would never open them again. Suddenly Pierre was aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dolokhov was standing on the window sill, with a pale but radiant face.
“It’s empty.”
Dolokhov threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dolokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.
“Well done!... Fine fellow!... There’s a bet for you!... Devil take you!” came from different sides.
The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money. Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Then Pierre jumped upon the window sill.
“Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I’ll do the same thing!” Pierre suddenly cried. “Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a bottle. I’ll do it... Bring a bottle!”
“Let Pierre do it, let him do it,” said Dolokhov, smiling.
“What next? Have you gone mad, Pierre?... No one would let you!... Why, you go dizzy even on a staircase,” exclaimed several voices.
“I’ll drink it! Let’s have a bottle of rum!” shouted Pierre, banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb out of the window.
They seized Pierre by his arms, but he was so strong that everyone who touched him was sent flying.
“No, you’ll never manage Pierre that way,” said Anatole. “Wait a bit and I’ll get round him... Listen! Pierre, I’ll take your bet tomorrow, but now we are all going to ——’s.”
“Come on then,” cried Pierre. “Come on!... And we’ll take the bear with us.”
And Pierre caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the ground, and began dancing round the room with it.
***
CHAPTER 10
Baron Vasili kept the promise he had given to Widow Drubetskoy who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Boris on the evening of Anna Pavlovna’s soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Tzar, an exception was made, and Boris was transferred into the regiment of Semënov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to General Kutuzov’s staff despite all of Widow Drubetskoy’s endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna’s reception, Widow Drubetskoy returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where her darling Boris, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from childhood and lived for years at a time. The Semënov Guards had already left St. Petersburg on the tenth of August, and Boris, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivílov.
It was St. Natalia’s day and the name day of two of the Rostov family—the mother and the youngest daughter—both named Natasha. Ever since the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually, bringing visitors to Countess Rostov’s big house on Povarskáya Boulevard, so well-known to all of Moscow. Countess Rostov herself and her handsome eldest daughter, Vera, were in the drawing room with the visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in relays.
Countess Rostov was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing—she had had twelve. A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a distinguished air that inspired respect. Widow Drubetskoy, who as a member of the household was also seated in the drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to take part in receiving the visitors. Count Rostov met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.
“I am very, very grateful to you, my dear”—Count Rostov called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation in his tone, “my dear,” whether they were above or below him in rank—“I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended, my dear! On behalf of the whole family, I beg you to come, my dear!” These words Count Rostov repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spread out his legs and put his hands on his knees with the air of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, Count Rostov would call Dmítri, a man of good family and the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table would say: “Well, Dmítri, you’ll see that things are all as they should be? That’s right! The great thing is the serving, that’s it.” And with a complacent sigh, he would return to the drawing room.
Countess Rostov’s gigantic footman entered the drawing room and in his bass voice announced that they had more visitors. Countess Rostov reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband’s portrait on it.
“I’m quite worn out by these callers. However, I’ll see them and no more. The mother is so affected. Ask them in,” she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: “Very well, finish me off.”
A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.
“Dear Countess Rostov, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child ... at the Razumóvski’s ball ... and Countess Apráksina ... I was so delighted...” came the sounds of animated feminine voices, interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which lasted out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, “I am so delighted... Mamma’s health... and Countess Apráksina...” and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine the Great’s day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitimate son, Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna’s reception.
“I am so sorry for poor Count Bezukhov,” said the visitor. “He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son, Pierre, is enough to kill him!”
“What is that?” asked Countess Rostov as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count Bezukhov’s distress some fifteen times.
“That’s what comes of a modern education,” exclaimed the visitor. “It seems that while Pierre was abroad he was allowed to do as he liked, now in St. Petersburg, I hear he has been doing such terrible things that he has been expelled by the police.”
“You don’t say so!” replied Countess Rostov.
“Pierre chose his friends badly,” interposed Widow Drubetskoy. “Anatole, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is said, been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Pierre sent back to Moscow. Baron Vasili managed somehow to get his son Anatole’s affair hushed up, but even Anatole was ordered out of St. Petersburg.”
“But what have they been up to?” asked Countess Rostov.
“They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov,” replied the visitor. “Dolokhov is a son of a worthy woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his back!”
“What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!” shouted Count Rostov, dying with laughter.
“Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it?”
Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.
“It was all they could do to rescue the poor man,” continued the visitor. “And to think it is Count Bezukhov’s son, Pierre, who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And Pierre was said to be so well-educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daughters to consider.”
“Why do you say this young man, Pierre, is so rich?” asked Countess Rostov, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. “Count Bezukhov’s children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is illegitimate.”
The visitor made a gesture with her hand.
“I should think Count Bezukhov has a score of them.”
Widow Drubetskoy intervened in the conversation, evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in society.
“The fact of the matter is,” said Widow Drubetskoy significantly, and also in a half whisper, “everyone knows Count Bezukhov’s reputation... He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.”
“How handsome Count Bezukhov was still was only a year ago!” remarked Countess Rostov. “I have never seen a more handsome man.”
“Count Bezukhov is very much altered now,” said Widow Drubetskoy. “Well, as I was saying, Baron Vasili is the next heir through his wife, but Count Bezukhov is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to the Tzar about him; so that in the case of his death—and he is so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from St. Petersburg—no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Baron Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it all very well for Baron Vasili told me himself. Besides, Pierre is my mother’s second cousin. Count Bezukhov is also my son Boris’s godfather,” Widow Drubetskoy added as if she attached no importance at all to the fact.
“Baron Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on some inspection business,” remarked the visitor.
“Yes, but between ourselves,” said Widow Drubetskoy, “that is a pretext. The fact is that Baron Vasili has come to see Count Bezukhov, hearing how ill he is.”
“But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke,” said Count Rostov; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young ladies. “I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman cut!”
And as Count Rostov waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats well and, in particular, drinks well. “So do come and dine with us!” he said.
***
CHAPTER 11
Silence ensued. Countess Rostov looked at her callers, smiling affably, but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they now rose and took their leave. The visitor’s daughter was already smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thirteen, Natasha, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock, darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident that Natasha had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.
Count Rostov jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his arms wide and threw them around the little girl, Natasha, who had run in.
“Ah, here she is!” he exclaimed laughing. “Natasha, my pet, whose name day it is. My dear pet!”
“My dear, there is a time for everything,” said Countess Rostov with feigned severity. “You spoil her,” she added, turning to her husband.
“How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day,” said the visitor. “What a charming child,” she added, addressing Countess Rostov.
Natasha, this black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life—with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers—was just at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother’s mantilla—not paying the least attention to her severe remark—and began to laugh. Natasha laughed, and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll that she produced from the folds of her frock.
“Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see...” was all Natasha managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even the prim visitor could not help joining in.
“Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,” said Countess Rostov, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: “Natasha is my youngest girl.”
Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother’s shawl, glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.
The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it necessary to take some part in it.
“Tell me, my dear,” said the visitor to Natasha, “is your doll Mimi a relation of yours? A daughter, I suppose?”
Natasha did not like the visitor’s tone of condescension to childish things. Natasha did not reply but looked at her seriously.
Meanwhile, the younger generation: Boris, the officer (Widow Drubetskoy’s son); Nicholas, the undergraduate (Count Rostov’s eldest son); Sonya, Count Rostov’s fifteen-year-old orphan niece, and little Petya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had been more amusing than the drawing room talk of society scandals, the weather, and the visitors. Now and then the young people glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.
The two young men, Boris and Nicholas, friends from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Boris was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say but failed. Boris on the contrary at once found his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he had known Natasha’s doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady before her nose was broken; how she had aged during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked right across the skull. When Boris said this, Nicholas glanced at Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, Petya, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Boris did not laugh.
“You were meaning to go out, weren’t you, Mamma? Do you want the carriage?” Boris asked his mother with a smile.
“Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready,” Widow Drubetskoy answered, returning his smile.
Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha. Petya ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been disturbed.
***
CHAPTER 12
The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting the young lady visitor and Countess Rostov’s eldest daughter, Vera (who was four years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up person), were Nicholas and Sonya, the orphan niece. Sonya was a slender little brunette with a tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long lashes, thick black plaits coiling twice around her head, and a tawny tint in her complexion and especially in the color of her slender but graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her movements, by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs, and by a certain coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded one of a pretty, half-grown kitten that promises to become a beautiful little cat. The orphan niece Sonya evidently considered it proper to show an interest in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes watched her cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant impose upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had settled down only to spring up with more energy and again play with her cousin, Nicholas, as soon as they too could, like Natasha and Boris, escape from the drawing room.
“Ah yes, my dear,” said Count Rostov, addressing the visitor and pointing to Nicholas, “Nicholas’s friend Boris has become an officer, and so for friendship’s sake Nicholas, too, is leaving the university and me, and entering the military service. And there was a place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department! Isn’t that friendship?” remarked Count Rostov in an inquiring tone.
“But they say that war has been declared,” replied the visitor.
“They’ve been saying so a long while,” said Count Rostov, “and they’ll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it. My dear, there’s friendship for you,” he repeated. “Nicholas is joining the hussars.”
The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.
“It’s not at all from friendship with Boris,” declared Nicholas, flaring up and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. “It is not from friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation.”
Nicholas glanced at Boris and the young lady visitor, and they were both regarding him with a smile of approbation.
“Schubert, the colonel in the hussars, is dining with us today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him. It can’t be helped!” said Count Rostov, shrugging his shoulders and speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him.
“I have already told you, Papa,” said Nicholas, “that if you don’t wish to let me go, I’ll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere except in the army; I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.—I don’t know how to hide what I feel.” As Nicholas spoke he kept glancing with the flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at the orphan niece Sonya and the young lady visitor.
Natasha, the little kitten, feasting her eyes on Nicholas, seemed ready at any moment to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature.
“All right, all right!” said Count Rostov. “Nicholas always flares up! Napoleon has turned everyone’s heads; they all think of how he rose from an ensign and became the leader of France. Well, well, God grant it,” he added, not noticing his visitor’s sarcastic smile.
The elders began talking about Napoleon. The visitor’s daughter turned to Nicholas.
“What a pity you weren’t at the Arkhárovs’ on Thursday. It was so dull without you,” said she, giving him a tender smile.
Nicholas, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish smile and engaged the smiling visitor in a confidential conversation without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the heart of the orphan Sonya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of his talk, Nichola glanced around at Sonya. She gave him a passionately angry glance, and hardly able to restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile on her lips, she got up and left the room. All of Nicholas’ animation vanished. He waited for the first pause in the conversation, and then with a distressed face left the room to find Sonya.
“How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their sleeves!” said Widow Drubetskoy, pointing to Nicholas as he went out. “Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood,” she added.
“Yes,” said Countess Rostov when the brightness these young people had brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question no one had put but which was always in her mind, “and how much suffering, how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might rejoice in them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is always, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so dangerous both for girls and boys.”
“It all depends on the bringing up,” remarked the visitor.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” continued Countess Rostov. “Till now I have always, thank God, been my children’s friend and had their full confidence,” said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who imagine that their children have no secrets from them. “I know I shall always be my daughters’ first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with his impulsive nature, does get into mischief (a boy can’t help it), he will all the same never be like those St. Petersburg young men.”
“Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters,” chimed in Count Rostov who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by deciding that everything was splendid. “Just fancy: Nicholas wants to be a hussar. What’s one to do, my dear?”
“What a charming creature your younger girl, Natasha, is,” said the visitor; “a little volcano!”
“Yes, Natasha is a regular volcano,” said Count Rostov. “Takes after me! And what a voice she has; though she’s my daughter, I tell the truth when I say she’ll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an Italian to give her lessons.”
“Isn’t she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to train it at that age.”
“Oh no, not at all too young!” replied Count Rostov. “Why, our mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen.”
“And Natasha’s in love with Boris already. Just fancy!” said Countess Rostov with a gentle smile, looking at Boris. She went on, evidently concerned with a thought that always occupied her: “Now you see if I were to be severe with her and to forbid it ... goodness knows what they might be up to on the sly” (she meant that they would be kissing), “but as it is, I know every word she utters. Natasha will come running to me of her own accord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I spoil her, but really that seems the best plan. With Vera, I was stricter.”
“Yes, I was brought up quite differently,” remarked the Rostov’s handsome elder daughter, Vera, with a smile.
But the smile did not enhance Vera’s beauty as smiles generally do; on the contrary, it gave her an unnatural, and therefore unpleasant, expression. Vera was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone—the visitors and countess alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had said it, and they all felt awkward.
“People are always too clever with their eldest children and try to make something exceptional of them,” said the visitor.
“What’s the good of denying it, my dear? My wife was too clever with Vera,” said Count Rostov. “Well, what of that? She’s turned out splendidly all the same,” he added, winking at Vera.
The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to dinner.
“What manners! I thought they would never go,” said Countess Rostov, when she had seen her guests out.
***
CHAPTER 13
When Natasha ran out of the drawing room she only went as far as the conservatory. There she paused and stood listening to the conversation in the drawing room, waiting for Boris to come out. She was already growing impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not coming at once, when she heard the young man’s discreet steps approaching neither quickly nor slowly. At this Natasha dashed swiftly among the flower tubs and hid there.
Boris paused in the middle of the room, looked around, brushed a little dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror examined his handsome face. Natasha, very still, peered out from her ambush, waiting to see what he would do. He stood a little while before the glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. Natasha was about to call him but changed her mind. “Let him look for me,” thought she. Hardly had Boris gone than Sonya, flushed, in tears, and muttering angrily, came in at the other door. Natasha checked her first impulse to run out to her, and remained in her hiding place, watching—as under an invisible cap—to see what went on in the world. She was experiencing a new and peculiar pleasure. Sonya, muttering to herself, kept looking around toward the drawing-room door. It opened and Nicholas came in.
“Sonya, what is the matter with you? How can you?” said Nicholas, running up to her.
“It’s nothing, nothing; leave me alone!” sobbed Sonya.
“Ah, I know what it is.”
“Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to the pretty young visitor you were staring at!”
“Só-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like that, for a mere fancy?” said Nicholas taking her hand.
Sonya did not pull it away and she stopped crying.
Natasha, not stirring and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with sparkling eyes. “What will happen now?” thought she.
“Sonya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are everything!” said Nicholas. “And I will prove it to you.”
“I don’t like you to talk like that.”
“Well, then, I won’t; only forgive me, Sonya!” He drew her to him and kissed her.
“Oh, how nice,” thought Natasha; and when Sonya and Nicholas had gone out of the conservatory Natasha followed and called Boris to her.
“Boris, come here,” said Natasha with a sly and significant look. “I have something to tell you. Here, here!” and she led him into the conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding.
Boris followed her, smiling.
“What is the something?” asked Boris.
She grew confused, glanced around, and, seeing the doll she had thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up.
“Kiss the doll,” said Natasha.
Boris looked attentively and kindly at her eager face but did not reply.
“Don’t you want to? Well, then, come here,” said she, and went further in among the plants and threw down the doll. “Closer, closer!” she whispered.
She caught the young Boris by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity and fear appeared on her flushed face.
“And me? Would you like to kiss me?” she whispered almost inaudibly, glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying from excitement.
Boris blushed.
“How funny you are!” he said, bending down to her and blushing still more, but he waited and did nothing.
Suddenly Natasha jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him so that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and, tossing back her hair, kissed him full on the lips.
Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of the tubs and stood, hanging her head.
“Natasha,” Boris said, “you know that I love you, but...”
“You are in love with me?” Natasha broke in.
“Yes, I am, but please don’t let us act like that... In another four years ... then I will ask for your hand.”
Natasha considered.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” she counted on her slender little fingers. “All right! Then it’s settled?”
A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.
“Settled!” replied Boris.
“Forever?” said the little girl. “Till death itself?”
Natasha took Boris’s arm and with a happy face went with him into the adjoining sitting room.
***
CHAPTER 14
After receiving her visitors, Countess Rostov was so tired that she gave orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to invite to dinner all who came “to congratulate.” Countess Rostov wished to have a tête-à-tête talk with the friend of her childhood, Widow Drubetskoy, whom she had not seen properly since she returned from St. Petersburg. Widow Drubetskoy, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, drew her chair nearer to that of Countess Rostov.
“With you, I will be quite frank,” said Widow Drubetskoy. “There are not many left of us old friends! That’s why I so value your friendship.”
Widow Drubetskoy looked at Vera and paused. Countess Rostov pressed Widow Drubetskoy’s hand.
“Vera!” Countess Rostov said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a favorite, “How is it you have so little tact? Don’t you see you are not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or...”
The handsome Vera smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all hurt.
“If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,” Vera replied as she left to go to her room.
But as Vera passed the sitting room she noticed two couples sitting, one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully. Sonya was sitting close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses for her, the first he had ever written. Boris and Natasha were at the other window and ceased talking when Vera entered. Sonya and Natasha looked at Vera with guilty, happy faces.
It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love, but apparently, the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in Vera.
“How often have I asked you not to take my things?” Vera said. “You have a room of your own,” and she took the inkstand from Nicholas.
“In a minute, in a minute,” Nicholas said, dipping his pen.
“You always manage to do things at the wrong time,” continued Vera. “You came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt ashamed of you.”
Though what Vera said was quite fair, perhaps for that very reason no one replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered in the room with the inkstand in her hand.
“And at your age what secrets can there be between Natasha and Boris, or between you two? It’s all nonsense!”
“Now, Vera, what does it matter to you?” said Natasha in defense, speaking very gently.
Natasha seemed that day to be more kind and affectionate than ever to everyone.
“Very silly,” said Vera. “I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!”
“Everyone has secrets of their own,” answered Natasha, getting warmer. “We don’t interfere with you and Berg.”
“I should think not,” said Vera, “because there can never be anything wrong in my behavior. But I’ll just tell Mamma how you are behaving with Boris.”
“Natasha behaves very well to me,” remarked Boris. “I have nothing to complain of.”
“Don’t, Boris! You are such a diplomat that it is really tiresome,” said Natasha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly. (She used the word “diplomat,” which was just then much in vogue among the children, in the special sense they attached to it.) “Why does she bother me?” And Natasha added, turning to Vera, “You’ll never understand it because you’ve never loved anyone. You have no heart! You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing more” (this nickname, bestowed on Vera by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), “and your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with Berg as much as you please,” Natasha finished quickly.
“I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors...”
“Well, now you’ve done what you wanted,” put in Nicholas—“you’ve said unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. We’re going to go to the nursery.”
All four young people, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room.
“The unpleasant things were said to me,” remarked Vera, “I said none to anyone.”
“Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!” shouted laughing voices through the door.
The handsome Vera, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf. Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still colder and calmer.
In the drawing-room, the conversation was still going on.
“Ah, my dear,” said Countess Rostov, “my life is not all roses either. Don’t I know that at the rate we are living our means won’t last long? It’s all the Club and Count Rostov’s easygoing nature. Even in the country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows what besides! But don’t let’s talk about me; tell me how you managed everything. I often wonder at you, Widow Drubetskoy—how at your age you can rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to St. Petersburg, to those ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It’s quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn’t possibly do it.”
“Ah, my love,” answered Widow Drubetskoy, “God grant you never know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love to distraction! One learns many things then,” she added with a certain pride. “That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of those big people I write a note: ‘Baroness So-and-So desires an interview with So-and-So,’ and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or four times—till I get what I want. I don’t mind what they think of me.”
“Well, and to whom did you plead about your son, Boris?” asked Countess Rostov. “You see Boris as already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas is going as a mere cadet. There’s no one to champion Nicholas for him. To whom did you apply?”
“To Baron Vasili. He was so kind. He at once agreed to everything, and put the matter before the Tzar,” said Widow Drubetskoy enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she had endured to gain her end.
“Has Baron Vasili aged much?” asked Countess Rostov. “I have not seen him since we acted together at the Rumyántsovs’ theatricals. I expect he has forgotten me. He paid me attention in those days,” said Countess Rostov, with a smile.
“Baron Vasili is just the same as ever,” replied Widow Drubetskoy, “overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his head at all. He said to me, ‘I am sorry I can do so little for you, Widow Drubetskoy. I am at your command.’ Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very kind relation. But you know my love for my son: I would do anything for his happiness! And my affairs are in such a bad way that my position is now a terrible one,” continued Widow Drubetskoy, sadly, dropping her voice. “My wretched lawsuit takes all I have and makes no progress. Would you believe it, I have literally not a penny and don’t know how to equip Boris.” She took out her handkerchief and began to cry. “I need five hundred rubles and have only one twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a state... My only hope now is in Count Bezukhov. If he will not assist his godson—you know he is Boris’s godfather—and allow him something for his maintenance, all my trouble will have been thrown away... I shall not be able to equip him.”
Countess Rostov’s eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence.
“I often think, though, perhaps it’s a sin,” said Widow Drubetskoy, “that here lives Count Bezukhov so rich, all alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It’s a burden to him, and Boris’s life is only just beginning...”
“Surely Count Bezukhov will leave something to Boris,” said Countess Rostov.
“Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish. Still, I will take Boris and go to see Count Bezukhov at once, and I shall speak to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it’s really all the same to me when Boris’s fate is at stake.” Widow Drubetskoy rose. “It’s now two o’clock and you dine at four. There will just be time.”
And like a practical St. Petersburg lady who knows how to make the most of time, Widow Drubetskoy sent someone to call Boris and went into the anteroom with him.
“Good-by, my dear,” said Widow Drubetskoy to Countess Rostov who saw her to the door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, “Wish me good luck.”
“Are you going to Count Bezukhov’s home, my dear?” said Count Rostov coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added: “If he is better, ask his son, Pierre, to dine with us. Pierre has been to the house, you know, and danced with the children. Be sure to invite him, my dear. We will see how Count Rostov distinguishes himself today. He says Count Orlóv never gave such a dinner as ours will be!”
***
CHAPTER 15
“My dear Boris,” said Widow Drubetskoy to her son, Boris, as Countess Rostov’s carriage in which they were seated drove over the straw-covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Pierre’s house. “My dear Boris,” said the mother, drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle and laying it timidly and tenderly on her son’s arm, “be affectionate and attentive to him. Count Bezukhov is your godfather after all, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice to him, as you so well know how to be.”
“If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of it...” answered Boris coldly. “But I have promised and will do it for your sake.”
Although the hall porter saw someone’s carriage standing at the entrance, after scrutinizing Widow Drubetskoy and Boris (who without asking to be announced had passed straight through the glass porch between the rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly at the Widow Drubetskoy’s old cloak, the hall porter asked whether they wanted Count Bezukhov or Katerina or her sisters, and, hearing that they wished to see Count Bezukhov, said his excellency was worse today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone.
“We may as well go back,” said Boris in French.
“My dear!” exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him.
Boris said no more but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking off his cloak.
“My friend,” said Widow Drubetskoy in gentle tones, addressing the hall porter, “I know Count Bezukhov is very ill... that’s why I have come... I am a relative. I shall not disturb him, my friend... I only need to see Baron Vasili: he is staying here, is he not? Please announce me.”
The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs and turned away.
“Widow Drubetskoy to see Baron Vasili,” he called to a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a swallow-tail coat, who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing.
Widow Drubetskoy smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a large Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down shoes briskly ascended the carpeted stairs.
“My dear,” Widow Drubetskoy said to Boris, once more stimulating him by a touch, “you promised me!”
Boris, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.
They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to the apartments assigned to Baron Vasili.
Just as Widow Drubetskoy and Boris, having reached the middle of the hall, were about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as they entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Baron Vasili came out—wearing a velvet coat with a single star on his breast, as was his custom when at home—taking leave of a good-looking, dark-haired man. This was the celebrated St. Petersburg doctor, Dr. Lorrain.
“Then it is certain?” said Baron Vasili.
“Baron, to err is human, but...” replied the doctor, swallowing his r’s, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French accent.
“Very well, very well...”
Seeing Widow Drubetskoy and her son, Baron Vasili dismissed the doctor with a bow and approached them silently and with a look of inquiry. Boris noticed that an expression of profound sorrow suddenly clouded his mother’s face, and he smiled slightly.
“Ah, Baron Vasili! In what sad circumstances do we meet again! And how is our dear invalid, Count Bezukhov?” said Widow Drubetskoy, as though unaware of the cold offensive look fixed on her.
Baron Vasili stared at her and at Boris questioningly and perplexed. Boris bowed politely. Baron Vasili without acknowledging the bow turned to Widow Drubetskoy, answering her query by a movement of the head and lips indicating very little hope for Count Bezukhov.
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Widow Drubetskoy. “Oh, how awful! It is terrible to think... This is my son,” she added, indicating Boris. “He wanted to thank you himself.”
Boris bowed again politely.
“Believe me, Baron Vasili, a mother’s heart will never forget what you have done for us.”
“I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Widow Drubetskoy,” said Baron Vasili, arranging his lace frill, and in tone and manner, here in Moscow to this woman whom he had placed under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than he had done in St. Petersburg at Anna Pavlovna’s reception.
“Try to serve well and show yourself worthy,” added Baron Vasili, addressing Boris with severity. “I am glad... Are you here on leave?” Baron Vasili went on in his usual tone of indifference.
“I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,” replied Boris, betraying neither annoyance at Baron Vasili’s brusque manner nor a desire to enter into conversation, but speaking so quietly and respectfully that Baron Vasili gave him a searching glance.
“Are you living with your mother?”
“No, I am living at Countess Rostov’s,” replied Boris, again adding, “your excellency.”
“That is, with Count and Countess Rostov,” said Widow Drubetskoy.
“I know, I know,” answered Baron Vasili in his monotonous voice. “I never could understand how she made up her mind to marry that young bear, Count Rostov! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler too, I am told.”
“But Count Rostov is a very kind man, Baron Vasili,” said Widow Drubetskoy with a pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostov deserved this censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. “What do the doctors say about Count Bezukhov?” asked Widow Drubetskoy after a pause, her worn face again expressing deep sorrow.
“They give little hope,” replied Baron Vasili.
“And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kindness to me and Boris. Boris is Count Bezukhov’s godson,” she added, her tone suggesting that this fact ought to give Baron Vasili much satisfaction.
Baron Vasili became thoughtful and frowned. Widow Drubetskoy saw that Baron Vasili was afraid of finding in her a rival for Pierre’s fortune, and hastened to reassure him.
“If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,” said Widow Drubetskoy, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern, “I know Count Bezukhov’s character: noble, upright ... but you see Count Bezukhov has no one with him except Katerina and her sisters... They are still young...” She bent her head and continued in a whisper: “Has Count Bezukhov performed his final duty, Baron Vasili? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill. We women, Baron Vasili,” and she smiled tenderly, “always know how to say these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful it may be for me. I am used to suffering.”
Evidently, Baron Vasili understood her, and also understood, as he had done at Anna Pavlovna’s, that it would be difficult to get rid of Widow Drubetskoy.
“Would not such a meeting be too trying for Count Bezukhov, dear Widow Drubetskoy?” said Baron Vasili. “Let us wait until evening. The doctors are expecting a crisis.”
“But one cannot delay, Baron Vasili, at such a moment! Consider that the welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the duties of a Christian...”
A door of one of the inner rooms opened and Katerina entered with a cold, stern face. The length of her body was strikingly out of proportion to her short legs. Baron Vasili turned to her.
“Well, how is Count Bezukhov?”
“Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise...” said Katerina, looking at Widow Drubetskoy as at a stranger.
“Ah, my dear Katerina, I hardly knew you,” said Widow Drubetskoy with a happy smile, ambling lightly up to her. “I have come, and am at your service to help you nurse my uncle. I imagine what you have gone through,” and she sympathetically turned up her eyes.
Katerina gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room as Widow Drubetskoy took off her gloves and, occupying the position she had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Baron Vasili to take a seat beside her.
“Boris,” she said to Boris with a smile, “I shall go in to see my uncle, Count Bezukhov, soon; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile, and don’t forget to give him the Rostovs’ invitation. They ask him to dinner. I suppose you won’t want Pierre to go?” she continued, turning to Baron Vasili.
“On the contrary,” replied Baron Vasili, who had plainly become depressed, “I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of that young man, Pierre... Here he is, and Count Bezukhov has not once asked for him.”
Baron Vasili shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Boris down one flight of stairs and up another, to Pierre’s rooms.
***
CHAPTER 16
Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in St. Petersburg and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count Rostov’s was true. Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father’s house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade would be already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father, Count Bezukhov —the ladies were never favorably disposed toward him—would have used it to turn Count Bezukhov against him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to his father’s part of the house. Entering the drawing-room, where Katerina and her sisters spent most of their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom were sitting at embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the eldest, Katerina, who was reading—the one who had met Widow Drubetskoy. The two younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which made her much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper. Katerina paused in her reading and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; her sister assumed precisely the same expression; while the youngest sister, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile probably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her wool thread down through the canvas and, scarcely able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the pattern.
“How do you do, Katerina?” said Pierre. “You don’t recognize me?”
“I recognize you only too well, too well.”
“How is Count Bezukhov? Can I see him?” asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual, but unabashed.
“Count Bezukhov is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you have done your best to increase his mental suffering.”
“Can I see him?” Pierre again asked.
“Hmm... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see him... Olga, go and see whether Count Bezukhov ’s beef tea is ready—it is almost time,” Katerina added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.
Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and said: “Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see him.”
And Pierre left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the sister with the mole.
The day before, Baron Vasili had arrived and settled in at Count Bezukhov’s house. Baron Vasili had then sent for Pierre and said to him: “Pierre, if you are going to behave here as you did in St. Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I have to say to you. Count Bezukhov is very, very ill, and you must not see him at all.”
Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in his rooms upstairs.
When Boris appeared at his door, Pierre was pacing up and down his room, stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall, as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and glaring savagely over his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.
“England is done for,” said Pierre, scowling and pointing his finger at someone unseen. “Pitt, as England’s prime minister, is a traitor to the nation and to the rights of man, and so he is sentenced to...” But before Pierre—who at that moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured London—could pronounce Pitt’s sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left Moscow when Boris was a boy of fourteen and had quite forgotten him, but in his usual impulsive and hearty way, he took Boris by the hand with a friendly smile.
“Do you remember me?” asked Boris quietly with a pleasant smile. “I have come with my mother to see Count Bezukhov, but it seems he is not well.”
“Yes, it seems Count Bezukhov is ill. People are always disturbing him,” answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.
Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least embarrassment, Boris looked Pierre straight in the face.
“Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today,” said Boris, after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.
“Ah, Count Rostov!” exclaimed Pierre joyfully. “Then you are his son, Ilyá? Only fancy, I didn’t know you at first. Do you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It’s such an age...”
“You are mistaken,” said Boris deliberately, with a bold and slightly sarcastic smile. “I am Boris, son of Widow Drubetskoy. Count Rostov, the father, is Ilyá, and his son is Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot.”
Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.
“Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I’ve mixed everything up. One has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Boris? Of course. Well, now we know where we are. And what do you think of the English’s Boulogne expedition? The British will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the English Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only General Villeneuve doesn’t make a mess of things!”
Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve’s name.
“We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal than with politics,” said Boris in his quiet ironical tone. “I know nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip,” he continued. “Just now they are talking about you and your father, Count Bezukhov.”
Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for Boris’s sake that the latter might say something he would afterward regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into Pierre’s eyes.
“Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” Boris went on. “Everybody is wondering to whom Count Bezukhov will leave his fortune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...”
“Yes, it is all very horrid,” interrupted Pierre, “very horrid.”
Pierre was still afraid that Boris might inadvertently say something disconcerting to himself.
“And it must seem to you,” said Boris flushing slightly, but not changing his tone or attitude, “it must seem to you that everyone is trying to get something out of the rich man?”
“So it does,” thought Pierre.
“But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that your father, Count Bezukhov, is rich, I don’t regard myself as a relation of his, and neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him.”
For a long time, Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow in his quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris, began to speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation.
“Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know very well...”
But Boris again interrupted him.
“I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like that I did so? You must excuse me,” said Boris, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put at ease by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to dinner at the Rostovs’?”
And Boris, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it, became quite pleasant again.
“No, but I say,” said Pierre, calming down, “you are a wonderful fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course, you don’t know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite understand. I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the courage, but it’s splendid. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It’s queer,” Pierre added after a pause, “that you should have suspected me!” He began to laugh. “Well, what of it! I hope we’ll get better acquainted,” and he pressed Boris’ hand. “Do you know, I have not once been in to see Count Rostov. He has not sent for me... I am sorry for him as a man, but what can one do?”
“And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?” asked Boris with a smile.
Pierre saw that Boris wished to change the subject, and being of the same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne expedition.
A footman came in to summon Boris—Widow Drubetskoy was going. Pierre, in order to make Boris’ better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner at the Rostov’s, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles into Boris’ eyes. After Boris had gone Pierre continued pacing up and down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant, intelligent, and resolute young man.
As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a lonely life, Pierre felt an unaccountable tenderness for Boris and made up his mind that they would be friends.
Baron Vasili saw Widow Drubetskoy off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes and her face was tearful.
“It is dreadful, dreadful!” she was saying, “but cost me what it may, I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. Count Bezukhov must not be left like this. Every moment is precious. I can’t think why his nieces put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare him!... Goodbye, Baron Vasili! May God support you...”
“Goodbye, my beautiful friend,” answered Baron Vasili turning away from her.
“Oh, Count Bezukhov is in a dreadful state,” said Widow Drubetskoy to Boris when they were in the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anybody.”
“I don’t understand, Mamma—what is Count Bezukhov's attitude to Pierre?” asked Boris.
“Count Bezukhov's will is going to reveal that, my dear; our fate also depends on it.”
“But why do you expect that Count Bezukhov will leave us anything?”
“Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!”
“Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma...”
“Oh, heavens! How ill he is!” exclaimed Widow Drubetskoy.
***
CHAPTER 17
After Widow Drubetskoy had driven off with Boris to visit Count Bezukhov, Countess Rostov sat for a long time all alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last, she rang.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” Countess Rostov said crossly to the maid who kept her waiting some minutes. “Don’t you wish to serve me? Then I’ll find you another place.”
Countess Rostov was upset by Widow Drubetskoy’s sorrow and humiliating poverty and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always found expression in calling her maid “my dear” and speaking to her with exaggerated politeness.
“I am very sorry, ma’am,” answered the maid.
“Ask Count Rostov to come to me.”
Count Rostov came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as usual.
“Well, my dear? What a saute of game with Madiera sauce we are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for the chef were not ill-spent. He is worth it!”
He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling his gray hair.
“What are your commands, dear?”
“You see, my dear... What’s that mess?” Countess Rostov said, pointing to his waistcoat. “It’s the saute, most likely,” she added with a smile. “Well, you see, husband, I want some money.”
Countess Rostov’s face became sad.
“Oh, my dear!” ... and Count Rostov began bustling to get out his pocketbook.
“I want a great deal, husband! I want five hundred rubles,” and taking out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband’s waistcoat.
“Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who’s there?” Count Rostov called out in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call will rush to obey the summons. “Send Dmítri to me!”
Dmítri, a man of a good family who had been brought up in Count Rostov’s house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room.
“This is what I want, my dear fellow,” said Count Rostov to the deferential young man who had entered. “Bring me...” he reflected a moment, “yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don’t bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones for my wife.”
“Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,” said Countess Rostov, sighing deeply.
“When would you like them, Count Rostov?” asked Dmítri. “Allow me to inform you... But, don’t be uneasy,” he added, noticing that Count Rostov was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always a sign of approaching anger. “I was forgetting... Do you wish it brought at once?”
“Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to Countess Rostov.”
“What a treasure that Dmítri is,” added Count Rostov with a smile when the young man had departed. “There is never any ‘impossible’ with him. That’s a thing I hate! Everything is possible.”
“Ah, money, husband, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,” said Countess Rostov. “But I am in great need of this sum.”
“You, my dear, are a notorious spendthrift,” said Count Rostov, and having kissed his wife’s hand he went back to his study.
When Widow Drubetskoy returned from Count Bezukhov’s, the money, all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on Countess Rostov’s little table. Countess Rostov noticed that something was agitating her.
“Well, my dear?” asked Countess Rostov.
“Oh, what a terrible state Count Bezukhov is in! One would not know him, he is so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word...”
“For heaven’s sake don’t refuse me,” Countess Rostov began, with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified, elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief.
Widow Drubetskoy instantly guessed Countess Rostov’s intention and stooped to be ready to embrace Countess Rostov at the appropriate moment.
“This is for Boris from me, for his outfit.”
Widow Drubetskoy was already embracing her and weeping. Countess Rostov wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were kindhearted, and because they—friends from childhood—had to think about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over... But those tears were pleasant to them both.
***
CHAPTER 18
Countess Rostov, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was already seated in the drawing room. Count Rostov took the gentlemen into his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From time to time he went out to ask: “Hasn’t she come yet?” They were expecting Mary Dmitrievna, known in society as the terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for common sense and frank plainness of speech. Mary Dmitrievna was known to the Tzar’s family as well as to all Moscow and St. Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her, laughed privately at her rude remarks, and told good stories about her, while nonetheless all without exception respected and feared her.
In Count Rostov’s room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew it had appeared. Count Rostov sat on the sofa between two guests who were smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he egged on against each other.
One of the smokers was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and, having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor, Cousin Sinchin, a cousin of Countess Rostov’s, a man with “a sharp tongue” as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards, irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This was Berg, an officer in a regiment with whom Boris was to travel to join the army, and about whom Natasha had teased her elder sister Vera by speaking of Berg as her “intended.” Count Rostov sat between them and listened attentively. His favorite occupation when not playing boston, a card game he was very fond of, was that of a listener, especially when he succeeded in setting two loquacious talkers at one another.
“Well, then, old chap, my very honorable Berg,” said Cousin Sinchin, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian expressions with the choicest French phrases—which was a peculiarity of his speech. “You expect to make an income out of the government,” you want to make something out of your company?”
“No, Cousin Sinchin; I only want to show that in the cavalry the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own position now...”
Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk circumstantially and with evident satisfaction.
“Consider my position, Cousin Sinchin. Were I in the cavalry I should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and thirty,” said he, looking at Cousin Sinchin and Count Rostov with a joyful, pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must always be the chief desire of everyone else.
“Besides that, Cousin Sinchin, by exchanging into the Guards I shall be in a more prominent position,” continued Berg, “and vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to put a little aside and send something to my father,” he went on, emitting a smoke ring.
“So that squares matters... A German knows how to skin a flint, as the proverb says,” remarked Cousin Sinchin, moving his pipe to the other side of his mouth and winking at Count Rostov.
Count Rostov burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that Cousin Sinchin was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime the company commander might get killed, and he, as senior in the company, might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently enjoyed narrating all this and did not seem to suspect that others, too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily sedate, and the naivete of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that he disarmed his hearers.
“Well, Berg, my boy, you’ll get along wherever you go—foot or horse—that I’ll warrant,” said Cousin Sinchin, patting him on the shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa.
Berg smiled joyously. Count Rostov, followed by his guests, went into the drawing room.
It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests, expecting the summons to hors d’oeuvres, avoid engaging in any long conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. Count and Countess Rostov look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another, and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish that is not yet ready.
Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across, blocking the way for everyone. Countess Rostov tried to make him talk, but he went on naively looking around through his spectacles as if in search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. Pierre was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman.
“You have only lately arrived?” Countess Rostov asked him.
“Yes, madam,” replied Pierre, looking around him.
“You have not yet seen my husband, Count Rostov?”
“No, madam.” He smiled quite inappropriately.
“You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it’s very interesting.”
“Very interesting.”
Countess Rostov exchanged glances with Widow Drubetskoy. The latter understood that she was being asked to entertain Pierre, and sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father, Count Bezukhov; but he answered her, as he had Countess Rostov, only in monosyllables. The other guests were all conversing with one another. “The Razumóvskis... It was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apráksina...” was heard on all sides. Countess Rostov rose and went into the ballroom.
“Mary Dmitrievna?” came her voice from there.
“Herself,” came the answer in a rough voice, and Mary Dmitrievna entered the room.
All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very oldest rose. Mary Dmitrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout, holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if rolling them up. Mary Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian.
“Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her children,” Mary Dmitrievna said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all others. “Well, you old sinner,” she went on, turning to Count Rostov who was kissing her hand, “you’re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay? Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just see how these nestlings are growing up,” and she pointed to the girls. “You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not...”
“Well,” said Mary Dmitrievna, “how’s my Cossack?” (Mary Dmitrievna always called Natasha a Cossack) and she stroked the child’s arm as she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. “I know she’s a scamp of a girl, but I like her.”
Mary Dmitrievna took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and, having given them to the rosy Natasha, who beamed with the pleasure of her saint’s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to Pierre.
“Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,” said Mary Dmitrievna, assuming a soft high tone of voice. “Come here, my friend Pierre...” and she ominously tucked up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a childlike way through his spectacles.
“Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell your father, Count Bezukhov, the truth when he was in favor, and in your case, it’s my evident duty.” She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to follow, for this was clearly only a prelude.
“That Pierre…A fine lad!” Mary Dmitrievna said sarcastically. “My word! A fine lad!... Pierre’s father, Count Bezukhov, lies on his deathbed and Pierre amuses himself by setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame, sir, for shame! It would be better if Pierre went to the war.”
She turned away and gave her hand to Count Rostov, who could hardly keep from laughing.
“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Mary Dmitrievna.
Count Rostov went in first with Mary Dmitrievna, Countess Rostov followed on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Widow Drubetskoy with Cousin Sinchin. Berg gave his arm to Vera. The smiling Julie went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their places. Then the strains of Count Rostov’s household band were replaced by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat Countess Rostov with Mary Dmitrievna on her right and Widow Drubetskoy on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat Count Rostov, with the hussar colonel on his left and Cousin Sinchin and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the grown-up young people: Vera beside Berg, Pierre beside Boris; and on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal decanters and fruit vases, Count Rostov kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his neighbors’ glasses, not neglecting his own. Countess Rostov in turn, without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. At the ladies’ end, an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the men’s end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so much that Count Rostov held him up as a pattern to the other guests. Berg with tender smiles was saying to Vera that love is not an earthly but a heavenly feeling. Boris was telling his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging glances with Natasha, who was sitting opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal. Of the two soups, he chose turtle with savory patties and went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines. These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a napkin, from behind the next man’s shoulders and whispered: “Dry Madeira,” “Hungarian,” or “Rhine wine”, as the case might be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with Count Rostov’s monogram that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other guests. Natasha, who sat opposite, was looking at Boris as girls of thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny lively little girl’s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing why.
Nicholas sat at some distance from the orphan niece Sonya, beside Julie, to whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sonya wore a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking around uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines, and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for knowledge.
***
CHAPTER 19
At the men’s end of the table, the talk grew more and more animated. The colonel told them that the declaration of war had already appeared in St. Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself seen, had that day been forwarded by courier to General Kutuzov.
“And why the deuce are we going to fight Napoleon?” remarked Cousin Sinchin. “He has stopped Austria’s cackle and I fear it will be our turn next.”
The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Cousin Sinchin’s remark.
“It is for the reason, my goot sir,” said the colonel, speaking with a German accent, “for the reasson zat ze Tzar knows zat. He declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell as ze sanctity of its alliances...” he spoke this last word with particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter.
Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him, the colonel repeated the opening words of the manifesto:
... and the wish, which constitutes the Tzar’s sole and absolute aim—to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations—has now decided him to dispatch part of the army abroad and to create a new condition for the attainment of that purpose.
“Zat, my dear sir, is vy...” the colonel concluded, drinking a tumbler of wine with dignity and looking to Count Rostov for approval.
“Do you know the proverb: ‘Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but turn spindles at home!’?” said Cousin Sinchin, puckering his brows and smiling. “That suits us down to the ground. Suvórov, Russia’s most famous general who never lost a battle— Suvórov knew what he was about; yet they beat him hollow, and where are we to find Suvórovs now? I just ask you that,” said he, continually changing from French to Russian.
“Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!” said the colonel, thumping the table; “and ve must tie for our Tzar, and zen all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible” he dwelt particularly on the word possible... “as po-o-ossible,” he ended, again turning to Count Rostov. “Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and zere’s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar, how do you judge of it?” he added, addressing Nicholas (who when he heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with eyes and ears intent on the colonel).
“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning his plate around and moving his wine glasses about with as much decision and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great danger. “I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,” he concluded, conscious—as were others—after the words were uttered that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and were therefore awkward.
“What you said just now was splendid!” said his table partner Julie.
The orphan niece Sonya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking.
Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly.
“That’s fine,” said he.
“The young man’s a real hussar!” shouted the colonel, again thumping the table.
“What are you making such a noise about over there?” Mary Dmitrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the table. “What are you thumping the table for?” she demanded of the hussar, “and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French are here?”
“I am speaking ze truce,” replied the colonel with a smile.
“It’s all about the war,” Count Rostov shouted down the table. “You know Nicholas is going, Mary Dmitrievna? My son Nicholas is going.”
“I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a battle,” replied Mary Dmitrievna’s deep voice, which easily carried the whole length of the table.
“That’s true!”
Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at the one end and the men’s at the other.
“You won’t ask,” Natasha’s little brother was saying; “I know you won’t ask!”
“I will,” replied Natasha.
Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. Natasha half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her mother:
“Mamma!” rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice, audible the whole length of the table.
“What is it?” asked Countess Rostov, startled; but seeing by Natasha’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.
The conversation was hushed.
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natasha’s voice sounded still more firm and resolute.
Countess Rostov tried to frown, but could not. Mary Dmitrievna shook her fat finger.
“Cossack!” she said threateningly.
Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the elders.
“You had better take care!” said Countess Rostov.
“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natasha again cried boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in good part.
Sonya and fat little Petya doubled up with laughter.
“You see! I have asked,” whispered Natasha to her little brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again.
“Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,” said Mary Dmitrievna.
Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even Mary Dmitrievna.
“Mary Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t like ice cream.”
“Carrot ices.”
“No! What kind, Mary Dmitrievna? What kind?” Natasha almost screamed; “I want to know!”
Mary Dmitrievna and Countess Rostov burst out laughing, and all the guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Mary Dmitrievna’s answer but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who had dared to treat Mary Dmitrievna in this fashion.
Natasha only desisted when she had been told that there would be pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served around. The band again struck up, Count Rostov and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to congratulate Countess Rostov, and reached across the table to clink glasses with Count Rostov, with the children, and with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the guests returned to the drawing room and to Count Rostov’s study.
***
CHAPTER 20
The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for card games, and Count Rostov’s visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms, some in the sitting room, some in the library.
Count Rostov, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything. The young people, at Countess Rostov’ instigation, gathered around the clavichord and harp. Julie by general request played first. After she had played a little air with variations on the harp, she joined the other young ladies in begging Natasha and Nicholas, who were noted for their musical talent, to sing something. Natasha, who was treated as though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of this but at the same time felt shy.
“What shall we sing?” she said.
“‘The Brook,’” suggested Nicholas.
“Well, then, let’s be quick. Boris, come here,” said Natasha. “But where is Sonya?”
She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room ran to look for her.
Running into Sonya’s room and not finding her there, Natasha ran to the nursery, but Sonya was not there either. Natasha concluded that she must be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was the place of mourning for the younger female generation in the Nicholas household. And there in fact was Sonya lying face downward on Nurse’s dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and sobbing so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook. Natasha’s face, which had been so radiantly happy all that saint’s day, suddenly changed: her eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed down her broad neck and the corners of her mouth drooped.
“Sonya! What is it? What is the matter?... Ooh... Ooh... Ooh...!” And Natasha’s large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she began to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that Sonya was crying. Sonya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and hid her face still deeper in the bed. Natasha wept, sitting on the blue-striped feather bed and hugging her friend. With an effort, Sonya sat up and began wiping her eyes and explaining.
“Nicholas is going away in a week’s time, his... papers... have come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry,” and Sonya showed a paper she held in her hand—with the verses Nicholas had written, “still, I should not cry, but you can’t... no one can understand... what a soul he has!”
And Sonya began to cry again because Nicholas had such a noble soul.
“It’s all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and Boris also,” Sonya went on, gaining a little strength; “he is nice... there are no difficulties in your way... But Nicholas is my cousin... one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it can’t be done. And besides, if Vera tells Mamma” (Sonya looked upon Countess Rostov as her mother and called her so) “that I am spoiling Nicholas’ career and am heartless and ungrateful, while truly... God is my witness,” and Sonya made the sign of the cross, “I love her so much, and all of you, only Vera... And what for? What have I done to her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice everything, only I have nothing...”
Sonya could not continue and she again hid her face in her hands and in the feather bed. Natasha began consoling her, but her face showed that she understood all the gravity of her friend’s trouble.
“Sonya,” Natasha suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true reason for her friend’s sorrow, “I’m sure Vera has said something to you since dinner? Hasn’t she?”
“Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some others, and Vera found them on my table and said she’d show them to Mamma, and that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow Nicholas to marry me, but that he’ll marry Julie. You see how he’s been with her all day... Natasha, what have I done to deserve it?...”
And again Sonya began to sob, more bitterly than before. Natasha lifted her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting her.
“Sonya, don’t believe her, darling! Don’t believe her! Do you remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don’t quite remember how, but don’t you remember that it could all be arranged and how nice it all was? After all, Cousin Sinchin’s brother has married his first cousin. And Boris and I are only second cousins, you know. Boris says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all about it. He is so clever and so good!” said Natasha. “Don’t you cry, Sonya, dear love, darling Sonya!” and she kissed her and laughed. “Vera’s spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right and she won’t say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, and he doesn’t care at all for Julie.”
Natasha kissed her on the hair.
Sonya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should.
“Do you think so?... Really? Truly?” Sonya said, quickly smoothing her frock and hair.
“Really, truly!” answered Natasha, pushing in a crisp lock that had strayed from under her friend’s plaits.
Both laughed.
“Well, let’s go and sing ‘The Brook.’”
“Come along!”
“Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!” said Natasha, stopping suddenly. “I feel so happy!”
And Natasha set off at a run along the passage.
Sonya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tucking away the verses in the bosom of her dress close to her bony little chest, ran after Natasha down the passage into the sitting room with a flushed face and light, joyous steps. At the visitors’ request, the young people sang the quartette, “The Brook,” with which everyone was delighted. Then Nicholas sang another song which had just learned:
“At nighttime in the moon’s fair glow
How sweet, as fancies wander free,
To feel that in this world there’s one
Who still is thinking but of thee!
That while her fingers touch the harp
Wafting sweet music o’er the lea,
It is for thee thus swells her heart,
Sighing its message out to thee...
A day or two, then bliss unspoiled,
But oh! till then I cannot live!...”
Nicholas had not finished the last verse before the young people began to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and the coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery.
Pierre was sitting in the drawing room where Cousin Sinchin had engaged him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political conversation in which several others joined but which bored Pierre. When the music began Natasha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and blushing:
“Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers.”
“I am afraid of mixing the figures,” Pierre replied; “but if you will be my teacher...” And lowering his big arm he offered it to the slender little girl.
While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up, Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natasha was perfectly happy; she was dancing with a grown-up man, who had been abroad. She was sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a grown-up lady. She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold. Assuming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows when and where she had learned it) she talked with her partner, fanning herself and smiling over the fan.
“Dear, dear! Just look at her!” exclaimed Countess Rostov as she crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natasha.
Natasha blushed and laughed.
“Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be surprised at?”
In the midst of the third dance, there was a clatter of chairs being pushed back in the sitting room where Count Rostov and Mary Dmitrievna had been playing cards with the majority of the more distinguished and older visitors. They now, stretching themselves after sitting so long, and replacing their purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First came Mary Dmitrievna and Count Rostov, both with merry countenances. Count Rostov, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet style, offered his bent arm to Mary Dmitrievna. He drew himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and as soon as the last figure of the dance was ended, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery, addressing the first violin:
“Hello there! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?”
This was Count Rostov’s favorite dance, which he had danced in his youth. (Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise.)
“Look at Papa!” shouted Natasha to the whole company, and quite forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her laughter.
And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the jovial old gentleman, Count Rostov, who standing beside his tall and stout partner, Mary Dmitrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot, and, by a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay strains of Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling those of a merry peasant dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom were suddenly filled by the domestic serfs—the men on one side and the women on the other—who with beaming faces had come to see their master making merry.
“Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!” loudly remarked the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways.
Count Rostov danced well and knew it. But his partner, Mary Dmitrievna, could not and did not want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood erect, her powerful arms hanging down (she had handed her reticule to Countess Rostov), and only her stern but handsome face really joined in the dance. What was expressed by the whole of Count Rostov’s plump figure, in Mary Dmitrievna found expression only in her more and more beaming face and quivering nose. But if Count Rostov, getting more and more into the swing of it, charmed the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and the agility with which he capered about on his light feet, Mary Dmitrievna produced no less impression by slight exertions—the least effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp her foot—which everyone appreciated in view of her size and habitual severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other couples could not attract a moment’s attention to their own evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were watching Count Rostov and Mary Dmitrievna. Natasha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to “look at Papa!” though as it was they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the dance Count Rostov, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled Count Rostov, flying round Mary Dmitrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until, turning his partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas, raising his soft foot backward, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led by Natasha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.
“That’s how we used to dance in our time, my dear,” said Count Rostov.
“That was a Daniel Cooper!” exclaimed Mary Dmitrievna, tucking up her sleeves and puffing heavily.
***
CHAPTER 21
While in the Rostovs’ ballroom the sixth dance was being danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezukhov had a sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a mute confession, communion was administered to the dying man, preparations made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house, there was the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an important order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after Count Bezukhov’s health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of the former Catherine the Great’s court, Count Bezukhov.
The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging their bows and trying to escape as quickly as possible from the glances fixed on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Baron Vasili, who had grown thinner and paler during the last few days, escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times in low tones.
When the Military Governor had gone, Baron Vasili sat down all alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the other, leaning his elbow on his knee, and covering his face with his hand. After sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him with frightened eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the long corridor leading to the back of the house, to the room of Katerina.
Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying man’s room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or expectancy at his door, which creaked slightly when opened.
“The limits of human life ... are fixed and may not be overpassed,” said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was listening naively to his words.
“I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?” asked the lady, adding the priest’s clerical title, as if she had no opinion of her own on the subject.
“Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament,” replied the priest, passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head.
“Who was that? The Military Governor himself?” was being asked at the other side of the room. “How young-looking he is!”
“Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear Count Bezukhov no longer recognizes anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction.”
“I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times.”
Katerina’s sister had just come from the sick room with her eyes red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine the Great, leaning his elbow on a table.
“Beautiful,” said the doctor in answer to a remark about the weather. “The weather is beautiful, Katerina; and besides, in Moscow, one feels as if one were in the country.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Katerina with a sigh. “So Count Bezukhov may have something to drink?”
Dr. Lorrain considered.
“Has he taken his medicine?”
“Yes.”
The doctor glanced at his watch.
“Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,” and Dr. Lorrain indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch.
“Dere has neffer been a gase,” a German doctor was saying to an aide-de-camp, “dat one liffs after de sird stroke.”
“And what a well-preserved man Count Bezukhov was!” remarked the aide-de-camp. “And who will inherit his wealth?” he added in a whisper.
“It von’t go begging,” replied the German with a smile.
Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as Katerina’s sister went in with the drink she had prepared according to Dr. Lorrain’s instructions. The German doctor went up to Dr. Lorrain.
“Do you think he can last till morning?” asked the German, addressing Dr. Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.
Dr. Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger before his nose.
“Tonight, not later,” said he in a low voice, and he moved away with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able clearly to understand and state the patient’s condition.
Meanwhile, Baron Vasili had opened the door to Katerina’s room.
In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were burning before the icons and there was a pleasant scent of flowers and burnt pastilles. The room was crowded with small pieces of furniture, whatnots, cupboards, and little tables. The quilt of a high, white feather bed was just visible behind a screen. A small dog began to bark.
“Ah, is it you, Baron Vasili?”
Katerina rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with varnish.
“Has anything happened?” she asked. “I am so terrified.”
“No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about business, Katerina,” muttered Baron Vasili, seating himself wearily on the chair she had just vacated. “You have made the place warm, I must say,” he remarked. “Well, sit down: let’s have a talk.”
“I thought perhaps something had happened,” she said with her unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the Baron, she prepared to listen.
“I wished to get a nap, my cousin, but I can’t.”
“Well, my dear?” said Baron Vasili, taking her hand and bending it downwards as was his habit.
It was plain that this “well?” referred to much that they both understood without naming.
Katerina, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for her legs, looked directly at Baron Vasili with no sign of emotion in her prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up at the icons with a sigh. This might have been taken as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting before long. Baron Vasili understood it as an expression of weariness.
“And I?” he said; “do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn out as a post horse, but still, I must have a talk with you, Katerina, a very serious talk.”
Baron Vasili said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously, now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant expression that was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His eyes too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly and at the next glanced around in alarm.
Katerina, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony hands, looked attentively into Baron Vasili’s eyes evidently resolved not to be the first to break the silence, if she had to wait till morning.
“Well, you see, my dear cousin Katerina,” continued Baron Vasili, returning to his theme, apparently not without an inner struggle; “at such a moment as this one must think of everything. One must think of the future, of all of you... I love you all, like children of my own, as you know.”
Katerina continued to look at him without moving, and with the same dull expression.
“And then of course my family has also to be considered,” Baron Vasili went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at her. “You know, Katerina, that we—you three sisters, Mámontov, and my wife—are Count Bezukhov’s only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for me; but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for anything. Do you know that I have sent for Pierre? Count Bezukhov,” pointing to his portrait, “definitely demanded that he should be called.”
Baron Vasili looked questioningly at Katerina, but could not make out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was simply looking at him.
“There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, my cousin,” Katerina replied, “and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow his noble soul peacefully to leave this...”
“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Baron Vasili impatiently, rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little table that he had pushed away. “But... in short, the fact is... you know yourself that last winter Count Bezukhov made a will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre.”
“Count Bezukhov has made wills enough!” quietly remarked Katerina. “But he cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.”
“But, my dear,” said Baron Vasili suddenly, clutching the little table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: “what if a letter has been written to the Tzar in which Count Bezukhov asks for Pierre’s legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of Count Bezukhov’s services, his request would be granted?...”
Katerina smiled as people do who think they know more about the subject under discussion than those they are talking with.
“I can tell you more,” continued Baron Vasili, seizing her hand, “that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Tzar knew of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not, then as soon as all is over,” and Baron Vasili sighed to intimate what he meant by the words all is over, “and Count Bezukhov’s papers are opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Tzar, and the petition will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate son.”
“And our share?” asked Katerina smiling ironically, as if anything might happen, only not that.
“But, my poor Katerina, it is as clear as daylight! Pierre will then be the legal heir to everything and you won’t get anything. You must know, my dear, whether the will and letter were written, and whether they have been destroyed or not. And if they have somehow been overlooked, you ought to know where they are and must find them, because...”
“What next?” Katerina interrupted, smiling sardonically and not changing the expression of her eyes. “I am a woman, and you think we are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit... a bastard!” she added as if supposing that this translation of the word would effectively prove to Baron Vasili the invalidity of his contention.
“Well, really, Katerina! Can’t you understand! You are so intelligent, how is it you don’t see that if Count Bezukhov has written a letter to the Tzar begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate, it follows that Pierre will become the new count, and Pierre will then inherit everything under the will? And if the will and letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing but the consolation of having been dutiful. And all that follows is therefrom! That’s certain.”
“I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and you, my cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool,” said Katerina with the expression women assume when they suppose they are saying something witty and stinging.
“My dear Katerina,” began Baron Vasili impatiently, “I came here not to wrangle with you, but to talk about your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true relation. And I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Tzar and the will in Pierre’s favor are among Count Bezukhov’s papers, then, my dear girl, you and your sisters are not heiresses! If you don’t believe me, then believe an expert. I have just been talking to Dmítri Onúfrich” (the family solicitor) “and he says the same.”
At this a sudden change evidently took place in Katerina’s ideas; her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not change, and her voice when she began to speak passed through such transitions as she herself evidently did not expect.
“That would be a fine thing!” said Katerina. “I never wanted anything and I don’t now.”
She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her dress.
“And this is gratitude—this is recognition for those who have sacrificed everything for his sake!” Katerina cried. “It’s splendid! Fine! I don’t want anything, Baron Vasili.”
“Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters...” replied Baron Vasili.
But Katerina did not listen to him.
“Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could expect nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and ingratitude—the blackest ingratitude—in this house...”
“Do you or do you not know where that will is?” insisted Baron Vasili, his cheeks twitching more than ever.
“Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has been intriguing!”
Katerina wished to rise, but Baron Vasili held her by the hand. She had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. She gave her companion an angry glance.
“There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Katerina, that it was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was afterward forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who...”
“Who sacrificed everything for him,” chimed in Katerina, who would again have risen had not Baron Vasili still held her fast, “though he never could appreciate it. No, my cousin,” she added with a sigh, “I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no reward, that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this world, one has to be cunning and cruel.”
“Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart.”
“No, I have a wicked heart.”
“I know your heart,” repeated Baron Vasili. “I value your friendship and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don’t upset yourself, and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or be it but an hour... Tell me all you know about the will, and above all where it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to Count Bezukhov. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it. You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help him and you.”
“Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing—I know!” cried Katerina.
“That’s not the point, my dear.”
“It’s that protégé of yours, that sweet Widow Drubetskoy, that woman whom I would not take for a housemaid... the infamous, vile woman!”
“Do not let us lose any time...”
“Ah, don’t talk to me! Last winter Widow Drubetskoy wheedled herself in here and told Count Bezukhov such vile, disgraceful things about us, especially about Sophie—I can’t repeat them—that it made Count Bezukhov quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fortnight. I know it was then he wrote this vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was invalid.”
“We’ve got to it at last—why did you not tell me about it sooner?”
“It’s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,” said Katerina, ignoring his question. “Now I know! Yes; if I have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!” almost shrieked Katerina, now quite changed. “And what does she come worming herself in here for? But I will give her a piece of my mind. The time will come!”
***
CHAPTER 22
While these conversations were going on in the reception room and Katerina’s room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent for) and Widow Drubetskoy (who found it necessary to accompany him) was driving into the court of Count Bezukhov’s house. As the wheels rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Widow Drubetskoy, having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that he was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre followed Widow Drubetskoy out of the carriage, and only then began to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him. He noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the back door. While he was getting down from the carriage steps two men, who looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides. But neither Widow Drubetskoy nor the footman nor the coachman, who could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them. “It seems to be all right,” Pierre concluded and followed Widow Drubetskoy. She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not see why it was necessary for him to go to Count Bezukhov at all, still less why he had to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Widow Drubetskoy’s air of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the stairs, they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering. These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Widow Drubetskoy pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there.
“Is this the way to Katerina’s apartments?” asked Widow Drubetskoy of one of them.
“Yes,” replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were now permissible; “the door to the left, ma’am.”
“Perhaps Count Bezukhov did not ask for me,” said Pierre when he reached the landing. “I’d better go to my own room.”
Widow Drubetskoy paused and waited for him to come up.
“Ah, my friend Pierre!” she said, touching his arm as she had done her son’s when speaking to him that afternoon, “believe me I suffer no less than you do, but be a man!”
“But really, hadn’t I better go away?” Pierre asked, looking kindly at her over his spectacles.
“Ah, my dear friend Pierre! Forget the wrongs that may have been done to you. Think that he is your father ... perhaps in the agony of death.” She sighed. “I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests.”
Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had to be done grew stronger, and he meekly followed Widow Drubetskoy who was already opening a door.
This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of Katerina, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of these rooms. Widow Drubetskoy, addressing a maid who was hurrying past with a decanter on a tray as “my dear” and “my sweet,” asked about the health of Katerina and her sisters, and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The first door on the left led into Katerina and her sisters' apartments. The maid with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door (everything in the house was done in haste at that time), and Pierre and Widow Drubetskoy in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where Baron Vasili and Katerina were sitting close together talking. Seeing them pass, Baron Vasili drew back with obvious impatience, while Katerina jumped up and with a gesture of desperation slammed the door with all her might.
This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear depicted on Baron Vasili’s face so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Widow Drubetskoy evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as if to say that this was no more than she had expected.
“Be a man, my friend Pierre. I will look after your interests,” said she in reply to his look, and went still faster along the passage.
Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what “watching over his interests” meant, but he decided that all these things had to be. From the passage, they went into a large, dimly lit room adjoining Count Bezukhov’s reception room. It was one of those sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and water had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a censer and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without heeding them. They went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and a full-length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one another. All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Widow Drubetskoy as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who, hanging his head, meekly followed her.
Widow Drubetskoy’s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical St. Petersburg lady she now, keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than that afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her the person the dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid glance at all those in the room and noticing Count Bezukhov’s confessor there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble, not exactly bowing yet seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing first of one and then of another priest.
“God be thanked that you are in time,” said Widow Drubetskoy to one of the priests; “all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man, Pierre, is Count Bezukhov’s son,” she added more softly. “What a terrible moment!”
Having said this she went up to the doctor.
“Dear doctor,” said she, “this young man, Pierre, is Count Bezukhov’s son. Is there any hope?”
The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his shoulders. Widow Drubetskoy with just the same movement raised her shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved away from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and tenderly sad voice, she said:
“Trust in His mercy!” and pointing out a small sofa for Pierre to sit and wait for her, Widow Drubetskoy went silently toward the door that everyone was watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it.
Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Widow Drubetskoy had disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind of awe and even servility. A deference such as he had never before received was shown to him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an aide-de-camp picked up and returned a glove Pierre had dropped; the doctors became respectfully silent as he passed by, and moved to make way for him. At first, Pierre wished to take another seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to pick up the glove himself and to pass around the doctors who were not even in his way; but all at once he felt that this would not do, and that tonight he was a person obliged to perform some sort of awful rite which everyone expected of him, and that he was therefore bound to accept their services. He took the glove in silence from the aide-de-camp, and sat down in the lady’s chair, placing his huge hands symmetrically on his knees in the naive attitude of an Egyptian statue, and decided in his own mind that all was as it should be and that in order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not act on his own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to the will of those who were guiding him.
Not two minutes had passed before Baron Vasili with head erect majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning; his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced around and noticed Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do), and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly fixed on.
“Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is well!” Baron Vasili turned to go.
But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: “How is...” and hesitated, not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man “Count Bezukhov,” yet ashamed to call him “father.”
“Count Bezukhov had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my friend...”
Pierre’s mind was in such a confused state that the word “stroke” suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Baron Vasili in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of illness. Baron Vasili said something to Dr. Lorrain in passing and went through the door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe and his whole body jerked at each step. Katerina followed him, and the priests and deacons and some servants also went in at the door. Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about, and at last Widow Drubetskoy, still with the same expression, pale but resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly on the arm said:
“The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be administered. Come.”
Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all followed him in as if there were now no further need for permission to enter that room.
***
CHAPTER 23
Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side and on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated with red light like a Russian church during evening service. Under the gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair on snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre saw—covered to the waist by a bright green quilt—the familiar, majestic figure of his father, Count Bezukhov, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons; his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over from behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood the priests, their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind them stood Katerina’s sisters holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister, Katerina, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer for herself should she glance round. Widow Drubetskoy, with a meek, sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door near the strange lady. Baron Vasili in front of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each time he touched his forehead. Baron Vasili’s face wore a calm look of piety and resignation to the will of God. “If you do not understand these sentiments,” he seemed to be saying, “so much the worse for you!”
Behind Baron Vasili stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants; the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of feet were the only sounds that could be heard. Widow Drubetskoy, with an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave him a taper. He lit it and, distracted by observing those around him, began crossing himself with the hand that held the taper.
Katerina’s sister, Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest sister with the mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained with it hidden for a while; then looking up and seeing Pierre she again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him without laughing, but could not resist looking at him: so to be out of temptation she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst of the service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they whispered to one another, and the old servant who was holding Count Bezukhov’s hand got up and said something to the ladies. Widow Drubetskoy stepped forward and, stooping over the dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from behind her back. The French doctor held no taper; he was leaning against one of the columns in a respectful attitude implying that he, a foreigner, in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full importance of the rite now being performed and even approved of it. He now approached Count Bezukhov with the noiseless step of one in the full vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the green quilt the hand that was free, and turning sideways felt the pulse and reflected a moment. Count Bezukhov was given something to drink, there was a stir around him, then the people resumed their places and the service continued. During this interval, Pierre noticed that Baron Vasili left the chair on which he had been leaning, and—with an air which intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not understand him it was so much the worse for them—did not go up to the dying man, but passed by him, joined Katerina, and moved with her to the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving the bed both Baron Vasili and Katerina passed out by a back door but returned to their places one after the other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once and for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way essential.
The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the sacrament. The dying Count Bezukhov lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which Widow Drubetskoy’s was the most distinct.
Pierre heard her say:
“Certainly Count Bezukhov must be moved onto the bed; here it will be impossible...”
The sick man, Count Bezukhov, was so surrounded by doctors, Katerina and her sisters, and servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with its gray mane—which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole service. He judged by the cautious movements of those who crowded around the invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and were moving him.
“Catch hold of my arm or you’ll drop him!” Pierre heard one of the servants say in a frightened whisper. “Catch hold from underneath. Here!” exclaimed different voices, and the heavy breathing of the bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried as if the weight they were carrying were too much for them.
As the bearers, among whom was Widow Drubetskoy, passed Pierre he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying man’s high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly, leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before when Count Bezukhov had sent him to St. Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon nothing.
After a few minutes of bustle beside the high bedstead, those who had carried the sick man dispersed. Widow Drubetskoy touched Pierre’s hand and said, “Come.” Pierre went with her to the bed on which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms downward. When Pierre came up Count Bezukhov was gazing straight at him but with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man. Either this look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes they must look somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Widow Drubetskoy made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick man’s hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of Count Bezukhov’s face stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Widow Drubetskoy to see what he was to do next. Widow Drubetskoy with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he was doing right. Widow Drubetskoy nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naively symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at Count Bezukhov, who still gazed at the spot where Pierre’s face had been before he sat down. Widow Drubetskoy indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of Count Bezukhov’s face began to twitch. The twitching increased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one side (only now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound. Widow Drubetskoy looked attentively at the sick man’s eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Count Bezukhov, then to some drink, then named Baron Vasili in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of the sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the servant who stood constantly at the head of the bed.
“Wants to turn on the other side,” whispered the servant, and got up to turn Count Bezukhov’s heavy body toward the wall.
Pierre rose to help him.
While Count Bezukhov was being turned over, one of his arms fell back helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain, at any rate, he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre’s terror-stricken face, and again at the arm, and on his face, a feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride his own helplessness. At the sight of this smile, Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. Count Bezukhov was turned onto his side with his face to the wall. He sighed.
“Count Bezukhov is dozing,” said Widow Drubetskoy, observing that one of Katerina’s sisters was coming to take her turn at watching. “Let us go.”
Pierre went out.
***
CHAPTER 24
There was now no one in the reception room except Baron Vasili and Katerina, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion, Widow Drubetskoy, they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw Katerina hide something as she whispered:
“I can’t bear the sight of Widow Drubetskoy.”
“Katerina has had tea served in the small drawing room,” said Baron Vasili to Widow Drubetskoy. “Go and take something, my poor Widow Drubetskoy, or you will not hold out.”
To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Widow Drubetskoy into the small drawing room.
“There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup of this delicious Russian tea,” Dr. Lorrain was saying with an air of restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese handle-less cup before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid in the small circular room. Around the table, all who were at Count Bezukhov’s house that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During balls given at the house of Count Bezukhov, who did not know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with diamonds and pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly lighted mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now this same room was dimly lit by two candles. On one small table, tea things and supper dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the night, a motley throng of people sat there, not merrymaking, but somberly whispering, and betraying by every word and movement that none of them forgot what was happening and what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything though he would very much have liked to. He looked inquiringly at his monitress and saw that she was again going on tiptoe to the reception room where they had left Baron Vasili and Katerina. Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and after a short interval followed her. Widow Drubetskoy was standing beside Katerina, and they were both speaking in excited whispers.
“Permit me, Widow Drubetskoy, to know what is necessary and what is not necessary,” said Katerina, evidently in the same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.
“But, my dear Katerina,” answered Widow Drubetskoy blandly but impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other from passing, “won’t this be too much for poor Count Bezukhov at a moment when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already prepared...”
Baron Vasili was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently; but he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were saying.
“Come, my dear Widow Drubetskoy, let Katerina do as she pleases. You know how fond Count Bezukhov is of her.”
“I don’t even know what is in this paper,” said Katerina, addressing Baron Vasili and pointing to an inlaid portfolio she held in her hand. “All I know is that his real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten...”
She tried to pass Widow Drubetskoy, but the latter sprang so as to bar her path.
“I know, my dear, kind Katerina,” said Widow Drubetskoy, seizing the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily. “Dear Katerina, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! I beg you...”
Katerina did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if Katerina did speak, her words would not be flattering to Widow Drubetskoy. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed firmness and softness.
“Pierre, my dear, come here. I think Pierre will not be out of place in a family consultation; is it not so, Baron Vasili?”
“Why don’t you speak, Pierre?” suddenly shrieked Katerina so loud that those in the drawing room heard her and were startled. “Why do you remain silent when heaven knows who permits herself to interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man’s room? Intriguer!” she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio.
But Widow Drubetskoy went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the portfolio and changed her grip.
Baron Vasili rose. “Oh!” said he with reproach and surprise, “this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you.”
Katerina let go.
“And you too!”
But Widow Drubetskoy did not obey him.
“Let go, I tell you! I will take responsibility. I myself will go and ask Count Bezukhov, I will!... does that satisfy you?”
“But, Baron Vasili,” said Widow Drubetskoy, “after such a solemn sacrament, allow him a moment’s peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your opinion,” said she, turning to Pierre who, having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of Katerina which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Baron Vasili.
“Remember that you will answer for the consequences,” said Baron Vasili severely. “You don’t know what you are doing.”
“Vile woman!” shouted Katerina, darting unexpectedly at Widow Drubetskoy and snatching the portfolio from her.
Baron Vasili bent his head and spread out his hands.
At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so long and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out wringing her hands.
“What are you doing!” she cried vehemently. “He is dying and you leave me alone with him!”
Katerina dropped the portfolio. Widow Drubetskoy, stooping, quickly caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. Katerina and Baron Vasili, recovering themselves, followed her.
A few minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again biting her underlip. At the sight of Pierre, her expression showed an irrepressible hatred.
“Yes, now you may be glad!” said she; “this is what you have been waiting for.” And bursting into tears she hid her face in her handkerchief and rushed from the room.
Baron Vasili came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in a fever.
“Ah, my friend!” said Baron Vasili, taking Pierre by the elbow, and there was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it before. “How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I am near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all! Death is awful...” and he burst into tears.
Widow Drubetskoy came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet steps.
“Pierre!” she said.
Pierre gave her an inquiring look. Widow Drubetskoy kissed Pierre on his forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause, she said:
“Count Bezukhov is no more...”
Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.
“Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as tears.”
Widow Drubetskoy led Pierre into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could see his face. She left him, and when she returned he was fast asleep with his head on his arm.
In the morning Widow Drubetskoy said to Pierre:
“Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you. But God will support you: you are young and are now, I hope, in command of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I know you well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but it imposes duties on you, and you must be a man.”
Pierre was silent.
“Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Count Bezukhov promised me only the day before yesterday not to forget Boris. But he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father’s wish?”
Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in silence at Widow Drubetskoy.
After her talk with Pierre, Widow Drubetskoy returned to the Rostovs’s home 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 Count Bezukhov had died as she would herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edifying. As to the last meeting between Count Bezukhov and Pierre, it was so touching that she could not think of it without tears, and did not know which had behaved better during those awful moments— Count Bezukhov who so remembered everything and everybody at last and had spoken such pathetic words to the son, or Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sadden his dying father. “It is painful, but it does one good. It uplifts the soul to see such men as Count Bezukhov and his worthy son,” said she. Of the behavior of Katerina and Baron Vasili she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers and as a great secret.
***
CHAPTER 25
At Bald Hills, Baron Bolkonski’s estate, the arrival of his son, Andrei, and his wife, Lise, was daily expected, but this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life of the household. Baron Bolkonski was named General in Chief (nicknamed in society, “the King of Prussia”) ever since the late Tzar had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously with his daughter, Marya, and her companion, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne. Though in the new reign Baron Bolkonski was free to return to the capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from Moscow to Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to say that there are only two sources of human vice—idleness and superstition, and only two virtues—activity and intelligence. Baron Bolkonski himself undertook his daughter Marya’s education, and to develop these two cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time was occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs, solving problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe, working in the garden, or superintending the building that was always going on at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity, regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of exactitude. He always came to the table under precisely the same conditions, and not only at the same hour but at the same minute. With those about him, from his daughter to his serfs, Baron Bolkonski was sharp and invariably exacting, so that without being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear and respect as few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs, every high official appointed to the province in which Baron Bolkonski’s estate lay considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber just as the architect, gardener, or Marya did, till Baron Bolkonski appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when the enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather small old man, with a powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd, youthfully glittering eyes.
On the morning of the day that Andrei and Lise were to arrive, Marya entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a silent prayer. Every morning Marya came in like that, and every morning prayed that the daily interview might pass off well.
An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose quietly and said in a whisper: “Please walk in.”
Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. Marya timidly opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused at the entrance. Baron Bolkonski was working at the lathe and after glancing around continued his work.
The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use. The large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around—all indicated continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure of the lean sinewy hand, showed that Baron Bolkonski still possessed the tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few more turns of the lathe, he removed his foot from the pedal, wiped his chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, approaching the table, summoned his daughter. Baron Bolkonski never gave his children a blessing, so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding her tenderly and attentively, said severely:
“Quite well? All right then, sit down.” Baron Bolkonski took the exercise book containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair with his foot.
“For tomorrow!” he said, quickly finding the page and making a scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.
Marya bent over the exercise book on the table.
“Wait a bit, here’s a letter for you,” said Baron Bolkonski suddenly, taking a letter addressed in a woman’s hand from a bag hanging above the table, onto which he threw it.
At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on Marya’s face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.
“From your friend Julie?” asked Baron Bolkonski with a cold smile that showed his still sound, yellowish teeth.
“Yes, it’s from Julie,” replied Marya with a timid glance and a timid smile.
“I’ll let two more letters pass, but the third I’ll read,” said Baron Bolkonski sternly; “I’m afraid you write much nonsense. I’ll read the third!”
“Read this if you like, Father,” said Marya, blushing still more and holding out the letter.
“The third, I said the third!” cried Baron Bolkonski abruptly, pushing the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward him the exercise book containing geometrical figures.
“Well, madam,” Baron Bolkonski began, stooping over the book close to his daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat so that she felt surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. “Now, madam, these triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC...”
Marya looked in a scared way at her father’s eyes glittering close to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened that her fear would prevent her from understanding any of her father’s further explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was the teacher’s fault or the pupil’s, this same thing happened every day: Marya’s eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear anything, but was only conscious of her stern father’s withered face close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in peace. Baron Bolkonski was beside himself: moved the chair on which he was sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control himself and not become vehement, but almost always did become vehement, scolded, and sometimes flung the exercise book away.
Marya gave a wrong answer.
“Well now, isn’t she a fool!” shouted Baron Bolkonski, pushing the book aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and down, lightly touched his daughter’s hair, and sat down again.
Baron Bolkonski drew up his chair and continued to explain.
“This won’t do, Marya; it won’t do,” said he, when Marya, having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day’s lesson, was about to leave: “Mathematics are most important, madam! I don’t want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and you’ll like it,” and he patted her cheek. “It will drive all the nonsense out of your head.”
Marya turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut book from the high desk.
“Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Julie has sent you. Religious! I don’t interfere with anyone’s belief... I have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go.”
Baron Bolkonski patted her on the shoulder and closed the door after her.
Marya went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She sat down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and which was littered with books and papers. Marya was as untidy as her father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from childhood; that same Julie who had been at the Rostovs’ name-day party.
Julie wrote in French:
Dear and precious Marya, How terrible and frightful a thing is a separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness are wrapped up in you and that in spite of the distance separating us our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against fate, and in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me, I cannot overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since we parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in your big study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as three months ago, draw fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle, calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so well and seem to see before me as I write?
Having read thus far, Marya sighed and glanced into the mirror which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and a thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness at her reflection in the glass. “She flatters me,” thought Marya, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter her friend, Marya’s eyes—large, deep, and luminous (it seemed as if at times there radiated from them shafts of warm light)—were so beautiful that very often in spite of the plainness of her face they gave her an attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But Marya never saw the beautiful expression of her own eyes—the look they had when she was not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her face assumed a forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked into a glass. She went on reading:
All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march to the frontier. Our dear Tzar has left St. Petersburg and it is thought intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant that the Corsican monster, Napoleon, who is destroying the peace of Europe may be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean young Nicholas, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain inactive and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to you, dear Marya, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for the army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty, and, particularly, he is so frank and has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that my relations with him, transient as they were, have been one of the sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already suffered so much. Someday I will tell you about our parting and all that was said then. That is still too fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know these poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, for the latter are generally the stronger! I know very well that Nicholas is too young ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship, this poetic and pure intimacy, was what my heart needed. But enough of this! The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of Count Bezukhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! Katerina and her sisters have received very little, Baron Vasili nothing, and it is Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been recognized as legitimate; so that he is now the new count and possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Baron Vasili played a very despicable part in this affair and that he returned to St. Petersburg quite crestfallen.
I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and inheritance; but I do know that since Pierre, whom we all used to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become count and the owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to watch the change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort of fellow. As for the past two years, people have amused themselves by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don’t even know), the matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as the future Countess. But you will understand that I have no desire for the post. In regards to marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal auntie Widow Drubetskoy told me, under the seal of strict secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you? It is neither more nor less than with Baron Vasili’s son Anatole, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguished, and it is on you that his relations’ choice has fallen. I don’t know what you will think of it, but I consider it my duty to let you know of it. He is said to be very handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find out about him.
But enough gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apráksins’. Read the mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it is an admirable book that calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give my respects to Baron Bolkonski and my compliments to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.
JULIE
P.S. Let me have news of your brother, Andrei, and his charming little wife, Lise.
Marya pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote, also in French:
Dear and precious Julie, Your letter of the 13th has given me great delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which you say so much that is bad, does not seem to have had its usual effect on you. You complain about our separation. What then should I say, if I dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you suppose that I should look severely on your affection for that young man? On such matters, I am only severe with myself. I understand such feelings in others, and if never having felt them I cannot approve of them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me that Christian love, love of one’s neighbor, love of one’s enemy, is worthier, sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful eyes of a young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl like yourself.
The news of Count Bezukhov’s death reached us before your letter and Baron Bolkonski was much affected by it. He says Count Bezukhov was the last representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as possible. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune!
I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. Pierre always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Baron Vasili, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine Savior’s words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are terribly true. I pity Baron Vasili but am still more sorry for Pierre. So young, and burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the volume you have sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since you tell me that among some good things it contains others that our weak human understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some people have for confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken their doubts and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for exaggeration quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries they contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this flesh which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which our divine Savior has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less we seek to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner will He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit.
Baron Bolkonski has not spoken to me of a suitor but has only told me that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Baron Vasili. In regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay the duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings toward him whom He may give me for husband.
I have had a letter from my brother, Andrei, who announces his speedy arrival at Bald Hills with his wife, Lise. This pleasure will be but a brief one, however, for he will leave us again to take part in this unhappy war into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only where you are—at the heart of affairs and of the world—is the talk all of the war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature—which townsfolk consider characteristic of the country—rumors of war are heard and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I witnessed a heartrending scene... It was a convoy of conscripts enrolled from our people and starting to join the army. You should have seen the state of the mothers, wives, and children of the men who were going and should have heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the laws of its divine Savior, Who preached love and forgiveness of injuries—and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill in killing one another.
Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Savior and His most Holy Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!
MARYA
“Ah, you are sending off a letter, Marya? I have already dispatched mine. I have written to my poor mother,” said the smiling Lady-in-waiting Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r’s. She brought into Marya’s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy world a quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and self-satisfied.
“Marya, I must warn you,” she added, lowering her voice and evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with exaggerated gravity, “Baron Bolkonski has been scolding his architect, Michael Ivanovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared.”
“Ah, dear friend,” replied Marya, “I have asked you never to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge him and would not have others do so.”
Marya glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five minutes late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the sitting room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o’clock, as the day was mapped out, Baron Bolkonski rested and the Marya played the clavichord.
***
CHAPTER 26
The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of Baron Bolkonski, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house through the closed doors came the sound of difficult passages—twenty times repeated—of a sonata by Dussek.
Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the porch. Andrei got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to alight, and let her pass into the house before him. The butler, Butler Tikhon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in a whisper that the Baron was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Butler Tikhon knew that neither Andrei’s arrival nor any other unusual event must be allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Andrei apparently knew this as well as Butler Tikhon; he looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his father’s habits had changed since he was at home last, and, having assured himself that they had not, he turned to his wife.
“Baron Bolkonski will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Marya’s room,” he said.
Lise had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak just as merrily and prettily as ever.
“Why, this is a palace!” she said to Andrei, looking around with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball. “Let’s come, quick, quick!” And with a glance round, she smiled at Butler Tikhon, at Andrei, and at the footman who accompanied them.
“Is that Marya practicing? Let’s go quietly and take her by surprise.”
Andrei followed her with a courteous but sad expression.
“You’ve grown older, Butler Tikhon,” Andrei said in passing to the old man, who kissed his hand.
Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came, the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.
“Ah! What joy for Marya!” exclaimed Lady-in-waiting Bourienne: “At last! I must let her know.”
“No, no, please not... You are Lady-in-waiting Bourienne,” said Lise, kissing her. “I know you already through my sister-in-law’s friendship with you. She was not expecting us?”
They went up to the door of the sitting room from which came the sound of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Andrei stopped and made a grimace as if expecting something unpleasant.
Lise entered the room. The passage broke off in the middle, a cry was heard, then Marya’s heavy tread and the sound of kissing. When Andrei went in the two women, who had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in each other’s arms warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne stood near them pressing her hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to cry or to laugh. Andrei shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note. Marya and Lise let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each other’s hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began kissing each other on the face, and then to Andrei’s surprise both began to cry and kissed again. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne also began to cry. Andrei evidently felt ill at ease, but to the two women it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently, it never entered their heads that it could have been otherwise at this meeting.
“Ah! My dear!... Ah! Marya!...” they suddenly exclaimed, and then laughed. “I dreamed last night...”—“You were not expecting us?...” “Ah! Marya, you have got thinner?...” “And you have grown stouter!...”
“I knew Lise at once,” put in Lady-in-waiting Bourienne.
“And I had no idea!...” exclaimed Marya. “Ah, Andrei, I did not see you.”
Andrei and Marya, hand in hand, kissed one another, and he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Marya had turned toward Andrei, and through her tears, the loving, warm, gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Andrei’s face.
Lise talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary and drawing up again the next moment when her face broke into a smile of glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had had on the Spásski Hill which might have been serious for her in her condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left all her clothes in St. Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would have to dress in here; and that Andrei had quite changed, and that Kitty Odýntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor for Marya, a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Marya was still looking silently at her brother and her beautiful eyes were full of love and sadness. It was plain that she was following a train of thought independent of her sister-in-law’s words. In the midst of a description of the last St. Petersburg fete she addressed her brother:
“So you are really going to the war, Andrei?” Marya said sighing.
Lise sighed too.
“Yes, and even tomorrow,” replied Andrei.
“Andrei is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had promotion...”
Marya did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of thought turned to Lise with a tender glance at her figure.
“Is it certain?” Marya said.
Lise’s face changed. She sighed and said: “Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful...”
Lise’s lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law’s and unexpectedly again began to cry.
“She needs rest,” said Andrei with a frown. “Don’t you, Lise? Take her to your room and I’ll go to Father. How is he? Just the same?”
“Yes, just the same. Though I don’t know what your opinion will be,” answered Lise joyfully.
“And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the lathe?” asked Andrei with a scarcely perceptible smile which showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses.
“The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and my geometry lessons,” said Marya gleefully, as if her lessons in geometry were among the greatest delights of her life.
When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for Baron Bolkonski to get up, Butler Tikhon came to call Andrei to his father. Baron Bolkonski made a departure from his usual routine in honor of his son’s arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments while he dressed for dinner. Baron Bolkonski always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Andrei entered his father’s dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to his son, Andrei), Baron Bolkonski was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Butler Tikhon.
“Ah! Here’s the warrior Andrei! You want to vanquish Napoleon?” said Baron Bolkonski, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Butler Tikhon was holding fast to plait, would allow.
“You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like this he’ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?” And Baron Bolkonski held out his cheek.
Baron Bolkonski was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He used to say that a nap “after dinner was silver—before dinner, golden.”) He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his thick, bushy eyebrows. Andrei went up and kissed his father on the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father’s favorite topic—making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Napoleon.
“Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is pregnant,” said Andrei, following every movement of his father’s face with an eager and respectful look. “How is your health?”
“Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am busy from morning till night and abstemious, so of course, I am well.”
“Thank God,” said Andrei smiling.
“God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on,” Baron Bolkonski continued, returning to his hobby; “tell me how the Germans have taught you to fight Napoleon by this new science you call ‘strategy.’”
Andrei smiled.
“Give me time to collect my wits, Father,” said he, with a smile that showed that his father’s foibles did not prevent his son from loving and honoring him. “Why, I have not yet had time to settle down!”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” cried Baron Bolkonski, shaking his pigtail to see whether it was firmly braided, and grasping his by the hand. “The house for your wife is ready. Marya will take her there and show her over, and they’ll talk nineteen to the dozen. That’s their woman’s way! I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About General Mikhelson’s army, I understand— Grand Marshal of the Court Tolstóy‘s too... a simultaneous expedition... But what’s the southern army to do? Prussia is neutral... I know that. What about Austria?” said he, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the room followed by Butler Tikhon, who ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing. “What of Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania, the area between Germany and Poland?”
Andrei, seeing that his father insisted, began—at first reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on—to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained how an army, ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that army was to join some Swedish forces at the city of Stralsund, Pomerania; how two hundred and twenty thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand Russians, were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty thousand Russians and as many English were to land at Naples, Italy, and how a total force of five hundred thousand men was to attack the French from different sides. Baron Bolkonski did not evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were not listening to it continued to dress while walking about, and three times unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: “The white one, the white one!”
This meant that Butler Tikhon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted. Another time Baron Bolkonski interrupted, saying:
“And will she soon be confined?” and shaking his head reproachfully said: “That’s bad! Go on, go on.”
The third interruption came when Andrei was finishing his description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age: “Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he’ll return.”
Andrei only smiled.
“I don’t say it’s a plan I approve of,” said Andrei; “I am only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, not worse than this one.”
“Well, you’ve told me nothing new,” Baron Bolkonski repeated, meditatively and rapidly:
“God knows when he’ll return. Go to the dining room.”
***
CHAPTER 27
At the appointed hour Baron Bolkonski, powdered and shaven, entered the dining room where his daughter-in-law, Marya, and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, Michael Ivanovich, who by a strange caprice of his employer’s was admitted to the table though the position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not have caused him to expect that honor. Baron Bolkonski, who generally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important government officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected the architect Michael Ivanovich (who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his checked handkerchief) to illustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more than once impressed on Marya that Michael Ivanovich was “not a whit worse than you or I.” At dinner, the Baron usually spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivanovich more often than to anyone else.
In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen—one behind each chair—stood waiting for the Baron to enter. The head butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the Baron was to enter. Andrei was looking at a large gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the family Bolkonski, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate) of a ruling Baron, in a crown—an alleged descendant of Rúrik and ancestor of the Bolkonski’s. Andrei, looking again at that genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing.
“How thoroughly like father that is!” Andrei said to Marya, who had come up to him.
Marya looked at him in surprise. She did not understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspire her with reverence and was beyond question.
“Everyone has his Achilles’ heel,” continued Andrei. “Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!”
Marya could not understand the boldness of her brother’s criticism and was about to reply when the expected footsteps were heard coming from the study. Baron Bolkonski walked in quickly and jauntily as was his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing room. The Baron stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on Lise. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tzar enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around him. Baron Bolkonski stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck.
“I’m glad, glad, to see you,” Baron Bolkonski said, looking attentively into her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. “Sit down, sit down! Sit down, Michael Ivanovich!”
He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law, Lise. A footman moved the chair for her.
“Ho, ho!” said Baron Bolkonski, casting his eyes on her rounded figure. “You’ve been in a hurry. That’s bad!”
He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only and not with his eyes.
“You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,” he said.
Lise did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was silent and seemed confused. Baron Bolkonski asked her about her father, and she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and she became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings from various people and retelling the town gossip.
“Countess Apráksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has cried her eyes out,” Lise said, growing more and more lively.
As she became animated Baron Bolkonski looked at her more and more sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed the architect Michael Ivanovich.
“Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Napoleon will be having a bad time of it. Andrei” (he always spoke thus of his son) “has been telling me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I never thought much of him.”
Michael Ivanovich did not at all know when “you and I” had said such things about Napoleon, but understanding that he was wanted as a peg on which to hang the Baron’s favorite topic, he looked inquiringly at the young Baron, wondering what would follow.
“He is a great tactician!” said Baron Bolkonski to his Andrei, pointing to the architect Michael Ivanovich.
And the conversation again turned to the war, on Napoleon, and the generals and statesmen of the day. Baron Bolkonski seemed convinced not only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the A B C of war or of politics, and that Napoleon was an insignificant little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any Potëmkins or Suvórovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing, pretending to do something real. Andrei gaily bore with his father’s ridicule of the new men, drew him on, and listened to him with evident pleasure.
“The past always seems good,” said Andrei, “but did not Suvórov himself fall into a carriage Moreau set him, and from which he did not know how to escape?”
“Who told you that? Who?” cried Baron Bolkonski. “Suvórov never lost a battle!” And he jerked away his plate, which Butler Tikhon briskly caught. “Suvórov!... Consider, Andrei. Two... Frederick and Suvórov; Moreau!... Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvórov had had a free hand, but he had the War Council on his hands. It would have puzzled the devil himself! When you get there you’ll find out what those on the War Council are like! Even the great Suvórov couldn’t manage them so what chance does General Kutuzov have? No, my dear boy,” he continued, “you and your generals won’t get on against Napoleon; you’ll have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to fetch the Frenchman, Moreau,” he said, alluding to the invitation made that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service... “Wonderful!... Were the Potëmkins, Suvórovs, and Orlóvs Germans? No, Andrei, either you fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help you, but we’ll see what will happen. Napoleon has become a great commander among them! Hm!...”
“I don’t at all say that all the plans are good,” said Andrei, “I am only surprised at your opinion of Napoleon. You may laugh as much as you like, but all the same, Napoleon is a great general!”
“Michael Ivanovich!” cried Baron Bolkonski to the architect Michael Ivanovich who, busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: “Didn’t I tell you Napoleon was a great tactician? Here, Andrei says the same thing.”
“To be sure, your excellency,” replied the architect Michael Ivanovich.
Baron Bolkonski again laughed his frigid laugh.
“Napoleon was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody has beaten the Germans. They beat no one—except one another. He made his reputation fighting them.”
And Baron Bolkonski began explaining all the blunders which, according to him, Napoleon had made in his campaigns and even in politics. Andrei made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European military and political events.
“You think I’m an old man and don’t understand the present state of affairs?” concluded Baron Bolkonski. “But it troubles me. I don’t sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown his skill?” he concluded.
“That would take too long to tell,” answered Andrei.
“Well, then go off to your Napoleon! Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, here’s another admirer of that powder-monkey Napoleon of yours,” he exclaimed in excellent French.
“You know that I am not a supporter of Napoleon!”
“Marlborough is going to war; God knows when he'll return.” hummed Baron Bolkonski out of tune and, with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.
Lise during the whole discussion and the rest of the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at Baron Bolkonski and now at Marya. When they left the table Lise took Marya’s arm and drew her into another room.
“What a clever man your father is,” said Lise; “perhaps that is why I am afraid of him.”
“Oh, he is so kind!” answered Marya.
***
CHAPTER 28
Andrei was to leave the next evening. Baron Bolkonski, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. Lise was in her sister-in-law, Marya’s room. Andrei in a traveling coat without epaulets had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols, and a saber—a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochákov. All these traveling effects of Andrei’s were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Andrei’s face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him, he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?—perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Marya that Andrei heard.
“I hear you have given orders to harness,” Marya cried, panting (she had apparently been running), “and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrúsha,” she added as if to explain such a question.
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, “Andrúsha.” It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be Andrúsha—the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood.
“And where is Lise?” Andrei asked, answering her question only with a smile.
“She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrei! What a treasure of a wife you have,” said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. “Lise is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her.”
Andrei was silent, but Marya noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
“One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, Andrei? Don’t forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into everyone’s situation. To understand all is to forgive all. Think what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her condition! It’s very hard.”
Andrei smiled as he looked at Marya, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand.
“You live in the country and don’t think that country life is terrible,” he replied.
“I... that’s different. Why speak of me? I don’t want any other life, and can’t, for I know no other. But think, Andrei: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone—for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There is only Lady-in-waiting Bourienne...”
“I don’t like your Lady-in-waiting Bourienne at all,” said Andrei.
“No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she’s much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don’t need her, and she’s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone... Father likes her very much. She and the architect Michael Ivanovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind 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 took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads splendidly.”
“To be quite frank, Marya, I expect Father’s character sometimes makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?” Andrei asked suddenly.
Marya was first surprised and then aghast at this question.
“For me? For me?... Trying for me!...” said she.
“He always was rather harsh, and now I should think he’s getting very trying,” said Andrei, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
“You are good in every way, Andrei, but you have a kind of intellectual pride,” said Marya, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—“and that’s a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am.”
Andrei shook his head incredulously.
“The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth, Andrei... is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this, I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with.”
“Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder,” said Andrei banteringly yet tenderly.
“Ah! My dear, I only pray and hope that God will hear me. Andrei...” she said timidly after a moment’s silence, “I have a great favor to ask of you.”
“What is it, dear?”
“No—promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, Andrei!...” said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was granted.
Marya looked timidly at her brother.
“Even if it were a great deal of trouble...” answered Andrei, as if guessing what it was about.
“Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father’s father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars.” (She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) “So you promise?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“Andrei, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will never take it off. Do you promise?”
“If it does not weigh a hundred pounds and won’t break my neck... To please you...” said Andrei. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister’s face, he repented and added: “I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad.”
“Against your will, God will save and have mercy on you and bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,” said Marya in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Savior in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.
Marya crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrei.
“Please, Andrei, for my sake!...”
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Andrei would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. He understood, crossed himself, and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.
“Thank you, my dear.” Marya kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
“As I was saying to you, Andrei, be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly,” she began. “She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one.”
“I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Marya, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?”
Red patches appeared on Marya’s face and she was silent as if she felt guilty.
“I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And I am sorry for that,” Andrei went on.
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: Lise had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Andrei felt sorry for Marya.
“Know this, Marya: I can’t reproach, have not reproached, and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself with anything in regard to her, and that always will be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this is so I don’t know...”
As Andrei said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.
“Let us go to her, I must say goodbye. Or—go and wake and I’ll come in a moment. Petrúshka!” he called to his valet: “Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right.”
Marya rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said: “Andrei, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been answered.”
“Well, maybe!” said Andrei. “Go, Marya; I’ll come immediately.”
On the way to his sister’s room, in the passage which connected one wing with the other, Andrei met Lady-in-waiting Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.
“Oh! I thought you were in your room,” Lady-in-waiting Bourienne said, for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes.
Andrei looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his sister’s room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make up for the lost time.
“No, but imagine Countess Zúbova, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age... Ha, ha, ha! Marya!”
This very sentence about Countess Zúbova and this same laugh Andrei had already heard from Lise in the presence of others some five times. He entered the room softly. Lise, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating St. Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Andrei came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter.
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about on the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to the young Baron. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall: the architect Michael Ivanovich, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, Marya, and Lise. Andrei had been called to his father’s study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out.
When Andrei entered the study Baron Bolkonski in his old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced around.
“Going?” And Baron Bolkonski went on writing.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.”
“Kiss me here,” and he touched his cheek: “Thanks, thanks!”
“What do you thank me for?”
“For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman’s apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!” And Baron Bolkonski went on writing so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. “If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together,” he added.
“About Lise... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands...”
“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.”
“When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for a doctor that specializes in birthing babies... Let him be here...”
Baron Bolkonski stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son.
“I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,” said Andrei, evidently confused. “I know that out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened.”
“Hm... Hm...” muttered Baron Bolkonski to himself, finishing what he was writing. “I’ll do it.”
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh.
“It’s a bad business, eh?”
“What is bad, Father?”
“The wife!” said Baron Bolkonski, briefly and significantly.
“I don’t understand!” said Andrei.
“No, it can’t be helped, lad,” said Baron Bolkonski. “They’re all like that; one can’t unmarry. Don’t be afraid; I won’t tell anyone, but you know it yourself.”
Baron Bolkonski seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son’s face with keen eyes which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.
Andrei sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. Baron Bolkonski continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity.
“What’s to be done? She’s pretty! I will do everything. Make your mind easy,” said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.
Andrei did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son.
“Listen!” said Baron Bolkonski; “don’t worry about your wife: what can be done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to General Kutuzov. I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all right—serve him. You need not serve under anyone if you are in disfavor. Now come here.”
Baron Bolkonski spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understanding him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.
“I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; hand them to the Tzar after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of Suvórov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful.”
Andrei did not tell Baron Bolkonski that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.
“I will do it all, Father,” he said.
“Well, now, good-by!” Baron Bolkonski gave his son his hand to kiss and embraced him. “Remember this, Andrei, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father...” he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: “but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of mine, I shall be ashamed!”
“You need not have said that to me, Father,” said Andrei with a smile.
Baron Bolkonski was silent.
“I also wanted to ask you,” continued Andrei, “if I’m killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you—as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you... Please.”
“Not let Lise have him?” said the old man, and laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. Baron Bolkonski’s sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of the father’s face.
“We’ve said good-by. Go!” Baron Bolkonski suddenly shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening his door.
“What is it? What?” asked Marya and Lise when they saw for a moment at the door Andrei and the figure of Baron Bolkonski in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.
Andrei sighed and made no reply.
“Well!” he said, turning to Lise.
And this “Well!” sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: “Now go through your performance.”
“Andrei, already!” said Lise, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband.
Andrei embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
“Adieu, Marya,” said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.
Lise lay in the armchair, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne chafing her temples. Marya, supporting Lise, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Andrei had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of Baron Bolkonski angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Andrei gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out.
“Gone? That’s all right!” said Baron Bolkonski; and looking angrily at the unconscious Lise, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed the door.
BOOK 2
***
CHAPTER 1
In October 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of General Kutuzov.
On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected by General Kutuzov. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the locality and surroundings—fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, and hills in the distance—and despite the fact that the inhabitants (who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia.
On the evening of the last day’s march, an order had been received that General Kutuzov would inspect the regiment on the march. Though the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is always better to “bow too low than not bow low enough.” So the soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending and cleaning all night long without closing their eyes, while the adjutants and company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by morning the regiment—instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on its last march the day before—presented a well-ordered array of two thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button and every buckle in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not only externally was all in order, but had it pleased General Kutuzov to look under the uniforms he would have found on every man a clean shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of articles, “awl, soap, and all,” as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of the soldiers’ boots. More than half the men’s boots were in holes. But this defect was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for in spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the Austrian commissariat, and the regiment had marched some seven hundred miles.
The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider from chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulets which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive shoulders. He had the air of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of the line and at every step pulled himself up, slightly arching his back. It was plain that the commander admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military matters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of his thoughts.
“Well?” he said, addressing one of the battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain that they both felt happy). “We had our hands full last night. However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?”
The underling perceived the jovial irony and laughed.
“It would not be turned off the field even on the Tzarítsin Meadow.”
“What?” asked the commander, not understanding his underling’s joke.
At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had been posted, two men appeared on horseback. They were an aide-de-camp followed by a Cossack.
The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been clearly worded the day before, namely, that General Kutuzov wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation whatever.
An Austrian general from Vienna had come to General Kutuzov the day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of Archduke Ferdinand and General Mack, and General Kutuzov, not considering this junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view, to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the regiment; so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased General Kutuzov would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know these circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that the men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order and that General Kutuzov would otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing this the regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a choleric gesture.
“A fine mess we’ve made of it!” the regimental commander remarked.
“There now! Didn’t I tell you that if it was said ‘on the march’ it meant in greatcoats?” said he reproachfully to the battalion commander. “Oh, my God!” he added, stepping resolutely forward. “Company commanders!” he shouted in a voice accustomed to command. “Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?” he asked the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently relating to the personage he was referring to.
“In an hour’s time, I should say.”
“Shall we have time to change clothes?”
“I don’t know...”
The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered the soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders ran off to their companies, the sergeant majors began bustling (the greatcoats were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares that had up to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and fro, throwing up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and pulling the buckles over their heads, unbuckling their overcoats, and drawing the sleeves on with upraised arms.
In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had become gray instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his jerky steps to the front of the regiment and examined it from a distance.
“Whatever is this? This!” he shouted and stood still. “Commander of the third company!”
“Commander of the third company wanted by the regimental commander!... commander to the regimental commander... third company to the regimental commander.” The words passed along the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing officer.
When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination in a cry of: “The general to the third company,” the missing officer appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged man and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his toes. The captain’s face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots appeared on his nose, the redness of which was evidently due to intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The regimental commander looked the captain up and down as he came up panting, slackening his pace as he approached.
“You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?” shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the others. “What have you been after? General Kutuzov is expected and you leave your place? Eh? I’ll teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade... Eh...?”
The captain, with his eyes fixed on his superior, pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap as if in this pressure lay his only hope of salvation.
“Well, why don’t you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as a Hungarian?” said the regimental commander with an austere gibe.
“Your excellency...”
“Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your excellency?... nobody knows.”
“Your excellency, it’s the officer Dolokhov, who has been reduced to the ranks,” said the captain softly.
“Well? Has Dolokhov been degraded into a general, or into a soldier? If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the others.”
“Your excellency, you gave Dolokhov leave yourself, on the march.”
“Gave him leave? Leave? That’s just like you young men,” said the regimental commander cooling down a little. “Leave indeed... One says a word to you and you... What?” he added with renewed irritation, “I beg you to dress your men decently.”
And the regimental commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased with his own display of anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further excuse for wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, and at another because his line was not straight, he reached the third company.
“H-o-o-w are you standing? Where’s your leg? Your leg?” shouted the regimental commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there were still five men between him and Dolokhov with his bluish-gray uniform. (We last saw Dolokhov when he was winning a bet by drinking a bottle of rum while sitting in an open window.)
Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with his clear, insolent eyes into the regimental commander’s face.
“Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his coat... the ras...” he did not finish.
“Regimental commander, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure...” Dolokhov hurriedly interrupted.
“No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!”
“Not bound to endure insults,” Dolokhov concluded in loud, ringing tones.
The eyes of the regimental commander and the soldier met. The commander became silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf.
“I request you to have the goodness to change your coat,” the regimental commander said as he turned away.
***
CHAPTER 2
“General Kutuzov is coming!” shouted the signaler at that moment.
The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle, righted himself, drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute countenance, opening his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird preening its plumage and became motionless.
“Attention!” shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment, and welcome for the approaching chief.
Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a high, light blue Viennese carriage, slightly creaking on its springs and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the carriage galloped the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside General Kutuzov sat an Austrian general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones. The carriage stopped in front of the regiment. General Kutuzov and the Austrian general were talking in low voices and Kutuzov smiled slightly as treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as if those two thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the regimental commander did not exist.
The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as with a jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence, the feeble voice of General Kutuzov was heard. The regiment roared, “Health to your ex... len... len... lency!” and again all became silent. At first, General Kutuzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he and the Austrian general in white, accompanied by the suite, walked between the ranks.
From the way the regimental commander saluted General Kutuzov and devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and from the way he walked through the ranks behind the generals, bending forward and hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he darted forward at every word or gesture of General Kutuzov, it was evident that he performed his duty as a subordinate with even greater zeal than his duty as a commander. Thanks to the strictness and assiduity of its commander the regiment, in comparison with others that had reached Braunau, Austria at the same time, was in splendid condition. There were only 217 sick and stragglers. Everything was in good order except the boots.
General Kutuzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, sometimes also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several times shook his head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian general with an expression that seemed to say that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help noticing what a bad state of things it was. The regimental commander ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of General Kutuzov’s regarding the regiment. Behind General Kutuzov, at a distance that allowed every softly spoken word to be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen talked among themselves and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to General Kutuzov walked a handsome adjutant. This was Boris. Beside him was his comrade Sergeant Nesvitski, a tall staff officer, extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. Sergeant Nesvitski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental commander’s back and mimicked his every movement. Each time the commander started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent forward in exactly the same manner. Sergeant Nesvitski laughed and nudged the others to make them look at the wag.
General Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes that were starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected this, involuntarily came closer to him.
“Ah, Captain Timokhin!” said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.
One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself more than Captain Timokhin had done when he was reprimanded by the regimental commander, but now that General Kutuzov addressed him he drew himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not have sustained it had Kutuzov continued to look at him, and so Kutuzov, who evidently understood his case and wished him nothing but good, quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his scarred and puffy face.
“Another Ismail comrade,” said Kutuzov. “A brave officer! Are you satisfied with Captain Timokhin?” he asked the regimental commander.
And the latter—unconscious that he was being reflected in the hussar officer as in a looking glass—started, moved forward, and answered: “Highly satisfied, your excellency!”
“We all have our weaknesses,” said General Kutuzov smiling and walking away from him. “Captain Timokhin used to have a predilection for Bacchus.”
The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of the red-nosed Captain Timokhin and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose with such exactitude that Sergeant Nesvitski could not help laughing. General Kutuzov turned round. The hussar evidently had complete control of his face, and while General Kutuzov was turning managed to make a grimace and then assume a most serious, deferential, and innocent expression.
The third company was the last, and General Kutuzov pondered, apparently trying to recollect something. Andrei stepped forward from among the suite and said in French:
“You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, reduced to the ranks in this regiment.”
“Where is Dolokhov?” asked General Kutuzov.
Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier’s gray greatcoat, did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks, went up to General Kutuzov, and presented arms.
“Have you a complaint to make?” General Kutuzov asked with a slight frown.
“This is Dolokhov,” said Andrei.
“Ah!” said General Kutuzov. “I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your duty. The Tzar is gracious, and I shan’t forget you if you deserve well.”
Dolokhov’s clear blue eyes looked at General Kutuzov just as boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by their expression to tear open the veil of convention that separates a Marshal so widely from a private.
“One thing I ask of your excellency,” Dolokhov said in his firm, ringing, deliberate voice. “I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Tzar and to Russia!”
General Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had turned from Captain Timokhin again flitted over his face. He turned away with a grimace as if to say that everything Dolokhov had said to him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he was weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and went to the carriage.
The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their appointed quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and clothes and to rest after their hard marches.
“You won’t bear me a grudge, Captain Timokhin?” said the regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its quarters and riding up to Captain Timokhin who was walking in front. (The regimental commander’s face now that the inspection was happily over beamed with irrepressible delight.) “It’s in the Tzar’s service... it can’t be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... Marshal Kutuzov was very pleased!” And he held out his hand to the captain.
“Don’t mention it, regimental commander, as if I’d be so bold!” replied Captain Timokhin, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile that showed where two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end of a gun at Ismail.
“And tell Dolokhov that I won’t forget him—he may be quite easy. And tell me, please—I’ve been meaning to ask—how is Dolokhov behaving himself...”
“As far as the service goes, Dolokhov is quite punctilious, your excellency; but his character...” said Captain Timokhin.
“And what about his character?” asked the regimental commander.
“It’s different on different days,” answered the captain. “One day Dolokhov is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he’s a wild beast... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew.”
“Oh, well, well!” remarked the regimental commander. “Still, one must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know Dolokhov has important connections... Well, then, you just...”
“I will, your excellency,” said Captain Timokhin, showing by his smile that he understood his commander’s wish.
“Well, of course, of course!”
The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and, reining in his horse, said to him:
“After the next affair... epaulets.”
Dolokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the mocking smile on his lips change.
“Well, that’s all right,” continued the regimental commander. “A cup of vodka for the men from me,” he added so that the soldiers could hear. “I thank you all! God be praised!” and he rode past that company and overtook the next one.
“Well, he’s really a good fellow, one can serve under him,” said Captain Timokhin to the subaltern beside him.
“In a word, a hearty one...” said the subaltern, laughing (the regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts).
The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected the soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers’ voices could be heard on every side.
“And they said General Kutuzov was blind of one eye?”
“And so he is! Quite blind!”
“No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands... he noticed everything...”
“When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I...”
“And that other one with him, the Austrian general, looked as if he were smeared with chalk—as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as they do the guns.”
“I say!... Did General Kutuzov say when the battles are to begin? You were near him. Everybody said that Napoleon himself was at Braunau.”
“Napoleon himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn’t know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are putting them down. When they’ve been put down, the war with Napoleon will begin. And he says Napoleon is in Braunau! Shows you’re a fool. You’d better listen more carefully!”
“What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat cooked before we reach our quarters.”
“Give me a biscuit, you devil!”
“And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That’s just it, friend! Ah, well, never mind, here you are.”
“They might call a halt here or we’ll have to do another four miles without eating.”
“Wasn’t it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still and are drawn along.”
“And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all seemed to be Poles—all under the Russian crown—but here they’re all regular Germans.”
“Singers to the front” came the captain’s order.
And from the different ranks, some twenty men ran to the front. A drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and flourishing his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers’ song, commencing with the words: “Morning dawned, the sun was rising,” and concluding: “On then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father Kámenski.” This song had been composed in the Turkish campaign and is now being sung in Austria, the only change being that the words “Father Kámenski” were replaced by “Father General Kutuzov.”
Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer—a lean, handsome soldier of forty—looked sternly at the singers and screwed up his eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on him, the drummer raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but precious object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds, suddenly flung it down and began:
“Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!”
“Oh, my bower new...!” chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the front and, walking backward before the company, jerked his shoulders and flourished his castanets as if threatening someone. The soldiers, swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously, marched with long steps. Behind the company, the sound of wheels, the creaking of springs, and the tramp of horses’ hoofs were heard. General Kutuzov and his suite were returning to the town. General Kutuzov made a sign that the men should continue to march at ease, and he and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of the singing and the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly marching men. In the second file from the right flank, beside which the carriage passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted notice. It was Dolokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of General Kutuzov’s suite who had mimicked the regimental commander fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.
Corporal Zherkov had at one time, in St. Petersburg, belonged to the wild set led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met Dolokhov abroad as a private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that General Kutuzov had spoken to the gentleman ranker, Corporal Zherkov addressed Dolokhov with the cordiality of an old friend.
“My dear fellow, how are you?” said Corporal Zherkov through the singing, making his horse keep pace with the company.
“How am I?” Dolokhov answered coldly. “I am as you see.”
The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy gaiety with which Corporal Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of Dolokhov’s reply.
“And how do you get on with the officers?” inquired Corporal Zherkov.
“All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto the staff?”
“I was attached; I’m on duty.”
Both were silent.
“She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve,” went the song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness. Their conversation would probably have been different but for the effect of that song.
“Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?” asked Dolokhov.
“The devil only knows! They say so.”
“I’m glad,” answered Dolokhov briefly and clearly, as the song demanded.
“I say, come round some evening and we’ll have a game of faro!” said Corporal Zherkov.
“Why, have you too much money?”
“Do come.”
“I can’t. I’ve sworn not to. I won’t drink and won’t play till I get reinstated.”
“Well, that’s only till the first engagement.”
“We shall see.”
They were again silent.
“Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the staff...”
Dolokhov smiled. “Don’t trouble. If I want anything, I won’t beg—I’ll take it!”
“Well, never mind; I only...”
“And I only...”
“Good-by.”
“Good health...”
“It’s a long, long way.
To my native land...”
Corporal Zherkov touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly from foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down, galloped past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping time to the song.
***
CHAPTER 3
On returning from the review, General Kutuzov took the Austrian general into his private room and, calling Andrei, asked for some papers relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the letters that had come from Archduke Ferdinand, who was in command of the advanced army. Andrei came into the room with the required papers. General Kutuzov and the Austrian general were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread out.
“Ah!...” said General Kutuzov glancing at Andrei as if by this exclamation he was asking him to wait, and he went on with the conversation in French.
“All I can say, general,” said Kutuzov with a pleasant elegance of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each deliberately spoken word. It was evident that General Kutuzov himself listened with pleasure to his own voice. “All I can say, general, is that if the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of the Emperor of Austria would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honor that to me personally, it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful general—of whom Austria has so many—and to lay down all this heavy responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us, general.”
And General Kutuzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, “You are quite at liberty not to believe me and I don’t even care whether you do or not, but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole point.”
The Austrian general looked dissatisfied but had no option but to reply in the same tone.
“On the contrary,” the Austrian general said, in a querulous and angry tone that contrasted with his flattering words, “on the contrary, your participation in the common action is highly valued by the Emperor of Austria, but we think the present delay is depriving the splendid Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have been accustomed to winning in their battles,” the Austrian general concluded his evidently prearranged sentence.
General Kutuzov bowed with the same smile.
“But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with which His Highness Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine that the Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a leader as General Mack, have by now already gained a decisive victory and no longer need our aid,” said General Kutuzov.
The Austrian general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an Austrian defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the unfavorable rumors that were afloat, and so General Kutuzov’s suggestion of an Austrian victory sounded much like irony. But General Kutuzov went on blandly smiling with the same expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to suppose so. And, in fact, the last letter he had received from General Mack’s army informed him of a victory and stated strategically the position of the army was very favorable.
“Give me that letter,” said General Kutuzov turning to Andrei. “Please have a look at it”—and Kutuzov with an ironical smile about the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the following passage, in German, from Archduke Ferdinand’s letter:
We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men with which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech. Also, as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage of commanding both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not cross the Lech, we can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line of communications, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his intention should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when the Imperial Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall then, in conjunction with it, easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate he deserves.
General Kutuzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at the Austrian general mildly and attentively.
“But you know the wise maxim, advising one to expect the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round at Andrei.
“Excuse me, general,” interrupted General Kutuzov, also turning to Andrei. “Look here, Andrei, get from Aide-de-camp Kozlovski all the reports from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is one from Archduke Ferdinand and here are these,” he said, handing Andrei several papers, “make a neat memorandum in French out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements of the Austrian army, and then give it to the Austrian general.”
Andrei bowed his head in token of having understood from the first not only what had been said but also what General Kutuzov would have liked to tell him. Andrei gathered up the papers and with a bow to both, stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room.
Though not much time had passed since Andrei had left Russia, he had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his face, in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of his former affected languor and indolence. Andrei now looked like a man who has time to think of the impression he makes on others but is occupied with agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction with himself and those around him, his smile and glance were brighter and more attractive.
General Kutuzov, whom Andrei had overtaken in Poland, had received him very kindly, promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the other adjutants, and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions. From Vienna, General Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade, Andrei’s father, Baron Bolkonski.
“Andrei bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his industry, firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to have such a subordinate by me.”
On General Kutuzov’s staff, among his fellow officers, and in the army generally, Andrei had, as he had had in St. Petersburg society, two quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great things of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with them, Andrei was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority, disliked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But among these people, Andrei knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even feared him.
Coming out of General Kutuzov’s room into the waiting room with the papers in his hand Andrei came up to his comrade, Aide-de-camp Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book.
“Well, Andrei?” asked Aide-de-camp Kozlovski.
“I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not advancing.”
“And why is it?”
Andrei shrugged his shoulders.
“Any news from General Mack?”
“No.”
“If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come.”
“Probably,” said Andrei moving toward the outer door.
But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the order of Mary Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head, who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door. Andrei stopped short.
“General Kutuzov?” said the newly arrived general speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and advancing straight toward the inner door.
“General Kutuzov is engaged,” said Aide-de-camp Kozlovski, going hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. “Whom shall I announce?”
The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlovski, who was rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him.
“General Kutuzov is engaged,” repeated Aide-de-camp Kozlovski calmly.
The general’s face clouded, and his lips quivered and trembled. He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, gave it to Aide-de-camp Kozlovski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, “Why do they look at me?” Then he lifted his head and stretched his neck as if he intended to say something, but immediately, with affected indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer sound that immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened and General Kutuzov appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged head bent forward as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to General Kutuzov.
“I am the unfortunate General Mack,” he uttered in a broken voice.
General Kutuzov’s face, as he stood in the open doorway, remained perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a wave and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let General Mack enter his room before him, and closed the door himself behind him.
The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be correct. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had hitherto been inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy.
Andrei was one of those rare staff officers whose chief interest lay in the general progress of the war. When Andrei saw General Mack and heard the details of his disaster he understood that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties of the Russian army’s position, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to play. Involuntarily Andrei felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week’s time he might, perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the French since Suvórov met them. He feared that Napoleon’s genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero, Napoleon, being disgraced.
Excited and irritated by these thoughts Andrei went toward his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met Sergeant Nesvitski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag Corporal Zherkov; they were as usual laughing.
“Why are you so glum?” asked Sergeant Nesvitski noticing Andrei’s pale face and glittering eyes.
“There’s nothing to be gay about,” answered Andrei.
Just as Andrei met Sergeant Nesvitski and Corporal Zherkov, there came toward them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general who was on General Kutuzov’s staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian army, and the Austrian general who had arrived the previous evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to pass the three officers quite easily, but Corporal Zherkov, pushing Sergeant Nesvitski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,
“The generals are coming!... they’re coming!... Stand aside, make way, please make way!”
The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid embarrassing attention. On the face of the wag Corporal Zherkov, there suddenly appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.
“Your excellency,” said Corporal Zherkov in German, stepping forward and addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honor to congratulate you.”
Corporal Zherkov bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.
The Austrian general looked at him severely but, seeing the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment’s attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening.
“I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite well, only a little bruised just here,” Corporal Zherkov added, pointing with a beaming smile to his head.
General Mack frowned, turned away, and went on.
“Good God, what an idiot!” said General Mack said angrily, after he had gone a few steps.
Sergeant Nesvitski with a laugh threw his arms around Andrei, but Andrei, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and turned to Corporal Zherkov. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance of General Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the Russian army found vent in anger at Corporal Zherkov’s untimely jest.
“If you, Sergeant Nesvitski, choose to make a buffoon of yourself,” Andrei said sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “I can’t prevent your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself.”
Sergeant Nesvitski and Corporal Zherkov were so surprised by Andrei’s outburst that they gazed at Bolkonski silently with wide-open eyes.
“What’s the matter with my teasing? I only congratulated them,” said Corporal Zherkov.
“I am not jesting with you; please be silent!” cried Andrei, and taking Sergeant Nesvitski’s arm he left Corporal Zherkov, who did not know what to say.
“Come, what’s the matter, Andrei?” said Sergeant Nesvitski trying to soothe him as they walked away together.
“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Andrei standing still in his excitement. “Don’t you understand that either we are officers serving our Tzar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely lackeys who care nothing for their master’s business? Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting!”,” Andrei said as if strengthening his views by this French sentence. “It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you.” Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way,” he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a French accent—having noticed that Corporal Zherkov could still hear him.
Andrei waited a moment to see whether Corporal Zherkov would answer, but he turned and went out of the corridor.
***
CHAPTER 4
The Pávlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau, Austria. The squadron in which Nicholas, the oldest son of Count and Countess Rostov, served as a cadet was quartered in the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were assigned to Denisov, the squadron commander. Nicholas, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with him.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of General Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov, who had been losing at cards all night, had not yet come home when Nicholas rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. Nicholas in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.
“Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!” said Nicholas to the hussar who rushed up headlong to the horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality that goodhearted young people show to everyone when they are happy.
“Yes, your excellency,” answered Bondarenko gaily, tossing his head.
“Mind, walk him up and down well!”
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse’s head. It was evident that Nicholas was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve him. Nicholas patted the horse’s neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment.
“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” Nicholas thought with a smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the porch. His German landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately brightened on seeing Nicholas. “A very good morning! A very good morning!” he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to greet the landlord.
“Busy already?” said Nicholas with the same gay brotherly smile which did not leave his eager face. “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for the Tzar!” said Nicholas, quoting words often repeated by the German landlord.
The German landlord laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it above his head cried:
“And hurrah for the whole world!”
Nicholas waved his cap above his head like the German landlord and cried laughing, “And hurrah for the whole world!” Though neither the German cleaning his cowshed nor Nicholas back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection, and parted smiling, the German landlord returning to his cowshed and Nicholas going to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.
“What about your master?” Nicholas asked Lavrúshka, Denisov’s orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
“Denisov hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,” answered Lavrúshka. “I know by now that if he wins he comes back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”
“Yes, bring some.”
Ten minutes later Lavrúshka brought the coffee. “Denisov’s coming!” said he. “Now for trouble!” Nicholas looked out of the window and saw Denisov coming home. He was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and a black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head.
“Lavwúska!” Denisov shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off, blockhead!”
“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrúshka’s voice.
“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denisov, entering the room.
“Long ago,” answered Nicholas, “I have already been for the hay, and have seen Fräulein Mathilde.”
“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a damned fool!” cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r’s, either because he had a lisp or because he was imitating a French accent. “Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo there! Tea!”
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong teeth, Denisov began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.
“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed “the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd.”
Denisov took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout.
“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”
Denisov scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at Nicholas.
“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop and a respectful cough.
“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrúshka.
Denisov’s face puckered still more.
“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. “Nicholas, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow,” he said and went out to the quartermaster.
Nicholas took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles began counting them.
“Ah! Lieutenant Telyánin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came Denisov’s voice from the next room.
“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s... I knew it,” replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant Telyánin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room.
Nicholas thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. Lieutenant Telyánin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; Nicholas especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.
“Well, young hussar, how is my Rook behaving?” Lieutenant Telyánin asked. (Rook was a young horse Lieutenant Telyánin had sold to Nicholas.)
Lieutenant Telyánin never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.
“I saw you riding this morning...” Lieutenant Telyánin added.
“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Nicholas, though the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he added.
“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use.”
“Yes, please do,” said Nicholas.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a horse you’ll thank me for.”
“Then I’ll have it brought around,” said Nicholas wishing to avoid Lieutenant Telyánin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Nicholas, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Lieutenant Telyánin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust.
“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” Denisov said, regardless of the quartermaster’s presence.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to Lieutenant Telyánin.
Lieutenant Telyánin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Nicholas had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Nicholas as he entered.
“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Lieutenant Telyánin, getting up and looking carelessly about him.
“I have.”
“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov about yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denisov?”
“Not yet. But where are you off to?”
“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said Lieutenant Telyánin.
They went through the porch and into the stable. Lieutenant Telyánin explained to Nicholas how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.
When Nicholas went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily into Nicholas’s face and said: “I am witing to her.”
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told Nicholas the contents of his letter.
“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua’ as on the fihst day of cweation... Who’s that now? Send him to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to him, not in the least abashed.
“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the quartermaster for the money.”
Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.
“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in the puhse?” he asked, turning to Nicholas.
“Seven new and three old imperials.”
“Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrúshka.
“Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,” said Nicholas, blushing.
“Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled Denisov.
“But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some,” Nicholas repeated.
“No, I tell you.”
And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.
“Where have you put it, Nicholas?”
“Under the lower pillow.”
“It’s not there.”
Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.
“That’s a miwacle.”
“Wait, haven’t you dropped it?” said Nicholas, picking up the pillows one at a time and shaking them.
Denisov pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.
“Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept it under your head like a treasure,” said Nicholas. “I put it just here. Where is it?” he asked, turning to Lavrúshka.
“I haven’t been in the room. It must be where you put it.”
“But it isn’t?...”
“You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget it. Feel in your pockets.”
“No, if I hadn’t thought of it being a treasure,” said Nicholas, “but I remember putting it there.”
Lavrúshka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the room. Denisov silently watched Lavrúshka’s movements, and when Lavrúshka threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found Denisov glanced at Nicholas.
“Nicholas, you’ve not been playing schoolboy twicks...”
Nicholas felt Denisov’s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not draw breath.
“And there hasn’t been anyone in the room except Lieutenant Telyánin and yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrúshka.
“Now then, you devil’s puppet, look alive and hunt for it!” shouted Denisov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with a threatening gesture. “If the purse isn’t found I’ll flog you, I’ll flog you all.”
Nicholas, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning his coat, buckled on his saber and put on his cap.
“I must have that purse, I tell you,” shouted Denisov, shaking his orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall.
“Denisov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Nicholas, going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denisov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Nicholas hinted at, seized his arm.
“Nonsense!” Denisov cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood out like cords. “You are mad, I tell you. I won’t allow it. The purse is here! I’ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be found.”
“I know who has taken it,” repeated Nicholas in an unsteady voice and went to the door.
“And I tell you, don’t you dahe to do it!” shouted Denisov, rushing at the cadet to restrain him.
But Nicholas pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though Denisov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his face.
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” Denisov said in a trembling voice. “There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it is not so, then...”
Denisov could not finish and ran out of the room.
“Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody,” were the last words Nicholas heard.
Nicholas went to Lieutenant Telyánin’s quarters.
“The master is not in, he’s gone to headquarters,” said Lieutenant Telyánin’s orderly. “Has something happened?” he added, surprised at the cadet’s troubled face.
“No, nothing.”
“You’ve only just missed him,” said the orderly.
The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and Nicholas, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was an inn in the village in which the officers stayed. Nicholas rode up to it and saw Lieutenant Telyánin’s horse at the porch.
In the second room of the inn, Lieutenant Telyánin was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine.
“Ah, you’ve come here too, Nicholas!” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows.
“Yes,” said Nicholas as if it cost him a great deal to utter the word, and he sat down at the nearest table.
Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant.
When Lieutenant Telyánin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter.
“Please be quick,” he said.
The coin was a new one. Nicholas rose and went up to Lieutenant Telyánin.
“Allow me to look at your purse,” Nicholas said in a low, almost inaudible, voice.
With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Lieutenant Telyánin handed him the purse.
“Yes, it’s a nice purse. Yes, yes,” he said, growing suddenly pale, and added, “Look at it, Nicholas.”
Nicholas took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and looked at Lieutenant Telyánin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very merry.
“If we get to Vienna I’ll get rid of it there but in these wretched little towns there’s nowhere to spend it,” said he. “Well, let me have it, Nicholas, I’m going.”
Nicholas did not speak.
“And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite decently here,” continued Lieutenant Telyánin. “Now then, let me have it.”
Lieutenant Telyánin stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Nicholas let go of it. Lieutenant Telyánin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, “Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that’s quite simple and is no one else’s business.”
“Well, Nicholas?” he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted brows, he glanced into Nicholas’s eyes.
Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Lieutenant Telyánin’s eyes to Nicholas‘s and back, and back again and again in an instant.
“Come here,” said Nicholas, catching hold of Lieutenant Telyánin’s arm and almost dragging him to the window. “That money is Denisov’s; you took it...” he whispered just above Lieutenant Telyánin’s ear.
“What? What? How dare you? What?” said Lieutenant Telyánin.
But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for pardon. As soon as Nicholas heard them, an enormous load of doubt fell from him. Nicholas was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be completed.
“Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,” muttered Lieutenant Telyánin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. “We must have an explanation...”
“I know it and shall prove it,” said Nicholas.
“I...”
Every muscle of Lieutenant Telyánin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising to Nicholas’s face, and his sobs were audible.
“Nicholas!... Don’t ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money, take it...” Lieutenant Telyánin threw it on the table. “I have an old father and mother!...”
Nicholas took the money, avoiding Lieutenant Telyánin’s eyes, and went out of the room without a word. But at the door, he stopped and then retraced his steps. “Oh, God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do it?”
“Nicholas...” said Lieutenant Telyánin drawing nearer to him.
“Don’t touch me,” said Nicholas, drawing back. “If you need it, take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.
***
CHAPTER 5
That same evening there was an animated discussion among the squadron’s officers in Denisov’s quarters.
“And I tell you, Nicholas, that you must apologize to the colonel!” said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and many wrinkles on his large features, to Nicholas who was crimson with excitement.
The staff captain had twice been reduced to the ranks for affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission.
“I will allow no one to call me a liar!” cried Nicholas. “Lieutenant Telyánin told me I lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. The colonel may keep me on duty every day or may place me under arrest, but no one can make me apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then...”
“You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen,” interrupted the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache. “You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that a Lieutenant Telyánin has stolen...”
“I’m not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am not a diplomatist. That’s why I joined the hussars, thinking that here one would not need finesse; the colonel tells me that I am lying—so let him give me satisfaction...”
“That’s all right. No one thinks you are a coward, but that’s not the point. Ask Denisov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?”
Denisov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered the staff captain’s question with a disapproving shake of his head.
“You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other officers,” continued the staff captain, “and Colonel Bogdánich” (the colonel was called Colonel Bogdánich) “shuts you up.”
“The colonel did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth.”
“Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and must apologize.”
“Not on any account!” exclaimed Nicholas.
“I did not expect this of you,” said the staff captain seriously and severely. “You don’t wish to apologize, but, man, it’s not only to him but to the whole regiment—all of us—you’re to blame all around. The case is this: you ought to have thought the matter over and taken advice; but no, you go and blurt it all straight out before the officers. Now, what was the colonel to do? Has Lieutenant Telyánin tried and disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one scoundrel? Is that how you look at it? We don’t see it like that. And Colonel Bogdánich was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true. It’s not pleasant, but what’s to be done, my dear fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever Colonel Bogdánich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You’re quick at taking offense, but you don’t mind disgracing the whole regiment!” The staff captain’s voice began to tremble. “You have been in the regiment next to no time, Nicholas, you’re here today and tomorrow you’ll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your fingers when it is said ‘There are thieves among the Pávlograd officers!’ But it’s not all the same to us! Am I not right, Denisov? It’s not the same!”
Denisov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked with his glittering black eyes at Nicholas.
“You value your own pride and don’t wish to apologize,” continued the staff captain, “but we old fellows, who have grown up in and, God willing, are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of the regiment, and Colonel Bogdánich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old fellow! And all this is not right, it’s not right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to mother truth. It’s not right!”
And the staff captain rose and turned away from Nicholas.
“That’s twue, devil take it!” shouted Denisov, jumping up. “Now then, Nicholas, now then!”
Nicholas, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer and then at the other.
“No, gentlemen, no... you mustn’t think... I quite understand. You’re wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of the regiment I’d... Ah well, I’ll show that in action, and for me the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it’s true I’m to blame, to blame all around. Well, what else do you want?...”
“Come, that’s right, Nicholas!” cried the staff captain, turning round and clapping Nicholas on the shoulder with his big hand.
“I tell you,” shouted Denisov, “Nicholas is a fine fellow.”
“That’s better, Nicholas,” said the staff captain, beginning to address Nicholas by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. “Go and apologize, Nicholas. Yes, go!”
“Gentlemen, I’ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,” said Nicholas in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologize, by God, I can’t, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy asking forgiveness?”
Denisov began to laugh.
“It’ll be worse for you. Colonel Bogdánich is vindictive and you’ll pay for your obstinacy,” said the staff captain.
“No, on my word it’s not obstinacy! I can’t describe the feeling. I can’t...”
“Well, it’s as you like,” said the staff captain. “And what has become of that scoundrel, Lieutenant Telyánin?” he asked Denisov.
“He has weported himself sick, he’s to be stwuck off the list tomowwow,” muttered Denisov.
“It is an illness, there’s no other way of explaining it,” said the staff captain.
“Illness or not, Lieutenant Telyánin had better not cwoss my path. I’d kill him!” shouted Denisov in a bloodthirsty tone.
Just then Corporal Zherkov entered the room.
“What brings you here?” cried the officers turning to the newcomer.
“We’re to go into action, gentlemen! General Mack has surrendered with his whole army.”
“It’s not true!”
“I’ve seen him myself!”
“What? Saw the real General Mack? With hands and feet?”
“Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how did you come here?”
“I’ve been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil, General Mack. An Austrian general complained about me. I congratulated him on General Mack’s arrival... What’s the matter, Nicholas? You look as if you’d just come out of a hot bath.”
“Oh, my dear fellow, we’re in such a stew here these last two days.”
The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by Corporal Zherkov. They were under orders to advance the next day.
“We’re going into action, gentlemen!”
“Well, thank God! We’ve been sitting here too long!”
***
CHAPTER 6
General Kutuzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October 23, the Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday, the Russian baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge.
It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below, the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island, and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green treetops and bluish gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a wild virgin pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns, the enemy’s horse patrols could be discerned.
Among the field guns on the brow of the hill, the general in command of the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through his field glass. A little behind them Sergeant Nesvitski, who had been sent to the rearguard by General Kutuzov, was sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack and a flask, and Sergeant Nesvitski was treating some officers to pies and real schnaps. The officers gladly gathered around him, some on their knees, some squatting in Turkish fashion on the wet grass.
“Yes, the Austrian Baron who built that castle was no fool. It’s a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?” Sergeant Nesvitski was saying.
“Thank you very much, Sergeant Nesvitski,” answered one of the officers, pleased to be talking to a staff officer of such importance. “It’s a lovely place! We passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a splendid house!”
“Look, Sergeant Nesvitski,” said another, who would have dearly liked to take another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining the countryside—“See, our infantrymen have already got there. Look there in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something. They’ll ransack that castle,” he remarked with evident approval.
“So they will,” said Sergeant Nesvitski. “No, but what I should like,” added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, “would be to slip in over there.”
He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and gleamed.
“That would be fine, gentlemen!”
The officers laughed.
“Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls among them. On my word, I’d give five years of my life for it!”
“They must be feeling dull, too,” said one of the bolder officers, laughing.
Meanwhile, the staff officer standing in front pointed out something to the general, who looked through his field glass.
“Yes, so it is, so it is,” said the general angrily, lowering the field glass and shrugging his shoulders, “so it is! They’ll be fired on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there?”
On the opposite side, the enemy could be seen by the naked eye, and from their battery, a milk-white cloud arose. Then came the distant report of a shot, and our troops could be seen hurrying to the crossing.
Sergeant Nesvitski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.
“Would not the general like a little refreshment?” he said.
“It’s a bad business,” said the general without answering him, “our men have been wasting time.”
“Hadn’t I better ride over, your excellency?” asked Sergeant Nesvitski.
“Yes, please do,” answered the general, and he repeated the order that had already once been given in detail: “and tell the hussars that they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered, and the inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected.”
“Very good,” answered Sergeant Nesvitski.
Sergeant Nesvitski called his aide with his horse, told his aide to put away the knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle.
“I’ll really call in on the nuns,” Sergeant Nesvitski said to the officers who watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the hill.
“Now then, let’s see how far it will carry, Sergeant Nesvitski. Just try!” said the general, turning to an artillery officer. “Have a little fun to pass the time.”
“Crew, to your guns!” commanded the artillery officer.
In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and began loading.
“One!” came the command from the artillery officer.
Gunner number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a deafening metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above the heads of our troops below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a little smoke showing the spot where it burst.
The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound. Everyone got up and began watching the movements of our troops below, as plainly visible as if but a stone’s throw away, and the movements of the approaching enemy farther off. At the same instant, the sun came fully out from behind the clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot and the brilliance of the bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and spirited impression.
***
CHAPTER 7
Two of the enemy’s shots had already flown across the bridge, where there was a crush. Halfway across stood Sergeant Nesvitski, who had alighted from his horse and whose big body was jammed against the railings. He looked back laughing to his aide who stood a few steps behind him holding two horses by their bridles. Each time Sergeant Nesvitski tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back again and pressed him against the railings, and all he could do was to smile.
“What a fine fellow you are, friend!” said the aide to a convoy soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were crowded together close to his wheels and his horses. “What a fellow! You can’t wait a moment! Don’t you see the general wants to pass?” (Sergeant Nesvitski was not a general, but his aide thought that the rank might get the convoy soldiers to move.)
But the convoyman took no notice of the word “general” and shouted at the soldiers who were blocking his way. “Hi there, boys! Keep to the left! Wait a bit.” But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder to shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense mass. Looking down over the rails Sergeant Nesvitski saw the rapid, noisy little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying around the piles of the bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw equally uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder buckles, covered shakos, knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, under the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, listless tired expressions, and feet that moved through the sticky mud that covered the planks of the bridge. Sometimes through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with a type of face different from that of the men, squeezed his way along; sometimes like a chip of wood whirling in the river, a hussar on foot, an orderly, or a townsman was carried through the waves of infantry; and sometimes like a log floating down the river, an officers’ or company’s baggage wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on all sides, moved across the bridge.
“It’s as if a dam had burst,” said the aide hopelessly. “Are there many more of you to come?”
“A million all but one!” replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat, with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man.
“If he” (he meant the enemy) “begins popping at the bridge now,” said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, “you’ll forget to scratch yourself.”
That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a cart.
“Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?” said an orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it.
And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry soldiers who had evidently been drinking.
“And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt end of his gun...” a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said gaily, with a wide swing of his arm.
“Yes, the ham was just delicious...” answered another with a loud laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Sergeant Nesvitski did not learn who had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it.
“Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they’ll all be killed,” a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully.
“As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean,” said a young soldier with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, “I felt like dying of fright. I did, ‘pon my word, I got that frightened!” said he, as if bragging of having been frightened.
That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had gone before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a German and seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine brindled cow with a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks were sitting on some feather beds. Evidently, these fugitives were allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was passing at foot pace all the soldiers’ remarks related to the two young ones. Every face bore almost the same smile, expressing unseemly thoughts about the women.
“Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!”
“Sell me the missis,” said another soldier, addressing the German, who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast eyes.
“See how smart she’s made herself! Oh, the devils!”
“There, Fedótov, you should be quartered on them!”
“I have seen as much before now, mate!”
“Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer who was eating an apple, also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl.
The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand.
“Take it if you like,” said the officer, giving the girl an apple.
The girl smiled and took it. Sergeant Nesvitski like the rest of the men on the bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed. When they had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with the same kind of talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens, the horses of a convoy wagon became restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole crowd had to wait.
“And why are they stopping? There’s no proper order!” said the soldiers. “Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can’t you wait? It’ll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here’s an officer jammed in too”—different voices were saying in the crowd, as the men looked at one another, and all pressed toward the exit from the bridge.
Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Sergeant Nesvitski suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching... something big, that splashed into the water.
“Just see where it carries to!” a soldier nearby said sternly, looking round at the sound.
“Encouraging us to get along quicker,” said another uneasily.
The crowd moved on again. Sergeant Nesvitski realized that it was a cannonball.
“Hey, Cossack, my horse!” he said. “Now, then, you there! get out of the way! Make way!”
With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make way for him but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and those nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed still harder from behind.
“Sergeant Nesvitski, Sergeant Nesvitski! You numskull!” came a hoarse voice from behind him.
Sergeant Nesvitski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Denisov, red and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily over his shoulder.
“Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!” shouted Denisov evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small bare hand as red as his face.
“Ah, Denisov!” joyfully replied Sergeant Nesvitski. “What’s up with you?”
“The squadwon can’t pass,” shouted Denisov, showing his white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider let him. “What is this? They’re like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart! I’ll hack you with my saber!” he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its scabbard and flourishing it.
The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and Denisov joined Sergeant Nesvitski.
“How’s it you’re not drunk today?” said Sergeant Nesvitski when the other had ridden up to him.
“They don’t even give one time to dwink!” answered Denisov. “They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they mean to fight, let’s fight. But the devil knows what this is.”
“What a dandy you are today!” said Sergeant Nesvitski, looking at Denisov’s new cloak and saddlecloth.
Denisov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to Sergeant Nesvitski’s nose.
“Of course. I’m going into action! I’ve shaved, bwushed my teeth, and scented myself.”
The imposing figure of Sergeant Nesvitski followed by his aide, and the determination of Denisov who flourished his sword and shouted frantically had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the bridge Sergeant Nesvitski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the order, and having done this he rode back.
Having cleared the way Denisov stopped at the end of the bridge. Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping, resounded on the planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in front and men four abreast, spread across the bridge and began to emerge on his side of it.
The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will, estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of different arms usually encounter one another at the clean, smart hussars who moved past them in regular order.
“Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!” said one.
“What good are they? They’re led about just for show!” remarked another.
“Don’t kick up the dust, you infantry!” jested a hussar whose prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers.
“I’d like to put you on a two days march with a knapsack! Your fine cords would soon get a bit rubbed,” said an infantryman, wiping the mud off his face with his sleeve. “Perched up there, you’re more like a bird than a man.”
“There now, Zíkin, they ought to put you on a horse. You’d look fine,” said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent under the weight of his knapsack.
“Take a stick between your legs, that’ll suit you for a horse!” the hussar shouted back.
***
CHAPTER 8
The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last, the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less, and the last battalion came onto the bridge. Only Denisov’s squadron of hussars remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which the river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile away. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and troops in blue uniforms were seen. These were the French. A group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men of Denisov’s squadron, though they tried to talk of other things and to look in other directions, thought only of what was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking at the patches appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy’s troops. The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm, and at intervals, the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be heard from the hill. There was no one now between the squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated them. The enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threatening, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt.
A viewer might think, “One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and death. And what is there? Who is there?—there beyond that field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must be crossed and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably have to learn what lies on the other side of death. But you are strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such excitedly animated and healthy men.” So thinks, or at any rate feels, anyone who comes in sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives a particular glamour and glad keenness of impression to everything that takes place at such moments.
On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The Russian officers who had been standing together rode off to their places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron commander, awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently, they were firing at the hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistles flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious to see their comrades’ impression. Every face, from Denisov’s to that of the bugler, showed one common expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around the chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet Mirónov ducked every time a ball flew past. Nicholas on the left flank mounted on his Rook—a handsome horse despite its game leg—had the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth.
“Who’s that curtseying there? Cadet Miwónov! That’s not wight! Look at me,” cried Denisov who, unable to keep still on one spot, kept turning his horse in front of the squadron.
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Denisov, and his whole short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backward in the saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to the staff captain. The staff captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always, only his eyes were brighter than usual.
“Well, what about it?” said he to Denisov. “It won’t come to a fight. You’ll see—we shall retire.”
“The devil only knows what they’re about!” muttered Denisov. “Ah, Nicholas,” he cried noticing Nicholas’s bright face, “you’ve got it at last.”
And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with Nicholas. Nicholas felt perfectly happy. Just then the colonel appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.
“Colonel! Let us attack them! I’ll dwive them off.”
“Attack indeed!” said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his face as if driving off a troublesome fly. “And why are you stopping here? Don’t you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the squadron back.”
The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the front line followed them across and the last Cossacks quitted the farther side of the river.
The two Russian squadrons from Pávlograd, having crossed the bridge, retired up the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Colonel Bogdánich, came up to Denisov’s squadron and rode at a footpace not far from Nicholas, without taking any notice of him although they were now meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning Lieutenant Telyánin. Nicholas, feeling that he was at the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now admitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the colonel’s athletic back, his nape covered with light hair and his red neck. It seemed to Nicholas that Colonel Bogdánich was only pretending not to notice him and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet’s courage, so he drew himself up and looked around him merrily; then it seemed to him that Colonel Bogdánich rode so near in order to show him his courage. Next, he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a desperate attack just to punish him—Nicholas. Then he imagined how, after the attack, Colonel Bogdánich would come up to him as he lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation.
The high-shouldered figure of Corporal Zherkov, familiar to the Pávlograd regiment as he had but recently left them, rode up to Colonel Bogdánich. After his dismissal from headquarters Corporal Zherkov had not remained in the regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff and had succeeded in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Major-General Bagration. He now came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rear guard.
“Colonel Bogdánich,” he said, addressing Nicholas’s enemy with an air of gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, “there is an order to stop and fire the bridge.”
“An order to who?” asked Colonel Bogdánich morosely.
“I don’t myself know ‘to who,’” replied the cornet in a serious tone, “but the Baron told me to ‘go and tell Colonel Bogdánich that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.’”
Corporal Zherkov was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the colonel of hussars with the same order. After him, the stout Sergeant Nesvitski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his weight.
“How’s this, Colonel Bogdánich?” he shouted as he approached. “I told you to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are all beside themselves over there and one can’t make anything out.”
Colonel Bogdánich deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Sergeant Nesvitski.
“You spoke to me of inflammable material,” said he, “but you said nothing about firing it.”
“But, my dear sir,” said Sergeant Nesvitski as he drew up, taking off his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand, “wasn’t I telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material had been put in position?”
“I am not your ‘dear sir,’ Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit orders strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would burn it, I could not know by the holy spirit!”
“Ah, that’s always the way!” said Sergeant Nesvitski with a wave of the hand. “How did you get here?” said he, turning to Corporal Zherkov.
“On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out!”
“You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer...” continued Colonel Bogdánich in an offended tone.
“Colonel Bogdánich,” interrupted the officer of the suite, “You must be quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot.”
Colonel Bogdánich looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout staff officer, and at Corporal Zherkov, and he frowned.
“I will the bridge fire,” the colonel said in a solemn tone as if to announce that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would still do the right thing.
Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second squadron, that in which Nicholas was serving under Denisov, to return to the bridge.
“There, it’s just as I thought,” said Nicholas to himself. “The colonel wishes to test me!” His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. “Let him see whether I am a coward!” he thought.
Again on all the bright faces of the squadron, the serious expression appeared that they had worn when under fire. Nicholas watched his enemy, Colonel Bogdánich, closely—to find in his face confirmation of his own conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Nicholas and looked as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word of command.
“Look sharp! Look sharp!” several voices repeated around him.
Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men were crossing themselves. Nicholas no longer looked at Colonel Bogdánich, he had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the hussars, so much afraid that his heart stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into an orderly’s charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with a thud. Denisov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something. Nicholas saw nothing but the hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and their sabers clattering.
“Stretchers!” shouted someone behind him.
Nicholas did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on, trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled, and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him.
“At both sides, Denisov,” he heard the voice of Colonel Bogdánich, who, having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a triumphant, cheerful face.
Nicholas wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his enemy and was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front the better. But Colonel Bogdánich, without looking at or recognizing Nicholas, shouted to him:
“Who’s that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right! Come back, Cadet!” the colonel cried angrily; and turned to Denisov, who, showing off his courage, had ridden onto the planks of the bridge:
“Why run risks, Denisov? You should dismount,” the colonel said.
“Oh, every bullet has its billet,” answered Denisov, turning in his saddle.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Nesvitski, Corporal Zherkov, and the officer of the suite were standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord, and blue riding breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and then at what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side—the blue uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognizable as artillery.
The soldiers wondered, “Will they burn the bridge or not? Who’ll get there first? Will they get there and fire the bridge or will the French get within grapeshot range and wipe them out?” These were the questions each man of the troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself with a sinking heart—watching the bridge and the hussars in the bright evening light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with their bayonets and guns.
“Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!” said Sergeant Nesvitski; “they are within grapeshot range now.”
“He shouldn’t have taken so many men,” said the officer of the suite.
“True enough,” answered Sergeant Nesvitski; “two smart fellows could have done the job just as well.”
“Ah, your excellency,” put in Corporal Zherkov, his eyes fixed on the hussars, but still with that naive air that made it impossible to know whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. “Ah, your excellency! How you look at things! Send two men? And who then would give us the Vladímir medal and ribbon? But now, even if they do get peppered, the squadron may be recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our Colonel Bogdánich knows how things are done.”
“There now!” said the officer of the suite, “that’s grapeshot.”
He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached and hurriedly removed.
On the French side, amid the groups with cannons, a cloud of smoke appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at the moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two reports one after another, and a third.
“Oh! Oh!” groaned Sergeant Nesvitski as if in fierce pain, seizing the officer of the suite by the arm. “Look! A man has fallen! Fallen, fallen!”
“Two, I think.”
“If I were Tzar I would never go to war,” said Sergeant Nesvitski, turning away.
The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again but at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the bridge. But this time Sergeant Nesvitski could not see what was happening there, as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in setting it on fire and the French batteries were now firing at them, no longer to hinder them but because the guns were trained and there was someone to fire at.
The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too high, but the last round fell in the midst of a group of hussars and knocked three of them over.
Nicholas, absorbed by his relations with Colonel Bogdánich, had paused on the bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he had always imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking about him when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being spilled, and the hussar nearest to him fell against the rails with a groan. Nicholas ran up to him with the others. Again someone shouted, “Stretchers!” Four men seized the hussar and began lifting him.
“For Christ’s sake let me alone!” cried the wounded man, but still, he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.
Nicholas turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep! How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the faraway blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled in the mist of their summits... There was peace and happiness... “I should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there,” thought Nicholas. “In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness; but here... groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry... There—they are shouting again, and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around... Another instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water, that gorge!...”
At that instant, the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other stretchers came into view before Nicholas. And the fear of death and of the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation.
“Oh Lord, God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect me!” Nicholas whispered.
The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices sounded louder and calmer, and the stretchers disappeared from sight.
“Well, fwiend? So you’ve smelt powdah!” shouted Denisov just above his ear.
“It’s all over, but I am a coward—yes, a coward!” thought Nicholas, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting one foot, from the orderly and began to mount.
“Was that grapeshot?” he asked Denisov.
“Yes and no mistake!” cried Denisov. “You worked like wegular bwicks and it’s nasty work! An attack’s pleasant work! Hacking away at the dogs! But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them shooting at you like a target.”
And Denisov rode up to a group that had stopped near Nicholas, composed of the colonel, Sergeant Nesvitski, Corporal Zherkov, and the officer from the suite.
“Well, it seems that no one has noticed,” thought Nicholas. And this was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation that the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced.
“Here’s something for you to report,” said Corporal Zherkov. “See if I don’t get promoted to sub-lieutenant.”
“Inform the Baron that I fired the bridge!” said Colonel Bogdánich triumphantly and gaily.
“And if he asks about the losses?”
“A trifle,” said Colonel Bogdánich in his bass voice: “Two hussars wounded, and one knocked out,” he added, unable to restrain a happy smile, and pronouncing the phrase “knocked out” with ringing distinctness.
***
CHAPTER 9
Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the command of Napoleon, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it, losing confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies, and compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had been foreseen, the Russian army of thirty-five thousand men commanded by General Kutuzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube, stopping where overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions only as far as necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment. There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and Melk; but despite the courage and endurance—acknowledged even by the enemy—with which the Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet more rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and had joined General Kutuzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army and Kutuzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an offensive, the plan of which, carefully prepared in accord with the modern science of strategics, had been handed to General Kutuzov when he was in Vienna by the Austrian general, the sole and almost unattainable aim remaining for him was to effect a junction with the forces that were advancing from Russia, without losing his army as General Mack had done at Ulm.
On the twenty-eighth of October General Kutuzov with his army crossed to the left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time with the river between himself and the main body of the French. On the thirtieth General Kutuzov attacked Général Mortier’s division, which was on the left bank, and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were taken: banners, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a fortnight’s retreat, the Russian troops had halted and after a fight had not only held the field but had repulsed the French. Though the troops were ill-clad, exhausted, and had lost a third of their number in killed, wounded, sick, and stragglers; though a number of sick and wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter in which General Kutuzov entrusted them to the humanity of the enemy; and though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems converted into military hospitals could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded, yet the stand made at Krems and the victory over Général Mortier raised the spirits of the army considerably. Throughout the whole army and at headquarters most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by the Austrians, and of the retreat of the frightened Napoleon.
Andrei during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse had been wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark of General Kutuzov’s special favor, he was sent with the news of this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was threatened by the French) but at Brünn. Despite his apparently delicate build, Andrei could endure physical fatigue far better than many very muscular men, and on the night of the battle, having arrived at Krems excited but not weary, with dispatches from General Dokhtúrov to General Kutuzov, he was sent via carriage immediately with a special dispatch to Brünn. To be so sent meant not only a reward but an important step toward promotion.
The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that had fallen the previous day—the day of the battle. Reviewing his impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the impression his news of a victory would create or recalling the send-off given him by General Kutuzov and his fellow officers, Andrei was galloping along in a carriage enjoying the feelings of a man who has at length begun to attain a long-desired happiness. As soon as he closed his eyes his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the wheels and the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that the Russians were running away and that he himself was killed, but he quickly roused himself with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that this was not so but that on the contrary, the French had run away. He again recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage during the battle and feeling reassured he dozed off... The dark starry night was followed by a bright cheerful morning. The snow was thawing in the sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides of the road were forests of different kinds, fields, and villages.
At one of the post stations, Andrei’s carriage overtook a convoy of Russian wounded. The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian words), others were eating bread; the more severely wounded looked silently, with the languid interest of sick children, at the envoy hurrying past them.
Andrei told his driver to stop and asked a soldier in what action they had been wounded. “Day before yesterday, on the Danube,” answered the soldier. Andrei took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces.
“That’s for them all,” Andrei said to the officer who came up.
“Get well soon, lads!” Andrei continued, turning to the soldiers. “There’s plenty to do still.”
“What news, sir?” asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a conversation.
“Good news!... Go on!” Andrei shouted to the driver, and they galloped on.
It was already quite dark when Andrei rattled over the paved streets of Brünn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, Andrei when he drove up to the palace felt even more vigorous and alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself stating them to the Austrian Emperor. He vividly imagined the casual questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He expected to be at once presented to the Austrian Emperor. At the chief entrance to the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him, and learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance.
“To the right from the corridor, your highborn! There you will find the adjutant on duty,” said the official. “He will conduct you to the War Minister.”
The adjutant on duty, meeting Andrei, asked him to wait, and went in to the War Minister. Five minutes later he returned and bowing with particular courtesy ushered Andrei before him along a corridor to the cabinet where the War Minister was at work. The adjutant by his elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger.
Andrei’s joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he approached the door of the minister’s room. He felt offended, and without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly suggested to him a point of view that gave him a right to despise the adjutant and the minister. “Away from the smell of powder, they probably think it easy to gain victories!” he thought. Andrei’s eyes narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the War Minister with peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three minutes taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each side of the minister’s bent bald head with its gray temples. He went on reading to the end, without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the sound of footsteps.
“Take this and deliver it,” said Andrei to his adjutant, handing him the papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger.
Andrei felt that either the actions of General Kutuzov’s army interested the War Minister less than any of the other matters he was concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that impression. “But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” Andrei thought. The War Minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual and distinctive head, but the instant he turned to Andrei the firm, intelligent expression on his face changed in a way evidently deliberate and habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial smile (which does not even attempt to hide its artificiality) of a man who is continually receiving many petitioners one after another.
“From General Kutuzov?” the War Minister asked. “I hope it is good news? There has been an encounter with Général Mortier? A victory? It was high time!”
The War Minister took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it with a mournful expression.
“Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he exclaimed in German. “What a calamity! What a calamity!”
Having glanced through the dispatch the War Minister laid it on the table and looked at Andrei, evidently considering something.
“Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Général Mortier was not captured.” Again he pondered. “I am very glad you have brought good news, though Schmidt’s death is a heavy price to pay for the victory. The Austrian Emperor will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I thank you! You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the parade. However, I will let you know.”
The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking, reappeared.
“Goodbye! Thank you very much. The Austrian Emperor will probably desire to see you,” the War Minister added, bowing his head.
When Andrei left the palace he felt that all the interest and happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the indifferent hands of the War Minister and the polite adjutant. The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed the memory of a remote event long past.
***
CHAPTER 10
Andrei stayed at Brünn with Adjutant Bilibin, a Russian acquaintance of his in the diplomatic service.
“Ah, Andrei! I could not have a more welcome visitor,” said Adjutant Bilibin as he came out to meet Andrei. “Franz, put the Baron’s things in my bedroom,” said he to the servant who was ushering Andrei in. “So you’re a messenger of victory, eh? Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see.”
After washing and dressing, Andrei came into the diplomat’s luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Adjutant Bilibin settled down comfortably beside the fire.
After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Andrei felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides it was pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not in Russian (for they were speaking French) at least with a Russian who would, he supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians which was then particularly strong.
Adjutant Bilibin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as Andrei. They had known each other previously in St. Petersburg, but had become more intimate when Andrei was in Vienna with General Kutuzov. Just as Andrei was a young man who gave promise of rising high in the military profession, so to an even greater extent Adjutant Bilibin gave promise of rising in his diplomatic career. He was still a young man but no longer a young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in Vienna. Both the foreign minister and our ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of those many diplomats who are esteemed because they have certain negative qualities, avoid doing certain things, and speak French. He was one of those, who, liking work, knew how to do it, and despite his indolence would sometimes spend a whole night at his writing table. He worked well whatever the import of his work. It was not the question “What for?” but the question “How?” that interested him. What the diplomatic matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great pleasure to prepare a circular, memorandum, or report, skillfully, pointedly, and elegantly. Adjutant Bilibin’s services were valued not only for what he wrote, but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in the highest spheres.
Adjutant Bilibin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be made elegantly witty. In society, he always awaited an opportunity to say something striking and took part in a conversation only when that was possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original, finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form as if intentionally, so that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing room to drawing room. And, in fact, Adjutant Bilibin’s witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters considered important.
Adjutant Bilibin’s thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always looked as clean and well-washed as the tips of one’s fingers after a Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play of expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend and deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always twinkled and looked out straight.
“Well, now tell me about your exploits,” said Adjutant Bilibin.
Andrei, very modestly without once mentioning himself, described the engagement and his reception by the War Minister.
“They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of skittles,” said he in conclusion.
Adjutant Bilibin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared.
“But, my dear fellow,” he remarked, examining his nails from a distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, “with all my respect for the Orthodox Russian army, I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious.”
Adjutant Bilibin went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those words in Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis.
“Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Général Mortier and his one division, and even then he slips through your fingers! Where’s the victory?”
“But seriously,” said Andrei, “we can at any rate say without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm...”
“Why didn’t you capture one, just one, general for us?”
“Because not everything happens as one expects or with the smoothness of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in the afternoon.”
“And why didn’t you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have been there at seven in the morning,” returned Adjutant Bilibin with a smile. “You ought to have been there at seven in the morning.”
“Why did you not succeed in impressing on Napoleon by diplomatic methods that he had better leave Genoa alone?” retorted Andrei in the same tone.
“I know,” interrupted Adjutant Bilibin, “you’re thinking it’s very easy to take generals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but still why didn’t you capture him? So don’t be surprised if not only the War Minister but also his Most August Majesty the Austrian Emperor is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his Liebchen to the Prater... True, we have no Prater here...”
Adjutant Bilibin looked straight at Andrei and suddenly unwrinkled his forehead.
“It is now my turn to ask you ‘why?’ my dear,” said Andrei. “I confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can’t make it out. General Mack loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. General Kutuzov alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the invincibility of the French, and the War Minister does not even care to hear the details.”
“That’s just it, Andrei. You see it’s hurrah for the Tzar, for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one archduke’s as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only over a fire brigade of Napoleon’s, that will be another story and we’ll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its defense—as much as to say: ‘Heaven is with us, but heaven help you and your capital!’ The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived. It’s as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a victory, what effect would that have on the general course of events? It’s too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!”
“What? Occupied? Vienna occupied?”
“Not only occupied, but Napoleon is at Schönbrunn, and our dear General Vrbna, goes to him for orders.”
After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and especially after having dined, Andrei felt that he could not take in the full significance of the words he heard.
“Count Lichtenfels was here this morning,” Adjutant Bilibin continued, “and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was fully described: Général Murat is shaking…You see that your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can’t be received as a savior.”
“Really I don’t care about that, I don’t care at all,” said Andrei, beginning to understand that his news of the battle before Krems was really of small importance in view of such events as the fall of Austria’s capital. “How is it Vienna was taken? What of the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead and Baron Auersperg? We heard reports that Baron Auersperg was defending Vienna?” he said.
“Baron Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is defending us—doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been taken and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour between two fires.”
“But still this does not mean that the campaign is over,” said Andrei.
“Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they dare not say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign, it won’t be your skirmishing at Dürrenstein, or gunpowder at all, that will decide the matter, but those who devised it,” said Adjutant Bilibin quoting one of his own mots, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead, and pausing. “The only question is what will come of the meeting between the Tzar and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia joins the Allies, Austria’s hand will be forced and there will be war. If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up.”
“What an extraordinary genius!” Andrei suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, “and what luck the man has!”
“Napoleon?” said Adjutant Bilibin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to indicate that he was about to say something witty. “Napoleon Buonaparte?” he repeated, accentuating the u: “I think, however, now that he lays down laws for Austria at Schönbrunn, We must let him off the u!, and no longer call him by his coarse Corsican name, Napoleon Buonaparte, but rather, by the French version of his name, Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually, I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply Napoleon!”
“But joking apart,” said Andrei, “do you really think the campaign is over?”
“This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the first place because her provinces have been pillaged—they say the Holy Russian army loots terribly—her army is destroyed, her capital taken, and all this for the fine eyes of His Sardinian Majesty, Napoleon. And therefore—this is between ourselves—I instinctively feel that we are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately.”
“We are concluding peace with Napoleon? Impossible!” cried Andrei. “That would be too base.”
“If we live we shall see,” replied Adjutant Bilibin, his face again becoming smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end.
When Andrei reached the room prepared for him and lay down in a clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria’s treachery, Napoleon’s new triumph, tomorrow’s levee and parade, and the audience with the Austrian Emperor occupied his thoughts.
Andrei closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry and the rattling of carriage wheels seemed to fill his ears, and now again drawn out in a thin line the musketeers were descending the hill, the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode forward beside Schmidt with the bullets merrily whistling all around, and he experienced tenfold the joy of living, as he had not done since childhood.
Andrei woke up...
“Yes, that all happened!” he said, and, smiling happily to himself like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber.
***
CHAPTER 11
The next day, Andrei woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented to the Austrian Emperor; he remembered the War Minister, the polite Austrian adjutant, Adjutant Bilibin, and last night’s conversation. Having dressed for his attendance at court in full parade uniform, which he had not worn for a long time, he went into Adjutant Bilibin’s study fresh, animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged. In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With Baron Vasili’s son, Hippolyte, who was a secretary to the embassy, Andrei was already acquainted. Adjutant Bilibin introduced him to the others.
The gentlemen assembled at Adjutant Bilibin’s were young, wealthy, gay society men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which Adjutant Bilibin, their leader, called ours. This set, consisting almost exclusively of diplomats, evidently had its own interests which had nothing to do with war or politics but related to high society, to certain women, and to the official side of the service. These gentlemen received Andrei as one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many. From politeness and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions about the army and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry jests and gossip.
“But the best of it was,” said one, telling of the misfortune of a fellow diplomat, “that the Chancellor told him flatly that his appointment to London was a promotion and that he was so to regard it. Can you fancy the figure he cut?...”
“But the worst of it, gentlemen—I am giving Hippolyte away to you—is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is taking advantage of it!”
Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge chair with his legs over its arm. He began to laugh.
“Tell me about that!” he said.
“Oh, you Don Juan! You serpent!” cried several voices.
“You, Andrei, don’t know,” said Adjutant Bilibin turning to him, “that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the Russian army) are nothing compared to what Hippolyte has been doing among the women!”
“Woman is a man’s companion,” announced Hippolyte, and began looking through a opera glasses at his elevated legs.
Adjutant Bilibin and the rest of “ours” burst out laughing in Hippolyte’s face, and Andrei saw that Hippolyte, of whom—he had to admit—he had almost been jealous on Lise’s account, was the butt of this set.
“Oh, I must give you a treat,” Adjutant Bilibin whispered to Andrei. “Hippolyte is exquisite when he discusses politics—you should see his gravity!”
Adjutant Bilibin sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began talking to him about politics. Andrei and the others gathered round these two.
“The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance,” began Hippolyte gazing round with importance at the others, “without expressing... as in its last note... you understand... Besides, unless His Majesty the Austrian Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance...
“Wait, I have not finished...” Hippolyte said to Andrei, seizing him by the arm, “I believe that intervention will be stronger than non-intervention. And...” he paused. “Finally one cannot impute the nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end.” And he released Andrei’s arm to indicate that he had now quite finished.
“Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou hides in thy golden mouth!” said Adjutant Bilibin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with satisfaction.
Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than anyone. He was evidently distressed, and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features.
“Well now, gentlemen,” said Adjutant Bilibin, “Andrei is my guest in this house and in Brünn itself. I want to entertain him as far as I can, with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna it would be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult, and I beg you all to help me. Brünn’s attractions must be shown him. You can undertake the theater, I society, and you, Hippolyte, of course, the women.”
“We must let him see Amelie, she’s exquisite!” said one of “ours,” kissing his fingertips.
“In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane interests,” said Adjutant Bilibin.
“I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, gentlemen, it is already time for me to go,” replied Andrei looking at his watch.
“Where to?”
“To the Austrian Emperor.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Well, goodbye, Andrei! Goodbye Andrei! Come back early to dinner,” cried several voices. “We’ll take you in hand.”
“When speaking to the Austrian Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated,” said Adjutant Bilibin, accompanying him to the hall.
“I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts, I can’t,” replied Andrei, smiling.
“Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. the Austrian Emperor has a passion for giving audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can’t do it, as you will see.”
***
CHAPTER 12
At the levee Andrei stood among the Austrian officers as he had been told to, and the Austrian Emperor merely looked fixedly into his face and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed Andrei that the Austrian Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Austrian Emperor received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation began Andrei was struck by the fact that the Austrian Emperor seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say.
“Tell me, when did the battle begin?” the Austrian Emperor asked hurriedly.
Andrei replied. Then followed other questions just as simple: “Was General Kutuzov well? When had he left Krems?” and so on. The Austrian Emperor spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions—the answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest him.
“At what o’clock did the battle begin?” asked the Austrian Emperor.
“I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o’clock the battle began at the front, but at Dürrenstein, where I was, our attack began after five in the afternoon,” replied Andrei growing more animated and expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which he had ready in his mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Tzar smiled and interrupted him.
“How many miles?”
“From where to where, Your Majesty?”
“From Dürrenstein to Krems.”
“Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.”
“The French have abandoned the left bank?”
“According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the night.”
“Is there sufficient forage in Krems?”
“Forage has not been supplied to the extent...”
The Austrian Emperor interrupted him.
“At what o’clock was General Schmidt killed?”
“At seven o’clock, I believe.”
“At seven o’clock? It’s very sad, very sad!”
The Austrian Emperor thanked Andrei and bowed. Andrei withdrew and was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday’s adjutant reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him his own house. The War Minister came up and congratulated him on the Mary Theresa Order of the third grade, which the Austrian Emperor was conferring on him. The Empress’ chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to him.
Contrary to Adjutant Bilibin’s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, General Kutuzov was awarded the Grand Cross of Mary Theresa, and the whole army received rewards. Andrei was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to Adjutant Bilibin’s house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle and his visit to Brünn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of luggage. Franz, Adjutant Bilibin’s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some difficulty out of the front door.
Before returning to Adjutant Bilibin’s, Andrei had gone to a bookshop to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some time in the shop.
“What is it?” Andrei asked.
“Oh, your excellency!” said Franz, with difficulty rolling the portmanteau into the vehicle, “we are to move on still farther. The scoundrel is again at our heels!”
“Eh? What?” asked Andrei.
Adjutant Bilibin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement.
“There now! Confess that this is delightful,” said he. “This affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna... They have crossed without striking a blow!”
Andrei could not understand.
“But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the town knows?”
“I come from the archduchess’. I heard nothing there.”
“And you didn’t see that everybody is packing up?”
“I did not... What is it all about?” inquired Andrei impatiently.
“What’s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Général Murat is now rushing along the road to Brünn and will be here in a day or two.”
“What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was mined?”
“That is what I ask you. No one, not even Napoleon, knows why.”
Andrei shrugged his shoulders.
“But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It will be cut off,” said he.
“That’s just it,” answered Adjutant Bilibin. “Listen! The French entered Vienna as I told you. Very well. The next day, which was yesterday, those enemy gentlemen, the French générals, Général Murat, Général Lannes, and Général Belliard, mount and ride to the bridge. (Observe that all three are French Gascons.) ‘Gentlemen,’ says one of them, ‘you know the Thabor Bridge is mined and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign, Napoleon, if we take this bridge, so let us three go and take it!’ ‘Yes, let’s!’ say the others. And off they go and take the bridge, cross it, and now with their whole enemy army are on this side of the Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication.”
“Stop jesting,” said Andrei sadly and seriously. This news grieved him and yet he was pleased.
As soon as Andrei learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation it occurred to Andrei that it was he who was destined to lead it out of this position; that here was his “Toulon opportunity”, where he could etch his name in eternity as Achilles did. This opportunity would lift him from the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame! Listening to Adjutant Bilibin he was already imagining how on reaching the army he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the executing of the plan.
“Stop this jesting,” Andrei said.
“I am not jesting,” Adjutant Bilibin went on. “Nothing is truer or sadder. These French military gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs; they assure the officer on duty that they, the French générals, are on their way to negotiate with General Auersperg. He lets them enter the bridgehead. These French générals spin the officer on duty a thousand lies, saying that the war is over, that the Austrian Emperor is arranging a meeting with Napoleon, that they desire to see our General Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for General Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the générals, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of flammable material into the water, and approaches the bridgehead. At length appears the Russian general, our dear General Auersperg himself. ‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars! Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s hand... Napoleon burns with impatience to make General Auersperg’s acquaintance.’ In a word, those gentlemen, French indeed, so bewildered General Auersperg with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly established intimacy with the French générals, and so dazzled by the sight of Général Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, That their fire gets into his eyes and General Auersperg forgets that he ought to be firing at the enemy.!” In spite of the animation of his speech, Adjutant Bilibin did not forget to pause after this to give time for its due appreciation. “The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken! But what is best of all,” he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, “is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Général Lannes stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general, goes up to General Auersperg and says: ‘General, you are being deceived, here are the French!’ Général Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to general Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a true Frenchman) and says: ‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It was a stroke of genius. General Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor rascality...”
“It may be treachery,” said Andrei, vividly imagining the gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing, and the glory that awaited him.
“Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,” replied Adjutant Bilibin. “It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as at Ulm... it is...”—he seemed to be trying to find the right expression. “It is... it is a bit of General Mack. We are General Macked,” he concluded, feeling that he had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a slight smile he began to examine his nails.
“Where are you off to?” Adjutant Bilibin said suddenly to Andrei who had risen and was going toward his room.
“I am going away.”
“Where to?”
“To the army.”
“But you meant to stay another two days?”
“But now I am off at once.”
And Andrei after giving directions about his departure went to his room.
“Do you know, my dear,” said Adjutant Bilibin following him, “I have been thinking about you. Why are you going?”
And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles vanished from Adjutant Bilibin’s face.
Andrei looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply.
“Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. My dear, it is heroism!”
“Not at all,” said Andrei.
“But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for anything else... You have not been ordered to return and have not been dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmütz, and Olmütz is a very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my carriage.”
“Do stop joking, Adjutant Bilibin,” cried Andrei.
“I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two things,” and the skin over his left temple puckered, “either you will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with General Kutuzov’s whole army.”
And Adjutant Bilibin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was insoluble.
“I cannot argue about it,” replied Andrei coldly, but he thought: “I am going to save the army.”
“My dear Andrei, you are a hero!” said Adjutant Bilibin.
***
CHAPTER 13
That same night, having taken leave of the War Minister, Andrei set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it and fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krems.
In the city of Brünn, everybody attached to the Prussian court was packing up, and the heavy baggage was already being dispatched to Olmütz. Near Hetzelsdorf, Andrei struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Andrei took a horse from a Cossack commander, and hungry and weary, making his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of General Kutuzov and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the position of the army reached him as he went along, and the appearance of the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors.
“That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same fate—(the fate of the army at Ulm).” Andrei remembered these words in Napoleon’s address to his army at the beginning of the campaign, and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling of wounded pride, and a hope of glory. “And should there be nothing left but to die?” he thought. “Well, if need be, I shall do it no worse than others.”
Andrei looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments, carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. All along the sides of the road fallen horses were to be seen, some flayed, some not, and broken-down carts beside which solitary soldiers sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sacks. At each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were yet denser and the din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw by their faces that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder.
“Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,” thought Andrei, recalling Adjutant Bilibin’s words.
Wishing to find out where General Kutuzov was, Andrei rode up to a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle, evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a carriage. A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Andrei rode up and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving the woman’s vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes of his whip fell on the apron of the equipage. The woman screamed piercingly. Seeing Andrei she leaned out from behind the apron and, waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried:
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Mr. Aide-de-camp!... For heaven’s sake... Protect me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the doctor of the Seventh Chasseurs... They won’t let us pass, we are left behind and have lost our people...”
“I’ll flatten you into a pancake!” shouted the angry officer to the driver. “Turn back with your slut!”
“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!... What does it all mean?” screamed the doctor’s wife to Andrei.
“Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?” said Andrei riding up to the officer.
The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the driver. “I’ll teach you to push on!... Back!”
“Let them pass, I tell you!” repeated Andrei, compressing his lips.
“And who are you?” cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy rage, “who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here, not you! Go back or I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” repeated he. This expression evidently pleased him.
“That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp,” came a voice from behind.
Andrei saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his championship of the doctor’s wife in her queer carriage might expose him to what Andrei dreaded more than anything in the world—to ridicule; but his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence Andrei, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised his riding whip.
“Kind...ly let—them—pass!”
The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away.
“It’s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there’s this disorder,” the officer muttered. “Do as you like.”
Andrei, without lifting his eyes, rode hastily away from the doctor’s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he galloped on to the village where he was told where General Kutuzov was.
On reaching the village Andrei dismounted and went to the nearest house, intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. “This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army,” he was thinking as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name.
He turned round. Sergeant Nesvitski’s handsome face looked out of the little window. Sergeant Nesvitski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter.
“Andrei! Andrei!... Don’t you hear? Eh? Come quick...” he shouted.
Entering the house, Andrei saw Sergeant Nesvitski and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on Sergeant Nesvitski’s usually laughing countenance.
“Where is General Kutuzov?” asked Andrei.
“Here, in that house,” answered the adjutant.
“Well, is it true that we are going to make peace with Napoleon and capitulate?” asked Sergeant Nesvitski.
“I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here.”
“And we, my dear Andrei! It’s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at General Mack, we’re getting it still worse,” said Sergeant Nesvitski. “But sit down and have something to eat.”
“You won’t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, Andrei. And God only knows where your man Peter is,” said the other adjutant.
“Where are headquarters?”
“We are to spend the night in Znaim.”
“Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses,” said Sergeant Nesvitski. “They’ve made up splendid packs for me—fit to cross the Bohemian mountains with. It’s a bad lookout, old fellow! But what’s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that,” he added, noticing that Andrei winced as at an electric shock.
“It’s nothing,” replied Andrei.
Andrei had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor’s wife and the convoy officer.
“What is General Kutuzov doing here?” Andrei asked.
“I can’t make out at all,” said Sergeant Nesvitski.
“Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, abominable, quite abominable!” said Andrei, and he went off to the house where General Kutuzov was.
Passing by General Kutuzov’s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Andrei entered the passage. General Kutuzov himself, he was told, was in the house with Major-General Bagration and General Weyrother. General Weyrother was the Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Aide-de-camp Kozlovski was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a tub turned upside down. Aide-de-camp Kozlovski’s face looked worn—he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced at Andrei and did not even nod to him.
“Second line... have you written it?” Aide-de-camp Kozlovski continued dictating to the clerk. “The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian...”
“One can’t write so fast, your honor,” said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at Aide-de-camp Kozlovski.
Through the door came the sounds of General Kutuzov’s voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way Aide-de-camp Kozlovski looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and Aide-de-camp Kozlovski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to General Kutuzov, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Andrei felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen.
Andrei turned to Aide-de-camp Kozlovski with urgent questions.
“Immediately, Andrei,” said Aide-de-camp Kozlovski. “Dispositions for Major-General Bagration.”
“What about us capitulating to Napoleon?”
“Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle.”
Andrei moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and General Kutuzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway. Andrei stood right in front of General Kutuzov but the expression of his one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He looked straight at his Andrei’ss face without recognizing him.
“Well, have you finished?” said Kutuzov to Aide-de-camp Kozlovski.
“One moment, your excellency.”
Major-General Bagration, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, impassive face of Oriental type, came out after General Kutuzov.
“I have the honor to present myself,” repeated Andrei rather loudly, handing General Kutuzov an envelope.
“Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!”
General Kutuzov went out into the porch with Major-General Bagration.
“Well, good-bye,” said Kutuzov to Major-General Bagration. “My blessing, and may Christ be with you in your great endeavor!”
Kutuzov’s face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his left hand he drew Major-General Bagration toward him, and with his right, on which he wore a ring, Kutuzov made the sign of the cross over him with a gesture evidently habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Major-General Bagration kissed him on the neck instead.
“Christ be with you!” General Kutuzov repeated and went toward his carriage. “Get in with me,” said he to Andrei.
“Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain with Major-General Bagration’s detachment.”
“Get in,” said General Kutuzov, and noticing that Andrei still delayed, he added: “I need good officers myself, need them myself!”
They got into the carriage and drove for a few minutes in silence.
“There is still much, much before us,” General Kutuzov said, as if with an old man’s penetration he understood all that was passing in Andrei’s mind. “If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,” he added as if speaking to himself.
Andrei glanced at Kutuzov’s face only a foot distant from him and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near his temple, where an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty eye socket. “Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men’s death,” thought Andrei.
“That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment,” Andrei said.
General Kutuzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Andrei. There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With delicate irony he questioned Andrei about the details of his interview with the Austrian Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krems affair, and about some ladies they both knew.
***
CHAPTER 14
On November 1, General Kutuzov had received, through a spy, news that the army he commanded was in an almost hopeless position. The spy reported that the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in immense force upon Kutuzov’s line of communication with the troops that were arriving from Russia. If General Kutuzov decided to remain at Krems, Napoleon’s army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut him off completely and surround his exhausted army of forty thousand, and he would find himself in the position of the losing General Mack at Ulm. If General Kutuzov decided to abandon the road connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia, he would have to march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian mountains, defending himself against superior forces of the enemy and abandoning all hope of a junction with Buxhöwden. If Kutuzov decided to retreat along the road from Krems to Olmütz, to unite with the troops arriving from Russia, he risked being forestalled on that road by the French who had crossed the Vienna bridge, and encumbered by his baggage and transport, having to accept battle on the march against an enemy three times as strong, who would hem him in from two sides.
General Kutuzov chose this latter course.
The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles off on the line of General Kutuzov’s retreat. If he reached Znaim before the French, there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the French forestall him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army to a disgrace such as that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall the French with his whole army was impossible. The road for the French from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the road for the Russians from Krems to Znaim.
The night he received the news, General Kutuzov sent Major-General Bagration’s vanguard, four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim to the Vienna-Znaim road. Major-General Bagration was to make this march without resting, and to halt facing Vienna with Znaim to his rear, and if he succeeded in forestalling the French he was to delay them as long as possible. General Kutuzov himself with all his transport took the road to Znaim.
Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers by the way, Major-General Bagration came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at Hollabrünn a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching Hollabrünn from Vienna. General Kutuzov with his transport had still to march for some days before he could reach Znaim. Hence Major-General Bagration with his four thousand hungry, exhausted men would have to detain for days the whole enemy army that came upon him at Hollabrünn, which was clearly impossible. But a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick that had placed the Vienna bridge in the hands of the French without a fight led Général Murat to try to deceive General Kutuzov in a similar way. Meeting Major-General Bagration’s weak detachment on the Znaim road, Général Murat supposed it to be General Kutuzov’s whole army. To be able to crush it absolutely, Général Murat awaited the arrival of the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna, and with this object offered a three days’ truce on condition that both armies should remain in position without moving. Général Murat declared that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. General Nostitz, the Austrian General occupying the advanced posts, believed Général Murat’s emissary and retired, leaving Major-General Bagration’s division exposed. Another French emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days’ truce. Major-General Bagration sensibly replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse a truce and sent his adjutant to General Kutuzov to report the offer he had received.
A truce was General Kutuzov’s sole chance of gaining time, giving Major-General Bagration’s exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and heavy convoys (whose movements were concealed from the French) advance if but one stage nearer Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the only, and a quite unexpected, chance of saving the Russian army. On receiving the news, General Kutuzov’s immediately dispatched General Wintzingerode, who was in attendance on him, to the enemy camp. General Wintzingerode was not merely to agree to the truce but also to offer false terms of capitulation, and meanwhile General Kutuzov sent his adjutants back to hasten to the utmost the movements of the baggage trains of the entire army along the Krems-Znaim road. Major-General Bagration’s exhausted and hungry detachment, which alone covered this movement of the transport and of the whole army, had to remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as strong as itself.
General Kutuzov’s expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which were in no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to pass, and also that Général Murat’s mistake would very soon be discovered, proved correct. As soon as Napoleon (who was at Schönbrunn, sixteen miles from Hollabrünn) received Général Murat’s dispatch with the proposal of a truce and a capitulation, Napoleon detected a ruse and wrote the following letter to Général Murat:
Schönbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805,
At eight o’clock in the morning
To GÉNÉRAL MURAT,
I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break the armistice immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him that the general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no one but the Tzar has that right.
If, however, the Tzar ratifies that convention, I will ratify it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the Russian army... You are in a position to seize its baggage and artillery.
The Tzar’s aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are nothing when they have no powers; this one had none... The Austrians let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna bridge, you are letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of the Tzar.
NAPOLEON
Napoleon’s adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to Général Murat. Napoleon himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim escape, and Major-General Bagration’s four thousand men merrily lighted campfires, dried and warmed themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time for three days, and not one of them knew or imagined what was in store for him.
***
CHAPTER 15
Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon Andrei, who had persisted in his request to General Kutuzov, arrived at Grunth and reported himself to Major-General Bagration. Napoleon’s adjutant had not yet reached Général Murat’s detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In Major-General Bagration’s detachment no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They talked of peace but did not believe in its possibility; others talked of a battle but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement. Major-General Bagration, knowing Andrei to be a favorite and trusted adjutant, received him with distinction and special marks of favor, explaining to him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle or to join the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, “which is also very important.”
“However, there will hardly be an engagement today,” said Major-General Bagration as if to reassure Andrei.
“If Andrei is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he wishes to stay with me, let him... he’ll be of use here if he’s a brave officer,” thought Major-General Bagration. Andrei, without replying, asked Major-General Bagration’s permission to ride round the position to see the disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Andrei.
On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches, and fencing from the village.
“There now, Andrei! We can’t stop those fellows,” said the staff officer pointing to the soldiers. “The officers don’t keep them in hand. And there,” he pointed to a sutler’s tent, “they crowd in and sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it’s full again. I must go there, Andrei, and scare them a bit. It won’t take a moment.”
“Yes, let’s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,” said Andrei who had not yet had time to eat anything.
“Why didn’t you mention it, Andrei? I would have offered you something.”
They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking.
“Now what does this mean, gentlemen?” said the staff officer, in the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more than once. “You know it won’t do to leave your posts like this. The Baron gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you, Artillery Captain Tushin,” and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to dry), in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether comfortably.
“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Artillery Captain Tushin?” he continued. “One would think that as an artillery officer you would set a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be sounded and you’ll be in a pretty position without your boots!” (The staff officer smiled.) “Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of you, all!” he added in a tone of command.
Andrei smiled involuntarily as he looked at the Artillery Captain Tushin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes from Andrei to the staff officer.
“The soldiers say it feels easier without boots,” said Artillery Captain Tushin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused.
“Kindly return to your posts,” said the staff officer trying to preserve his gravity.
Andrei glanced again at Artillery Captain Tushin’s small figure. There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic, but extremely attractive.
The staff officer and Andrei mounted their horses and rode on.
Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite the cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants; spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the bank by unseen hands. Andrei and the officer rode up, looked at the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines.
“This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Andrei,” said the staff officer.
They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be seen. Andrei stopped and began examining the position.
“That’s our battery,” said the staff officer indicating the highest point. “It’s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without his boots, Artillery Captain Tushin. You can see everything from there; let’s go there, Andrei.”
“Thank you very much, I will go on alone,” said Andrei, wishing to rid himself of this staff officer’s company, “please don’t trouble yourself further.”
The staff officer remained behind and Andrei rode on alone.
The farther forward and nearer the enemy Andrei went, the more orderly and cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm could be felt, but the nearer Andrei came to the French lines the more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others, dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers. In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log before his shelter, had been tasted.
Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka, crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces, emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers—fine fellows busy with similar peaceful affairs—near the shelter of the regimental commander, higher than and different from the others, Andrei came out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally. A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the screams kept repeating:
“It’s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest, honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in him, he’s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on!”
So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural screams, continued.
“Go on, go on!” said the stout major.
A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face stepped away from the man being punished and looked round inquiringly at Andrei as he rode by.
Andrei, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks, but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one another’s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies.
Since early morning—despite an injunction not to approach the picket line—the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity, no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and grew weary waiting to be relieved. Andrei halted to have a look at the French.
“Look! Look there!” one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the enemy picket line with an officer and was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. “Hark to him jabbering! Fine, isn’t it? It’s all the Frenchy can do to keep up with him. There now, Sídorov!”
“Wait a bit and listen. It’s fine!” answered Sídorov, who was considered an adept at French.
The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dolokhov, the man infamous for drinking a bottle of rum on a bet while hanging out a window. Andrei recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dolokhov had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with his captain.
“Now then, go on, go on!” incited Dolokhov’s captain, bending forward and trying not to lose a word of the French which was incomprehensible to him. “More, please: more! What’s he saying?”
Dolokhov did not answer his captain; he had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all the way from Ulm, while Dolokhov maintained that the Russians had not surrendered but had beaten the French.
“We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off,” said Dolokhov.
“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said the French grenadier.
The French onlookers and listeners laughed.
“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov...,” said Dolokhov.
“What is he singing about?” asked a Frenchman.
“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to a former war. “The Tzar will teach your Suvórov as he has taught the others...”
“Napoleon...” began Dolokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.
“Not Napoleon. You should refer to him as the French Tzar! His is a sacred name...!” cried he angrily.
“The devil skin your French Tzar.”
And Dolokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering his musket walked away.
“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” Dolokhov said to his captain.
“Ah, that’s the way to talk French,” said the picket soldiers. “Now, Sídorov, you have a try!”
Sídorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless sounds very fast: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, Kaská,” he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice.
“Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ooh! Ooh!” came peals of such healthy and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as quickly as possible.
But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon confronted one another as before.
***
CHAPTER 16
Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left, Andrei made his way up to the battery from which the staff officer had told him the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted, and stopped beside the farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns an artillery sentry was pacing up and down; he stood at attention when Andrei arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured, monotonous pacing. Behind the guns were their limbers and still farther back picket ropes and artillerymen’s bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest cannon, was a small, newly constructed wattle shed from which came the sound of officers’ voices in eager conversation.
From this view, Andrei could see nearly the whole Russian position and the greater part of the enemy’s that opened out from this battery. Just facing it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schön Grabern could be seen, and in three places to left and right the French troops amid the smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left from that village of Schön Grabern, amid the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it was impossible to see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was posted on a rather steep incline which dominated the French position. Our infantry were stationed there, and at the farthest point the dragoons. In the center, where Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery stood and from which Andrei was surveying the position, was the easiest and most direct descent and ascent to the brook separating us from the village of Schön Grabern. On the left our troops were close to a grove of trees, in which smoked the bonfires of our infantry who were felling wood. The French line was wider than ours, and it was plain that they could easily outflank us on both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep dip, making it difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire. Andrei took out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a plan of the position. He made some notes on two points, intending to mention them to Major-General Bagration. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the dip. Andrei, being always near General Kutuzov, closely following the mass movements and general orders, and constantly studying historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the course of events in the forthcoming action in broad outline. He imagined only important possibilities: “If the enemy attacks the right flank,” he said to himself, “the Kiev grenadiers and the Podólsk chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center come up. In that case the dragoons could successfully make a flank counterattack. If they attack our center we, having the center battery on this high ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and retreat to the dip by echelons.” So he reasoned... All the time he had been beside the gun, he had heard the voices of the officers distinctly, but as often happens had not understood a word of what they were saying. Suddenly, however, Andrei was struck by a voice coming from the shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen.
“No, friend,” said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Andrei, a familiar voice, “what I say is that if it were possible to know what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That’s so, friend.”
Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: “Afraid or not, you can’t escape it anyhow.”
“All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people,” said a third manly voice interrupting them both. “Of course you artillery men are very wise, because you can take everything along with you—vodka and snacks.”
And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer, laughed.
“Yes, one is afraid,” continued the first speaker, he of the familiar voice. “One is afraid of the unknown, that’s what it is. Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is no sky but only an atmosphere.”
The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer.
“Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, Artillery Captain Tushin,” it said.
“Why,” thought Andrei, “that’s the captain who stood up in the sutler’s hut without his boots.” He recognized the agreeable, philosophizing voice with pleasure.
“Some herb vodka? Certainly!” said Artillery Captain Tushin. “But still, to conceive a future life...”
He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air; nearer and nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon ball, as if it had not finished saying what was necessary, thudded into the ground near the shed with super human force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground seemed to groan at the terrible impact.
And immediately Artillery Captain Tushin, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth and his kind, intelligent face rather pale, rushed out of the shed followed by the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who hurried off to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran.
***
CHAPTER 17
Mounting his horse again Andrei lingered with the battery, looking at the puff from the gun that had sent the ball. His eyes ran rapidly over the wide space, but he only saw that the hitherto motionless masses of the French now swayed and that there really was a battery to their left. The smoke above it had not yet dispersed. Two mounted Frenchmen, probably adjutants, were galloping up the hill. A small but distinctly visible enemy column was moving down the hill, probably to strengthen the front line. The smoke of the first shot had not yet dispersed before another puff appeared, followed by a report. The battle had begun! Andrei turned his horse and galloped back to Grunth to find Major-General Bagration. He heard the cannonade behind him growing louder and more frequent. Evidently our guns had begun to reply. From the bottom of the slope, where the parleys had taken place, came the report of musketry.
The French messenger, Lemarrois, had just arrived at a gallop with Napoleon’s stern letter, and Général Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at once moved his forces to attack the center and outflank both the Russian wings, hoping before evening and before the arrival of the Napoleon to crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him.
“It has begun. Here it is!” thought Andrei, feeling the blood rush to his heart. “But where and how will my “moment of Toulon” present itself to win glory like Achilles did?”
Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking vodka a quarter of an hour before, Andrei saw everywhere the same rapid movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets ready, and on all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that filled his heart. “It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but enjoyable!” was what the face of each soldier and each officer seemed to say.
Before Andrei had reached the embankments that were being thrown up, he saw, in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming toward him. The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and riding a white horse, was Major-General Bagration. Andrei stopped, waiting for him to come up; Major-General Bagration reined in his horse and recognizing Andrei nodded to him. He still looked ahead while Andrei told him what he had seen.
The feeling, “It has begun! Here it is!” was seen even on Major-General Bagration’s hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes. Andrei gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face and wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking and feeling at that moment. “Is there anything at all behind that impassive face?” Andrei asked himself as he looked. Major-General Bagration bent his head in sign of agreement with what Andrei told him, and said, “Very good!” in a tone that seemed to imply that everything that took place and was reported to him was exactly what he had foreseen. Andrei, out of breath with his rapid ride, spoke quickly. Major-General Bagration, uttering his words with an Oriental accent, spoke particularly slowly, as if to impress the fact that there was no need to hurry. However, he put his horse to a trot in the direction of Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery. Andrei followed with the suite. Behind Major-General Bagration rode an officer of the suite, Major-General Bagration’s personal adjutant, Corporal Zherkov, an orderly officer, the staff officer on duty, riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian—an accountant who had asked permission to be present at the battle out of curiosity. The accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around him with a naive smile of satisfaction and presented a strange appearance among the hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camel coat, as he jolted on his horse with a convoy officer’s saddle.
“He wants to see a battle,” said Corporal Zherkov to Andrei, pointing to the accountant, “but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach already.”
“Oh, leave off!” said the accountant with a beaming but rather cunning smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of Corporal Zherkov’s joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really was.
“It is very strange, mon Monsieur Andrei,” said the staff officer. (He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing a Baron like Andrei, but could not get it quite right.)
By this time they were all approaching Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery, and a ball struck the ground in front of them.
“What’s that that has fallen?” asked the accountant with a naive smile.
“A French pancake,” answered Corporal Zherkov.
“So that’s what they hit with?” asked the accountant. “How awful!”
The accountant seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished speaking when they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which suddenly ended with a thud into something soft... f-f-flop! and a Cossack, riding a little to their right and behind the accountant, crashed to earth with his horse. Corporal Zherkov and the staff officer bent over their saddles and turned their horses away. The accountant stopped, facing the Cossack, and examined him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the horse still struggled.
Major-General Bagration screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say, “Is it worthwhile noticing trifles?” He reined in his horse with the care of a skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his saber which had caught in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned saber of a kind no longer in general use. Andrei remembered the story of Suvórov giving his saber to Major-General Bagration in Italy, and the recollection was particularly pleasant at that moment. They had reached the battery at which Andrei had been when he examined the battlefield.
“Whose company?” asked Major-General Bagration of an artilleryman standing by the ammunition wagon.
He asked, “Whose company?” but he really meant, “Are you frightened here?” and the artilleryman understood him.
“Artillery Captain Tushin’s, your excellency!” shouted the red-haired, freckled gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Major-General Bagration as if considering something, and he rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon.
As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening the general and his suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they could see the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly back to its former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number One, holding a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while Number Two with a trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon’s mouth. The short, round-shouldered Artillery Captain Tushin, stumbling over the tail of the gun carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the general, looked out shading his eyes with his small hand.
“Lift it two lines more and it will be just right,” cried Artillery Captain Tushin in a feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill-suited to his weak figure. “Number Two!” he squeaked. “Fire, Medvédev!”
Major-General Bagration called to him, and Artillery Captain Tushin, raising three fingers to his cap with a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military salute but like a priest’s benediction, approached the general. Though Artillery Captain Tushin’s guns had been intended to cannonade the valley, he was firing incendiary balls at the village of Schön Grabern visible just opposite, in front of which large masses of French were advancing.
No one had given Artillery Captain Tushin orders where and at what to fire, but after consulting his sergeant major, Zakharchénko, for whom he had great respect, Artillery Captain Tushin had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the village. “Very good!” said Major-General Bagration in reply to the officer’s report, and began deliberately to examine the whole battlefield extended before him. The French had advanced nearest on our right. Below the height on which the Kiev regiment was stationed, in the hollow where the rivulet flowed, the soul-stirring rolling and crackling of musketry was heard, and much farther to the right beyond the dragoons, the officer of the suite pointed out to Major-General Bagration a French column that was outflanking us. To the left the horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Major-General Bagration ordered two battalions from the center to be sent to reinforce the right flank. The officer of the suite ventured to remark to Major-General Bagration that if these battalions went away, the guns would remain without support. Major-General Bagration turned to the officer and with his dull eyes looked at him in silence. It seemed to Andrei that the officer’s remark was just and that really no answer could be made to it. But at that moment an adjutant galloped up with a message from the commander of the regiment in the hollow and news that immense masses of the French were coming down upon them and that his regiment was in disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Major-General Bagration bowed his head in sign of assent and approval. He rode off at a walk to the right and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with orders to attack the French. But this adjutant returned half an hour later with the news that the commander of the dragoons had already retreated beyond the dip in the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on him and he was losing men uselessly, and so had hastened to throw some sharpshooters into the wood.
“Very good!” said Major-General Bagration.
As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left also, and as it was too far to the left flank for him to have time to go there himself, Major-General Bagration sent Corporal Zherkov to tell the general in command (the one who had paraded his regiment before General Kutuzov at Braunau) that he must retreat as quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear, as the right flank would probably not be able to withstand the enemy’s attack very long. About Artillery Captain Tushin and the battalion that had been in support of his battery all was forgotten. Andrei listened attentively to Major-General Bagration’s colloquies with his officers and the orders he gave them and, to his surprise, found that no orders were really given, but that Major-General Bagration tried to make it appear that everything done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of subordinate officers was done, if not by his direct command, at least in accord with his intentions. Andrei noticed, however, that though what happened was due to chance and was independent of the commander’s will, owing to the tact Major-General Bagration showed, his presence was very valuable. Officers who approached him with disturbed countenances became calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew more cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display their courage before him.
***
CHAPTER 18
Major-General Bagration, having reached the highest point of the Russian right flank, began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard but where on account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer Major-General Bagration and his retinue got to the hollow the less they could see but the more they felt the nearness of the actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One with a bleeding head and no cap was being dragged along by two soldiers who supported him under the arms. There was a gurgle in his throat and he was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or mouth. Another was walking sturdily by himself but without his musket, groaning aloud and swinging his arm which had just been hurt, while blood from it was streaming over his greatcoat as from a bottle. He had that moment been wounded and his face showed fear rather than suffering. Crossing a road they descended a steep incline and saw several men lying on the ground; they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom were not wounded. The soldiers were ascending the hill breathing heavily, and despite the general’s presence were talking loudly and gesticulating. In front of them rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the smoke, and an officer catching sight of Major-General Bagration rushed shouting after the crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Major-General Bagration rode up to the ranks along which shots crackled now here and now there, drowning the sound of voices and the shouts of command. The whole air reeked with smoke. The excited faces of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the touchpans or taking charges from their pouches, while others were firing, though who they were firing at could not be seen for the smoke which there was no wind to carry away. A pleasant humming and whistling of bullets were often heard. “What is this?” thought Andrei approaching the crowd of soldiers. “It can’t be an attack, for they are not moving; it can’t be a square—for they are not drawn up for that.”
The elderly commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a pleasant smile—his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes, giving him a mild expression, rode up to Major-General Bagration and welcomed him as a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack had been repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what had happened during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and could not say with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his regiment had been broken up. All this elderly commander of the regiment knew was that at the commencement of the action balls and shells began flying all over his regiment and hitting men and that afterwards someone had shouted “Cavalry!” and our men had begun firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry which had disappeared, but at French infantry who had come into the hollow and were firing at our men. Major-General Bagration bowed his head as a sign that this was exactly what he had desired and expected. Turning to his adjutant he ordered him to bring down the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs whom they had just passed. Andrei was struck by the changed expression on Major-General Bagration’s face at this moment. It expressed the concentrated and happy resolution you see on the face of a man who on a hot day takes a final run before plunging into the water. The dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation of profound thought. The round, steady, hawk’s eyes looked before him eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although his movements were still slow and measured.
The elderly commander of the regiment turned again to Major-General Bagration, entreating him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were. “Please, for God’s sake!” he kept saying, glancing for support at an officer of the suite who turned away from him. “There, you see!” and he drew attention to the bullets whistling, singing, and hissing continually around them. He spoke in the tone of entreaty and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who has picked up an ax: “We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister your hands.” He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him, and his half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to his words. The staff officer joined in the elderly commander of the regiment’s appeals, but Major-General Bagration did not reply; he only gave an order to cease firing and re-form, so as to give room for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking, the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising wind, began to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible hand, and the hill opposite, with the French moving about on it, opened out before them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing against them and winding down over the uneven ground. One could already see the soldiers’ shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from the men, and see the standard flapping against its staff.
“They march splendidly,” remarked someone in Major-General Bagration’s suite.
The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The clash would take place on this side of it...
The remains of our regiment which had been in action rapidly formed up and moved to the right; from behind it, dispersing the laggards, came two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had reached Major-General Bagration, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to Major-General Bagration, marched a fine round-faced company commander with a stupid and happy expression—the same man who had rushed out of the wattle shed. At that moment he was clearly thinking of nothing but how dashing a fellow he would appear as he passed the commander.
With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, the round-faced company commander stepped lightly with his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full height without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with the heavy tread of the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He carried close to his leg a narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and now back at the men without losing step, his whole powerful body turning flexibly. It was as if all the powers of his soul were concentrated on passing the commander in the best possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he was happy. “Left... left... left...” he seemed to repeat to himself at each alternate step; and in time to this, with stern but varied faces, the wall of soldiers burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched in step, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be repeating to himself at each alternate step, “Left... left... left...” A fat major skirted a bush, puffing and falling out of step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face showing alarm at his defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with his company. A cannon ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of Major-General Bagration and his suite, and fell into the column to the measure of “Left... left!” “Close up!” came the round-faced company commander’s voice in jaunty tones. The soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the ball had fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who had stopped beside the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling into step with a hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous silence and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed to hear left... left... left.
“Well done, lads!” said Major-General Bagration.
“Glad to do our best, your ex’len-lency!” came a confused shout from the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on Major-General Bagration as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: “We know that ourselves!” Another, without looking round, as though fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on.
The order was given to halt and down knapsacks.
Major-General Bagration rode round the ranks that had marched past him and dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the enemy French column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill.
“Forward, with God!” said Major-General Bagration, in a resolute, sonorous voice, turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms, he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of a cavalryman. Andrei felt that an invisible power was leading him forward, and experienced great happiness.
The French were already near. Andrei, walking beside Major-General Bagration, could clearly distinguish the enemy’s bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their faces. (Andrei distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered legs and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Major-General Bagration gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in front of the ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the French, smoke appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots sounded. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced company commander who had marched so gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first report was heard, Major-General Bagration looked round and shouted, “Hurrah!”
“Hurrah—ah!—ah!” rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and passing Major-General Bagration and racing one another they rushed in an irregular but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe.
***
CHAPTER 19
The attack of the Russian Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right flank. In the center Artillery Captain Tushin’s forgotten battery, which had managed to set fire to the Schön Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The French were putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side of the dip in the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the different companies did not get mixed. But our left—which consisted of the Azóv and Podólsk infantry and the Pávlograd hussars—was simultaneously attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under Général Lannes and was thrown into confusion.
Major-General Bagration had sent Corporal Zherkov to the general commanding that left flank with orders to retreat immediately. Corporal Zherkov, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about and galloped off. But no sooner had he left Major-General Bagration than his courage failed him. Corporal Zherkov was seized by panic and could not go where it was dangerous. Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the firing was, Corporal Zherkov began to look for the general and his staff where they could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order.
The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of the regiment Kutúzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which Dólokhov was serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been assigned to the commander of the Pávlograd regiment in which Rostóv was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on the right flank and the French were already advancing, the commanders were engaged in discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the horses and the infantry collecting wood. But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the first of the Général Lannes’ sharpshooters were already seen crossing the mill’s dam and was forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The Russian general went toward his horse with jerky steps, and having mounted, he drew himself up very straight and tall and rode to the German colonel. The two commanders met with polite bows but with secret malevolence in their hearts.
“Once again, Colonel,” said the Russian general, “I can’t leave half my men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you,” he repeated, “to occupy the position and prepare for an attack.”
“I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!” suddenly replied the irate German colonel. “If you vere in the cavalry...”
“I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if you are not aware of the fact...”
“Quite avare, your excellency,” suddenly shouted the German colonel, touching his horse and turning purple in the face. “Vill you be so goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don’t vish to destroy my men for your pleasure!”
“You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure and I won’t allow it to be said!”
Taking the German colonel’s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the Russian general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the front line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the bullets. The two commanders reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that it was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken ground, as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The Russian general and German colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another like two fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to detect signs of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination successfully. As there was nothing to be said, and neither wished to give occasion for it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave the range of fire, they would have remained there for a long time testing each other’s courage had it not been that just then they heard the rattle of French musketry and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The French had attacked the men collecting wood in the grove. It was no longer possible for the cavalry to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off from the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient the position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through for themselves.
Nicholas was serving under the Russian general, and his squadron had scarcely time to mount before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge, there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear—resembling the line separating the living from the dead—lay between them. All were conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross it or not, and how they would cross it, agitated them all.
The German colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put to him by his officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having his own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor of an attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang out and the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards. Still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars alike, felt that the German colonel did not himself know what to do, and this irresolution communicated itself to the men.
“If only they would be quick!” thought Nicholas, feeling that at last the time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so often heard from his fellow hussars.
“Fo’ward, with God, lads!” rang out Denisov’s voice. “At a twot fo’ward!”
The horses’ croups began to sway in the front line. Nicholas’s horse pulled at the reins and started of his own accord.
Before him, on the right, Nicholas saw the front lines of his cavalry and still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off.
“Faster!” came the word of command, and Nicholas felt his horse Rook’s flanks drooping as he broke into a gallop.
Nicholas anticipated his horse’s movements and became more and more elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible—and now he had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. “Oh, how I will slash at him!” thought Nicholas, gripping the hilt of his saber.
“Hur-a-a-a-ah!” came a roar of voices. “Let anyone come my way now,” thought Nicholas driving his spurs into his horse, Rook, and letting him go at a full gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was already visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep over the squadron. Nicholas raised his saber, ready to strike, but at that instant the trooper Nikítenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away from him, and Nicholas felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From behind him Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked angrily at him. Bondarchúk’s horse swerved and galloped past.
“How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!” Nicholas asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a field. Instead of the moving horses and the cavalry’s backs, he saw nothing before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There was warm blood under his arm. “No, I am wounded and the horse is killed.” His horse, Rook, tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his rider’s leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled but could not rise. Nicholas also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the French, he did not know. There was no one near.
Having disentangled his leg, Nicholas rose. “Where, on which side, was now the line that had so sharply divided the two armies?” he asked himself and could not answer. “Can something bad have happened to me?” he wondered as he got up: and at that moment he felt that something superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if it were not his. Nicholas examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find blood on it. “Ah, here are people coming,” he thought joyfully, seeing some men running toward him. “They will help me!” In front came a man wearing a strange shako and a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned, and with a hooked nose. Then came two more, and many more running behind. One of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among the hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms and his horse was being led behind him.
“It must be the enemy with one of ours as a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will take me too? Who are these men?” thought Nicholas, scarcely believing his eyes. “Can they be French?” He looked at the approaching French soldiers, and though but a moment before he had been galloping to get at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful that he could not believe his eyes. “Who are they? Why are they running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom everyone is so fond of?” Nicholas remembered his mother’s love for him, and his family’s, and his friends’, and the enemy’s intention to kill him seemed impossible. “But perhaps they may do it!” For more than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the situation. The foremost French soldier, the one with the hooked nose, was already so close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the excited, alien face of that enemy soldier with his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath, and running so lightly, frightened Nicholas. He seized his pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at the French soldier and then turned and ran away with all his might back toward some far off bushes. Nicholas did not now run away with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly leaping the shallow furrow trenches, he continued to flee across the field with the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale, young face to look back. A shudder of terror went through him: “No, better not look,” Nicholas thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced round once more. The enemy French soldiers had fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first French soldier changed his run to a walk and over his shoulder shouted something loudly to another French soldier farther back. Nicholas paused. “No, there’s some mistake,” he thought. “They can’t have wanted to kill me.” But at the same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The French soldier also stopped and took aim. Nicholas closed his eyes and stooped down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. Nicholas mustered his last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his right, and reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters.
***
CHAPTER 20
Farther on the left flank, infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the senseless cry, “Cut off!” that is so terrible in battle, and that word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic.
“Surrounded! Cut off? We’re lost!” shouted the fugitives.
The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the Russian general realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment, and the thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years’ service who had never been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the recalcitrant German colonel, his own dignity as a Russian general, and above all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for self-preservation, he clutched the crupper of his saddle and, spurring his horse, galloped forward to the regiment under a hail of bullets which fell around, but fortunately missed him. His one desire was to know what was happening and at any cost correct, or remedy, the mistake if he had made one, so that he, an exemplary officer of twenty-two years’ service, who had never been censured, should not be held to blame.
Having galloped safely through the French, the Russian general reached a field behind the grove across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides the fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers attend to the voice of their general, or would they, disregarding him, continue their flight? Despite the Russian general’s desperate shouts that used to seem so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of his saber, his soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate of battles was evidently culminating in a panic.
The Russian general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and Russian sharpshooters showed themselves in the grove. It was Captain Timokhin’s company, which alone had maintained its order in the wood and, having lain in ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French unexpectedly. Captain Timokhin, armed only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such a desperate cry and such mad, drunken determination that, taken by surprise, the French had thrown down their muskets and run. Dolokhov, running beside Captain Timokhin, killed a French soldier at close quarters and was the first to seize a surrendering French officer by his collar. Our fugitives returned back to the front, the battalions re-formed, and the French who had nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our reserve units were able to join up, and the fight was at an end. The regimental commander and Major Ekonómov had stopped beside a bridge, letting the retreating companies pass by them, when Dolokhov came up and took hold of the commander’s stirrup, almost leaning against him. He was wearing a bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack or cap, his head was bandaged, and over his shoulder, a French munition pouch was slung. Dolokhov had an officer’s sword in his hand. He was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the commander’s face, and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving instructions to Major Ekonómov, he could not help taking notice of Dolokhov.
“Your excellency, here are two trophies,” said Dolokhov, pointing to the French sword and pouch. “I have taken an officer prisoner. I stopped the company.” Dolokhov breathed heavily from weariness and spoke in abrupt sentences. “The whole company can bear witness. I beg you will remember this, commander!”
“All right, all right,” replied the commander, and turned to Major Ekonómov.
But Dolokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his head, pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair.
“A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, commander!”
Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the action did Major-General Bagration, still hearing the cannonade in the center, send his orderly staff officer, and later Andrei also, to order the battery to retire as quickly as possible. When the supports attached to Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery had been moved away in the middle of the action by someone’s order, the battery had continued firing and was only not captured by the French because the enemy could not surmise that anyone could have the effrontery to continue firing from four quite undefended guns. On the contrary, the energetic action of that battery led the French to suppose that here—in the center—the main Russian forces were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on each occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated guns on the hillock.
Soon after Major-General Bagration had left him, Artillery Captain Tushin had succeeded in setting fire to the village of Schön Grabern.
“Look at them scurrying! It’s burning! Just see the smoke! Fine! Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke!” exclaimed his artillerymen, brightening up.
All of Artillery Captain Tushin’s guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, his soldiers cried at each shot: “Fine! That’s good! Look at it... Grand!” The fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The enemy French columns that had advanced beyond the village went back; but as though in revenge for this failure, the French placed ten guns to the right of the village and began firing them at Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery.
In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in successfully cannonading the French, Artillery Captain Tushin’s artillerymen only noticed this battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our guns, one knocking over two horses and another tearing off a munition-wagon driver’s leg. Their spirits once roused were, however, not diminished, but only changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a reserve gun carriage, the wounded were carried away, and the four guns were turned against the ten-gun battery. Artillery Captain Tushin’s companion officer had been killed at the beginning of the engagement and within an hour seventeen of the forty men of the guns’ crews had been disabled, but the artillerymen were still as merry and lively as ever. Twice they noticed the French appearing below them, and then they fired grapeshot at them.
Artillery Captain Tushin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly to “refill my pipe for that one!” and then, scattering sparks from it, ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the French.
“Smack at ‘em like General Mack, lads!” he kept saying, seizing the guns by the wheels and working the screws himself.
Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always made him jump, Artillery Captain Tushin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from gun to gun, now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders about replacing dead or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones, and shouting in his feeble voice, so high pitched and irresolute. His face grew more and more animated. Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always the case, hesitated about lifting the injured or dead. His soldiers, for the most part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an artillery company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad as their officer—all looked at Artillery Captain Tushin like children in an embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was invariably reflected on theirs.
Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and activity, Artillery Captain Tushin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more elated. It seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a day, since he had first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and that the corner of the field he stood on was well-known and familiar ground. Though Artillery Captain Tushin thought of everything, considered everything, and did everything the best of officers could do in his position, he was in a state akin to feverish delirium or drunkenness.
From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and thud of the enemy’s cannon balls, from the flushed and perspiring faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the sight of the blood of men and horses, from the little puffs of smoke on the enemy’s side (always followed by a ball flying past and striking the earth, a man, a gun, a horse), from the sight of all these things a fantastic world of his own had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded him pleasure. The enemy’s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker.
“There... he’s puffing again,” muttered Artillery Captain Tushin to himself, as a small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by the wind.
“Now look out for the ball... we’ll throw it back.”
“What do you want?” asked an artilleryman, standing close by, who heard him muttering.
“Nothing... only a shell...” he answered.
“Come along, our Matvévna!” he said to himself. “Matvévna” (Daughter of Mathew) was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard Number One of the second gun’s crew was called “Uncle”; Artillery Captain Tushin looked at him more often than at anyone else and took delight in his every movement. The sound of musketry at the foot of the hill, now diminishing, now increasing, seemed like someone’s breathing. He listened intently to the ebb and flow of these sounds.
“Ah! Breathing again, breathing!” Artillery Captain Tushin muttered to himself.
He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands.
“Now then, Matvévna, dear old lady, don’t let me down!” he was saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called above his head: “Artillery Captain Tushin!”
Artillery Captain Tushin turned round in dismay. It was the staff officer who had turned him out of the booth at Grunth. He was shouting in a gasping voice:
“Are you mad? You have twice been ordered to retreat, and you...”
“Why are they down on me?” thought Artillery Captain Tushin, looking in alarm at his superior.
“I... don’t...” he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap. “I...”
But the staff officer did not finish what he wanted to say. A cannon ball, flying close to him, caused him to duck and bend over his horse. He paused, and just as he was about to say something more, another ball stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped off.
“Retire! All to retire!” he shouted from a distance.
The soldiers laughed. A moment later, an adjutant arrived with the same order.
It was Andrei. The first thing he saw on riding up to the space where Artillery Captain Tushin’s guns were stationed was an unharnessed horse with a broken leg, that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses. Blood was gushing from its leg as from a spring. Among the limbers lay several dead men. One ball after another passed over as he approached and he felt a nervous shudder run down his spine. But the mere thought of being afraid roused him again. “I cannot be afraid,” thought Andrei, and dismounted slowly among the guns. He delivered the order and did not leave the battery. He decided to have the guns removed from their positions and withdrawn in his presence. Together with Artillery Captain Tushin, stepping across the bodies and under a terrible fire from the French, Andrei attended to the removal of the guns.
“A staff officer was here a minute ago, but skipped off,” said an artilleryman to Andrei. “Not like your honor!”
Andrei said nothing to Artillery Captain Tushin. They were both so busy as to seem not to notice one another. When having limbered up the only two cannon that remained uninjured out of the four, they began moving down the hill (one shattered gun and one unicorn were left behind), Andrei rode up to Artillery Captain Tushin.
“Well, till we meet again...” Andrei said, holding out his hand to Artillery Captain Tushin.
“Good-by, my dear fellow,” said Artillery Captain Tushin. “Dear soul! Good-by, my dear fellow!” and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes.
***
CHAPTER 21
The wind had fallen and black clouds, merging with the powder smoke, hung low over the field of battle on the horizon. It was growing dark and the glow of two conflagrations was the more conspicuous. The cannonade was dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the right sounded oftener and nearer. As soon as Artillery Captain Tushin with his guns, continually driving round or coming upon wounded men, was out of range of fire and had descended into the dip, he was met by some of the staff, among them the staff officer and Corporal Zherkov, who had been twice sent to Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery but had never reached it. Interrupting one another, they all gave, and transmitted, orders as to how to proceed, reprimanding and reproaching him. Artillery Captain Tushin gave no orders, and, silently—fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to weep without knowing why—rode behind on his artillery nag. Though the orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves after troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty infantry officer who just before the battle had rushed out of Artillery Captain Tushin’s wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on “Matvévna’s” carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale Nichola, supporting one hand with the other, came up to Artillery Captain Tushin and asked for a seat.
“Captain, for God’s sake! I’ve hurt my arm,” Nicholas said timidly. “For God’s sake... I can’t walk. For God’s sake!”
It was plain that Nicholas had already repeatedly asked for a lift and been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice.
“Tell them to give me a seat, for God’s sake!”
“Give him a seat,” said Artillery Captain Tushin. “Lay a cloak for him to sit on, lad,” he said, addressing his favorite soldier. “And where is the wounded officer?”
“He has been set down. He died,” replied someone.
“Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak, Antónov.”
With one hand Nicholas supported the other; he was pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. Nicholas was placed on “Matvévna,” the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his breeches and arm.
“What, are you wounded, my lad?” said Artillery Captain Tushin, approaching the gun on which Nicholas sat.
“No, it’s a sprain.”
“Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?” inquired Artillery Captain Tushin.
“It was the officer, your honor, stained it,” answered the artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if apologizing for the state of his gun.
It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by the infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they halted. It had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms ten paces off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly, nearby on the right, shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of shot gleamed in the darkness. This was the last French attack and was met by soldiers who had sheltered in the village houses. They all rushed out of the village again, but Artillery Captain Tushin’s guns could not move, and the artillerymen, Artillery Captain Tushin, and Nicholas exchanged silent glances as they awaited their fate. The firing died down and soldiers, talking eagerly, streamed out of a side street.
“Not hurt, Petróv?” asked one.
“We’ve given it ‘em hot, mate! They won’t make another push now,” said another.
“You couldn’t see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows! Nothing could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn’t there something to drink?”
The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in the complete darkness Artillery Captain Tushin’s guns moved forward, surrounded by the humming infantry as by a frame.
In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and the sound of hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness of the night. The gloom that enveloped the army was filled with their groans, which seemed to melt into one with the darkness of the night. After a while the moving mass became agitated, someone rode past on a white horse followed by his suite, and said something in passing: “What did he say? Where to, now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us?” came eager questions from all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing closer together and a report spread that they were ordered to halt: evidently those in front had halted. All remained where they were in the middle of the muddy road.
Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Artillery Captain Tushin, having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing station or a doctor for Nicholas, and sat down by a bonfire the soldiers had kindled on the road. Nicholas, too, dragged himself to the fire. From pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole body. Drowsiness was irresistibly mastering him, but he kept awake by an excruciating pain in his sprained arm, for which he could find no satisfactory position. Nicholas kept closing his eyes and then again looking at the fire, which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered figure of Artillery Captain Tushin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him. Artillery Captain Tushin’s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and commiseration on Nicholas, who saw that Artillery Captain Tushin with his whole heart wished to help him but could not.
From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound of voices, the tramping feet, the horses’ hoofs moving in mud, the crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble.
It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm. Nicholas looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face.
“You don’t mind your honor?” he asked Artillery Captain Tushin. “I’ve lost my company, your honor. I don’t know where... such bad luck!”
Along with the infantryman, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to the bonfire, and addressing Artillery Captain Tushin, asked him to have the guns moved a trifle to let a wagon go past. After the infantry officer had gone, two soldiers rushed to the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to.
“You picked it up?... I dare say! You’re very smart!” one of them shouted hoarsely.
Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water.
“Must one die like a dog?” said he.
Artillery Captain Tushin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry.
“A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow countrymen. Thanks for the fire—we’ll return it with interest,” said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick.
Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed by the fire. One of them stumbled.
“Who the devil has put the logs on the road?” snarled he.
“He’s dead—why carry him?” said another.
“Shut up!”
And they disappeared into the darkness with their load.
“Still aching?” Artillery Captain Tushin asked Nicholas in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Your honor, you’re wanted by the general. He is in the hut here,” said a gunner, coming up to Artillery Captain Tushin.
“Coming, friend.”
Artillery Captain Tushin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, walked away from the fire.
Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared for him, Major-General Bagration sat at dinner, talking with some commanding officers who had gathered at his quarters. The elderly company commander with the half-closed eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the Russian general who had served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a glass of vodka and the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet ring, and Corporal Zherkov, uneasily glancing at them all, and Andrei, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes.
In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and the accountant with the naive face was feeling its texture, shaking his head in perplexity—perhaps because the banner really interested him, perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Major-General Bagration was thanking the individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our losses. The Russian general under which Dolokhov served was informing Major-General Bagration that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn from the wood, mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing the French to pass him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and had broken up the French troops.
“When I saw, Major-General Bagration, that their first battalion was disorganized, I stopped in the road and thought: ‘I’ll let them come on and will meet them with the fire of the whole battalion’—and that’s what I did.”
The Russian general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not managed to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that confusion what did or did not happen?
“By the way, Major-General Bagration, I should inform you,” he continued—remembering Dolokhov’s conversation with General Kutuzov and his last interview with the gentleman-ranker—“that Private Dolokhov, who was reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my presence and particularly distinguished himself.”
“I saw the cavalry attack there, your excellency,” chimed in Corporal Zherkov, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the cavalry all that day, but had heard about them from an infantry officer. “They broke up two squares, your excellency.”
Several of those present smiled at Corporal Zherkov’s words, expecting one of his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to the glory of our arms and of the day’s work, they assumed a serious expression, though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie devoid of any foundation. Major-General Bagration turned to the old colonel:
“Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically: infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were abandoned in the center?” he inquired, searching with his eyes for someone. (Major-General Bagration did not ask about the guns on the left flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the very beginning of the action.) “I think I sent you?” he added, turning to the staff officer on duty.
“One was damaged,” answered the staff officer, “and the other I can’t understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had only just left... It is true that it was hot there,” he added, modestly.
Someone mentioned that Captain Artillery Captain Tushin was bivouacking close to the village and had already been sent for.
“Oh, but you were there?” said Major-General Bagration, addressing Andrei.
“Of course, we only just missed one another,” said the staff officer, with a smile to Andrei.
“I had not the pleasure of seeing you,” said Andrei, coldly and abruptly.
All were silent. Artillery Captain Tushin appeared at the threshold and made his way timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always was by the sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed.
“How was it a gun was abandoned?” asked Major-General Bagration, frowning, not so much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom Corporal Zherkov laughed loudest.
Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present themselves to Artillery Captain Tushin in all their horror. He had been so excited that he had not thought about it until that moment. The officers’ laughter confused him still more. He stood before Major-General Bagration with his lower jaw trembling and was hardly able to mutter: “I don’t know... your excellency... I had no men... your excellency.”
“You might have taken some from the covering troops.”
Artillery Captain Tushin did not say that there were no covering troops, though that was perfectly true. He was afraid of getting some other officer into trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on Major-General Bagration as a schoolboy who has blundered looks at an examiner.
The silence lasted some time. Major-General Bagration, apparently not wishing to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene. Andrei looked at Artillery Captain Tushin from under his brows and his fingers twitched nervously.
“Major-General Bagration!” Andrei broke the silence with his abrupt voice, “you were pleased to send me to Captain Artillery Captain Tushin’s battery. I went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two guns smashed, and no supports at all.”
Major-General Bagration and Artillery Captain Tushin looked with equal intentness at Andrei, who spoke with suppressed agitation.
“And, if Major-General Bagration will allow me to express my opinion,” he continued, “we owe today’s success chiefly to the action of that battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Artillery Captain Tushin and his company,” and without awaiting a reply, Andrei rose and left the table.
Major-General Bagration looked at Artillery Captain Tushin, evidently reluctant to show distrust in Andrei’s emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully to credit it, bent his head, and told Artillery Captain Tushin that he could go. Andrei went out with him.
“Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow!” said Artillery Captain Tushin.
Andrei gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped.
“Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will all this end?” thought Nicholas, looking at the changing shadows before him. The pain in his sprained arm became more and more intense. Irresistible drowsiness overpowered him, red rings danced before his eyes, and the impression of those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers—wounded and unwounded—it was they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting the sinews and scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To rid himself of them he closed his eyes.
For a moment Nicholas dozed, but in that short interval innumerable things appeared to him in a dream: his mother and her large white hand, orphan niece Sonya’s thin little shoulders, Natasha’s eyes and laughter, Denisov with his voice and mustache, and Lieutenant Telyánin and all that affair with the Lieutenant and Colonel Bogdánich. That affair was the same thing as this soldier with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier that were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them, but they would not for an instant let his shoulder move a hair’s breadth. It would not ache—it would be well—if only they did not pull it, but it was impossible to get rid of them.
Nicholas opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less than a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling snow were fluttering in that light. Artillery Captain Tushin had not returned, the doctor had not come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was sitting naked at the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body.
“Nobody wants me!” thought Nicholas. “There is no one to help me or pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved.” Nicholas sighed and, doing so, groaned involuntarily.
“Eh, is anything hurting you?” asked the naked soldier, shaking his shirt out over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and added: “What a lot of men have been crippled today—frightful!”
Nicholas did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm, bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. “And why did I come here?” Nicholas wondered.
The next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of Major-General Bagration’s detachment was reunited to General Kutuzov’s army.
BOOK 3: 1805
***
CHAPTER 1
Baron Vasili was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans. Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage. He was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted to himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life, were constantly shaping themselves in his mind, arising from the circumstances and persons he met. Of these plans he had not merely one or two in his head but dozens, some only beginning to form themselves, some approaching achievement, and some in course of disintegration. He did not, for instance, say to himself: “This man now has influence, I must gain his confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special grant.” Nor did he say to himself: “Pierre is now a rich man, I must entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles I need.” But when he came across a man of position his instinct immediately told him that this man could be useful, and without any premeditation Baron Vasili took the first opportunity to gain his confidence, flatter him, become intimate with him, and finally make his request.
Baron Vasili had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to St. Petersburg and staying at his house. With apparent absent-mindedness, yet with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing, Baron Vasili did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter Helene. Had he thought out his plans beforehand he could not have been so natural and shown such unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both above and below him in social standing. Something always drew him toward those richer and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in seizing the most opportune moment for making use of people.
Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming the new count and a rich man, felt himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He had to sign papers, to present himself at government offices, the purpose of which was not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his estate near Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not even wish to know of his existence but would now have been offended and grieved had he chosen not to see them. These different people—businessmen, relations, and acquaintances alike—were all disposed to treat the young heir in the most friendly and flattering manner: they were all evidently firmly convinced of Pierre’s noble qualities. He was always hearing such words as: “With your remarkable kindness,” or, “With your excellent heart,” “You are yourself so honorable, Count,” or, “Were he as clever as you,” and so on, till he began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and extraordinary intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and intelligent. Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate. Katerina, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll’s, had come into Pierre’s room after the funeral. With drooping eyes and frequent blushes she told him she was very sorry about their past misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him for anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received, to remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where she had sacrificed so much. She could not refrain from weeping at these words. Touched that Katerina, so statuesque, could so change, Pierre took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for. From that day Katerina quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a striped scarf for him.
“Do this for my sake, my dear; after all, she had to put up with a great deal from the deceased,” said Baron Vasili to Pierre, handing him a deed to sign for Katerina’s benefit.
Baron Vasili had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw this bone—a bill for thirty thousand rubles—to Katerina that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the affair of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that Katerina grew still kinder. Katerina’s sisters also became affectionate to him, especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often made him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting him.
It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful intoxication. He felt as though he were the center of some important and general movement; that something was constantly expected of him, that if he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he did this and that, all would be well; and he did what was demanded of him, but still that happy result always remained in the future.
More than anyone else, Baron Vasili took possession of Pierre’s affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of Count Bezukhov he did not let go his hold of Pierre. Baron Vasili had the air of a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for pity’s sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice of fate and the designs of rogues. During the few days he spent in Moscow after the death of Count Bezukhov, he would call Pierre, or go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of weariness and assurance, as if he were adding every time: “You know I am overwhelmed with business and it is purely out of charity that I trouble myself about you, and you also know quite well that what I propose is the only thing possible.”
“Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,” said Baron Vasili one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre’s elbow, speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been agreed upon and could not now be altered. “We start tomorrow and I’m giving you a place in my carriage. I am very glad. All our important business here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is something I have received from the chancellor. I asked him for you, and you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber. The diplomatic career now lies open before you.”
Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career, wished to make some suggestion. But Baron Vasili interrupted him in the special deep cooing tone, precluding the possibility of interrupting his speech, which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was needed.
My dear, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience, and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of being too much loved; and besides, you are free, you could throw it up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself when you get to St. Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from these terrible recollections.” Baron Vasili sighed. “Yes, yes, my boy. And my valet can go in your carriage. Ah! I was nearly forgetting,” he added. “You know, my dear, your father and I had some accounts to settle, so I have received what was due from the Ryazán estate and will keep it; you won’t require it. We’ll go into the accounts later.”
By “what was due from the Ryazán estate” Baron Vasili meant several thousand rubles quitrent received from Count Bezukhov’s serfs, which Baron Vasili had retained for himself.
In St. Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather the rank (for he did nothing), that Baron Vasili had procured for him, and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle, and continual expectation of some good, always in front of him but never attained.
Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in St. Petersburg. The Guards had gone to the front; Dolokhov had been reduced to the ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Andrei was abroad; so Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he used to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with a friend older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time was taken up with dinners and balls and was spent chiefly at Baron Vasili’s house in the company of his stout wife, and his beautiful daughter Helene.
Like the others, Anna Pavlovna showed Pierre the change of attitude toward him that had taken place in society.
Formerly in Anna Pavlovna’s presence, Pierre had always felt that what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte’s stupidest remarks came out clever and apt. Now everything Pierre said was charming. Even if Anna Pavlovna did not say so, he could see that she wished to and only refrained out of regard for his modesty.
In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna Pavlovna’s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: “You will find the beautiful Helene here, whom it is always delightful to see.”
When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and Helene, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an entertaining supposition.
Anna Pavlovna’s “At Home” party was like her former party, only the novelty she offered her guests this time was not the viscount, but a diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the Tzar’s visit to Napoleon in Potsdam, and of how the Tzar and Napoleon were now two august friends who had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna Pavlovna received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the Pierre’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezukhov (everyone constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that he was greatly afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known), and her melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention of her most august Mother of the Tzar. Pierre felt flattered by this. Anna Pavlovna arranged the different groups in her drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were Baron Vasili and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat. Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former, but Anna Pavlovna—who was in the excited condition of a commander on a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which there is hardly time to put in action—seeing Pierre, touched his sleeve with her finger, saying:
“Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening.” (She glanced at Helene and smiled at her.) “My dear Helene, be charitable to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for ten minutes. And that it will not be too dull, here is Pierre who will not refuse to accompany you.”
Beautiful Helene went to the aunt, but Anna Pavlovna detained Pierre for a moment, looking as if she had to give some final necessary instructions.
“Isn’t Helene exquisite?” she said to Pierre, pointing to Helene’s stately beauty as she glided away. “And how she carries herself! For so young a girl, such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from her heart. Happy the man who wins her! With her the least worldly of men would occupy a most brilliant position in society. Don’t you think so? I only wanted to know your opinion,” and Anna Pavlovna let Pierre go.
Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Helene’s perfection of manner. If he ever thought of Helene, it was just of her beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in society.
The old aunt received Helene and Pierre in her corner, but seemed desirous of hiding her adoration for Helene and inclined rather to show her fear of Anna Pavlovna. The old aunt looked at her niece, Anna Pavlovna, as if inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna Pavlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Helene.
Helene smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the possibility of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The old aunt coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see Helene, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation, Helene turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it. The old aunt was just speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre’s father, Count Bezukhov, and showed them her own box. Helene asked to see the portrait of the aunt’s husband on the box lid.
“That is probably the work of Vinesse,” said Pierre, mentioning a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.
Pierre half rose, meaning to go round, but the old aunt handed him the snuffbox, passing it across Helene’s back. Helene stooped forward to make room, and looked round with a smile. She was, as always at evening parties, wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at front and back. Her bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre, was so close to him that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive the living charm of her neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that he need only have bent his head a little to have touched them. He was conscious of the warmth of Helene’s body, the scent of perfume, and the creaking of her corset as she moved. He did not see her marble beauty forming a complete whole with her dress, but all the charm of her body only covered by her garments. And having once seen this Pierre could not help being aware of it, just as we cannot renew an illusion we have once seen through.
“So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Helene seemed to say. “You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a woman who may belong to anyone—to you too,” said her glance. And at that moment Pierre felt that Helene not only could, but must, be his wife, and that it could not be otherwise.
Pierre knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why, that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen.
Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see Helene as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not, any more than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the mist and taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has once recognized it to be a tuft of grass. Helene was terribly close to him. She already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any barrier except the barrier of his own will.
“Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” came Anna Pavlovna’s voice, “I see you are all right there.”
And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to Pierre that everyone knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself.
A little later when Pierre went up to the large circle, Anna Pavlovna said to him: “I hear you are refitting your St. Petersburg house?”
This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous St. Petersburg house done up.
“That’s a good thing, but don’t move from Baron Vasili’s. It is good to have a friend like him,” she said, smiling at Baron Vasili. “I know something about that. Don’t I? And you are still so young. You need advice. Don’t be angry with me for exercising an old woman’s privilege.”
Anna Pavlovna paused, as women always do, expecting something after they have mentioned their age. “If you marry it will be a different thing,” she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at Helene nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. Pierre muttered something and colored.
Later on, when Pierre got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned he had said absent-mindedly: “Yes, Helene is good looking,” he had understood that this woman might belong to him.
“But Helene is stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,” he thought. “There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites in me. I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that’s why he was sent away. Hippolyte is her brother... Baron Vasili is her father... It’s bad...” he reflected, but while he was thinking this (the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while thinking of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be his wife, how she would love him become quite different, and how all he had thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her not as the daughter of Baron Vasili, but visualized her whole body only veiled by its gray dress. “But no! Why did this thought never occur to me before?” and again he told himself that it was impossible, that there would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him dishonorable, in this marriage. Pierre recalled her former words and looks and the words and looks of those who had seen them together. He recalled Anna Pavlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, recalled thousands of such hints from Baron Vasili and others, and was seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do. But at the very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another part of his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty.
***
CHAPTER 2
In November, 1805, Baron Vasili had to go on a tour of inspection in four different provinces. He had arranged this for himself so as to visit his neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole where his regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Baron Bolkonski in order to arrange a match for him with Marya, the daughter of that rich old man. But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs, Baron Vasili had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Baron Vasili’s house where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in Helene’s presence (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed to her.
“This is all very fine, but things must be settled,” said Baron Vasili to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that Pierre who was under such obligations to him (“But never mind that”) was not behaving very well in this matter. “Youth, frivolity... well, God be with him,” thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart, “but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow will be Helene’s name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he does not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my affair. I am her father.”
Six weeks after Anna Pavlovna’s “At Home” party and after the sleepless night when Pierre had decided that to marry Helene would be a calamity and that he ought to avoid her and go away, he, despite that decision, had not left Baron Vasili’s home and felt with terror that in people’s eyes he was every day more and more connected with Helene, that it was impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that he could not break away from her, and that though it would be a terrible thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. Pierre might perhaps have been able to free himself but that Baron Vasili (who had rarely before given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without having an evening party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil the general pleasure and disappoint everyone’s expectation. Baron Vasili, in the rare moments when he was at home, would take Pierre’s hand in passing and draw it downwards, or absent-mindedly hold out his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to kiss and would say: “Till tomorrow,” or, “Be in to dinner or I shall not see you,” or, “I am staying in for your sake,” and so on. And though Baron Vasili, when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre’s sake, hardly exchanged a couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him. Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: “It is time I understood her and made up my mind what she really is. Was I mistaken before, or am I mistaken now? No, Helene is not stupid, she is an excellent girl,” he sometimes said to himself “she never makes a mistake, never says anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is always clear and simple, so she is not stupid. She never was abashed and is not abashed now, so she cannot be a bad woman!” Pierre had often begun to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always answered him either by a brief but appropriate remark—showing that it did not interest her—or by a silent look and smile which more palpably than anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile.
Helene always addressed Pierre with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him alone, in which there was something more significant than in the smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: “What am I doing? I need resolution. Can it be that I have none?”
Pierre wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna Pavlovna’s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire paralyzed his will.
On Helene’s name day, a small party of just their own people—as Baron Vasili’s wife said—met for supper at Baron Vasili’s. All these friends and relations had been given to understand that the fate of Helene would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper. Baron Vasili’s wife, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome, was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the more important guests—an old general and his wife, and Anna Pavlovna. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Helene, side by side. Baron Vasili was not having any supper: he went round the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of the guests. To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark except to Pierre and Helene, whose presence he seemed not to notice. He enlivened the whole party. The wax candles burned brightly, the silver and crystal gleamed, so did the ladies’ toilets and the gold and silver of the men’s epaulets; servants in scarlet liveries moved round the table, the clatter of plates, knives, and glasses mingled with the animated hum of several conversations. At one end of the table, the old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the story of the misfortunes of some Marya Víktorovna or other. At the center of the table, Baron Vasili attracted everybody’s attention. With a facetious smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last Wednesday’s meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích, the new military governor general of St. Petersburg, had received and read the then famous rescript of the Tzar from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the Tzar said that he was receiving from all sides declarations of the people’s loyalty, that the declaration from St. Petersburg gave him particular pleasure, and that he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor to be worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: “Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides reports reach me,” etc.
“Well, and so he never got farther than: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích’?” asked one of the ladies.
“Exactly, not a hair’s breadth farther,” answered Baron Vasili, laughing, “‘Sergéy Kuzmích... From all sides... From all sides... Sergéy Kuzmích...’ Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther! He began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered ‘Sergéy’ he sobbed, ‘Kuz-mí-ch,’ tears, and ‘From all sides’ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again his handkerchief, and again: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides,’... and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.”
“Kuzmích... From all sides... and then tears,” someone repeated laughing.
“Don’t be unkind,” cried Anna Pavlovna from her end of the table holding up a threatening finger. “He is such a worthy and excellent man, our dear Kuzmích...”
Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the honored guests sat, everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the influence of a variety of exciting sensations. Only Pierre and Helene sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing to do with Sergéy Kuzmích—a smile of bashfulness at their own feelings. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, and ices, and however they avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave that the story about Sergéy Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was directed to—Pierre and Helene. Baron Vasili mimicked the sobbing of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said: “Yes... it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna Pavlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Kuzmích,” and in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Baron Vasili read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter’s happiness. Baron Vasili’s wife sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the old lady next to her and the old lady glanced angrily at her daughter, and her sigh seemed to say: “Yes, there’s nothing left for you and me but to sip sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to be thus boldly, provocatively happy.” “And what nonsense all this is that I am saying!” thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces of the lovers. “That’s happiness!”
Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy and handsome young man and woman for one another. And this human feeling dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter. Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at table seemed to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked at the beautiful Helene with her radiant face and at the red, broad, and happy though uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed as if the very light of the candles was focused on those two happy faces alone.
Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation. He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and then detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot unexpectedly through his mind.
“So it is all finished!” he thought. “And how has it all happened? How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They are all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot, I cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it will certainly happen!” thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling shoulders close to his eyes.
Or Pierre would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it awkward to attract everyone’s attention and to be considered a lucky man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris possessed of a Helen. “But no doubt it always is and must be so!” he consoled himself. “And besides, what have I done to bring it about? How did it begin? I traveled from Moscow with Baron Vasili. Then there was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I played cards with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with her. How did it begin, when did it all come about?” And here he was sitting by Helene’s side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her nearness, her breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would suddenly seem to him that it was not she but he was so unusually beautiful, and that that was why they all looked so at him, and flattered by this admiration he would expand his chest, raise his head, and rejoice at his good fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice repeating something to him a second time. But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what was said.
“I am asking you when you last heard from Andrei,” repeated Baron Vasili a third time. “How absent-minded you are, my dear fellow.”
Baron Vasili smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at him and Helene. “Well, what of it, if you all know it?” thought Pierre. “What of it? It’s the truth!” and he himself smiled his gentle childlike smile, and Helene smiled too.
“When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz?” repeated Baron Vasili, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a dispute.
“How can one talk or think of such trifles?” thought Pierre.
“Yes, from Olmütz,” he answered, with a sigh.
After supper Pierre and Helene followed the others into the drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave of Helene. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important occupation, came up to her for a moment and made haste to go away, refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre’s happiness. The old general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was. “Oh, the old fool,” he thought. “That Helene will be beautiful still when she’s fifty.”
“I think I may congratulate you,” whispered Anna Pavlovna to Baron Vasili’s wife, kissing her soundly. “If I hadn’t this headache I’d have stayed longer.”
Baron Vasili’s wife did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her daughter Helene’s happiness.
While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time alone with Helene in the little drawing room where they were sitting. He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her, but had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that it was inevitable, but he could not make up his mind to take the final step. He felt ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone else’s place here beside Helene. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice whispered to him. “This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.”
But, as Pierre had to say something, he began by asking Helene whether she was satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had.
Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in the large drawing room. Baron Vasili came up to Pierre with languid footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Baron Vasili gave him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was so strange that one could not take it in. But then the expression of severity changed, and he drew Pierre’s hand downwards, made him sit down, and smiled affectionately.
“Well, Helene?” he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and addressing her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to parents who have petted their children from babyhood, but which Baron Vasili had only acquired by imitating other parents.
And he again turned to Pierre.
“Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his waistcoat.
Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Baron Vasili just then, and Baron Vasili saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered something and went away. It seemed to Pierre that even Baron Vasili was disconcerted. The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world touched Pierre: he looked at Helene and she too seemed disconcerted, and her look seemed to say: “Well, it is your own fault.”
“The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!” thought Pierre, and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy Kuzmích, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly. Helene answered with a smile that she too had missed it.
When Baron Vasili returned to the drawing room, his wife was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre.
“Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...”
“Marriages are made in heaven,” replied the elderly lady.
Baron Vasili passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down on a sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself.
Baron Vasili said to his wife, “go and see what they are about.”
Baron Vasili’s wife went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and Helene still sat talking just as before.
“Still the same,” she said to her husband.
Baron Vasili frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps went past the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he went joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre rose in alarm on seeing it.
“Thank God!” said Baron Vasili. “My wife has told me everything!” (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his daughter.)—“My dear boy... Helene... I am very pleased.” (His voice trembled.) “I loved your father... and she will make you a good wife... God bless you!...”
He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with his malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks.
Baron Vasili shouted to his wife, and she came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful Helene’s hand several times. After a while they were left alone again.
“All this had to be and could not be otherwise,” thought Pierre, “so it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because it’s definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.” Pierre held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom as it rose and fell.
“Helene!” he said aloud and paused.
“Something special is always said in such cases,” Pierre thought, but could not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face. She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed.
“Oh, take those off... those...” Helene said, pointing to his spectacles.
Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a frightened and inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his lips and met them with her own. Helene’s face struck Pierre, by its altered, unpleasantly excited expression.
“It is too late now, it’s done; besides I love her,” thought Pierre.
“I love you!” Pierre said, remembering what has to be said at such moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself.
Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Pierre’s large, newly furnished St. Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people said, of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money.
***
CHAPTER 3
Baron Bolkonski received a letter from Baron Vasili in November, 1805, announcing that he and his son Anatole would be paying him a visit. “I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of course I shall think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see you at the same time, my honored benefactor,” wrote Baron Vasili. “My son Anatole is accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you will allow him personally to express the deep respect that, emulating his father, he feels for you.”
“It seems that there will be no need to bring Marya out, suitors are coming to us of their own accord,” incautiously remarked Lise on hearing the news.
Baron Bolkonski frowned, but said nothing.
A fortnight after the letter Baron Vasili’s servants came one evening in advance of him, and he and his son arrived the next day.
Baron Bolkonski had always had a poor opinion of Baron Vasili’s character, but more so recently, since in the new reign of the Tzar, Baron Vasili had risen to high position and honors. And now, from the hints contained in his letter and given by Lise, he saw which way the wind was blowing, and his low opinion changed into a feeling of contemptuous ill will. He snorted whenever he mentioned him. On the day of Baron Vasili’s arrival, Baron Bolkonski was particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad temper because Baron Vasili was coming, or whether his being in a bad temper made him specially annoyed at Baron Vasili’s visit, he was in a bad temper, and in the morning Butler Tikhon had already advised the architect Michael Ivanovich not to go to Baron Bolkonski with his report.
“Do you hear how he’s walking?” said Butler Tikhon, bringing the architect Michael Ivanovich’s attention to the sound of Baron Bolkonski’s footsteps. “Stepping flat on his heels—we know what that means...”
However, at nine o’clock Baron Bolkonski, in his velvet coat with a sable collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day before and the path to the hothouse, along which the Baron was in the habit of walking, had been swept: the marks of the broom were still visible in the snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of the soft snowbanks that bordered both sides of the path. Baron Bolkonski went through the conservatories, the serfs’ quarters, and the outbuildings, frowning and silent.
“Can a sleigh pass?” Baron Bolkonski asked his overseer, a venerable man, resembling his master in manners and looks, who was accompanying him back to the house.
“The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor.”
Baron Bolkonski bowed his head and went up to the porch. “God be thanked,” thought the overseer, “the storm has blown over!”
“It would have been hard to drive up, your honor,” he added. “I heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor.”
Baron Bolkonski turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him, frowning. “What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?” he said in a shrill, harsh voice. “The road is not swept for my daughter Marya, but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!”
“Your honor, I thought...”
“You thought!” shouted Baron Bolkonski, his words coming more and more rapidly and indistinctly. “You thought!... Rascals! Blackguards!... I’ll teach you to think!” and lifting his stick he swung it and would have hit the overseer, had not the he instinctively avoided the blow. “Thought... Blackguards...” shouted Baron Bolkonski rapidly.
But although the overseer, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the blow, came up to Baron Bolkonski, bowing his bald head resignedly before him, or perhaps for that very reason, Baron Bolkonski, though he continued to shout: “Blackguards!... Throw the snow back on the road!” did not lift his stick again but hurried into the house.
Before dinner, Marya and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, who knew that Baron Bolkonski was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Lady-in-waiting Bourienne with a radiant face that said: “I know nothing, I am the same as usual,” and Marya pale, frightened, and with downcast eyes. What she found hardest to bear was to know that on such occasions she ought to behave like Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, but could not. Marya thought: “If I seem not to notice he will think that I do not sympathize with him; if I seem sad and out of spirits myself, he will say (as he has done before) that I’m in the dumps.”
Baron Bolkonski looked at his daughter’s frightened face and snorted.
“Fool... or dummy!” he muttered.
“And the other one is not here. They’ve been telling tales,” he thought—referring to Lise who was not in the dining room.
“Where is Lise?” he asked. “Hiding?”
“Lise is not very well,” answered Lady-in-waiting Bourienne with a bright smile, “so she won’t come down. It is natural in her state.”
“Hm! Hm!” muttered Baron Bolkonski, sitting down. His plate seemed to him not quite clean, and pointing to a spot he flung it away. Butler Tikhon caught it and handed it to a footman. Lise was not actually unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of Baron Bolkonski that, hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to appear.
“I am afraid for the baby,” Lise said to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne: “Heaven knows what a fright might do.”
In general, at the Bald Hills estate Lise lived in constant fear, and with a sense of antipathy to Baron Bolkonski which she did not realize because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. Baron Bolkonski reciprocated this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his contempt for her. When Lise had grown accustomed to life at Bald Hills, she took a special fancy to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, spent whole days with her, asked her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her about Baron Bolkonski and criticized him.
“So we are to have visitors, mon Baron?” remarked Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. “His Excellency Baron Vasili and his son Anatole, I understand?” she said inquiringly.
“Hm!—his excellency is a puppy... I got him his appointment in the service,” said Baron Bolkonski disdainfully. “Why his son Anatole is coming I don’t understand. Perhaps Lise and Marya know. I don’t want him.” (He looked at his blushing daughter.) “Are you unwell today? Eh? Afraid of the ‘minister’ as that idiot overseer called him this morning?”
“No, mon père.”
Though Lady-in-waiting Bourienne had been so unsuccessful in her choice of a subject, she did not stop talking, but chattered about the conservatories and the beauty of a flower that had just opened, and after the soup Baron Bolkonski became more genial.
After dinner, Baron Bolkonski went to see his daughter-in-law, Lise. She was sitting at a small table, chattering with Másha, her maid. Lise grew pale on seeing her father-in-law. She was much altered. Lise was now plain rather than pretty. Her cheeks had sunk, her lip was drawn up, and her eyes drawn down.
“Yes, I feel a kind of oppression,” Lise said in reply to Baron Bolkonski’s question as to how she felt.
“Do you want anything?”
“No, merci, mon père.”
“Well, all right, all right.”
Baron Bolkonski left the room and went to the waiting room where the overseer stood with bowed head.
“Has the snow been shoveled back?”
“Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven’s sake... It was only my stupidity.”
“All right, all right,” interrupted Baron Bolkonski, and laughing his unnatural way, he stretched out his hand for the overseer to kiss, and then proceeded to his study.
Baron Vasili arrived that evening. He was met in the avenue by coachmen and footmen, who, with loud shouts, dragged his sleighs up to one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow.
Baron Vasili and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them.
Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo before a table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-mindedly fixed his large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a continual round of amusement which someone for some reason had to provide for him. And he looked on this visit to a churlish old man, Baron Bolkonski, and a rich and ugly heiress, Marya, in the same way. All this might, he thought, turn out very well and amusingly. He thought, “And why not marry her if she really has so much money? That never does any harm,” thought Anatole.
Anatole then shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had become habitual to him and, his handsome head held high, entered his father’s room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to him. Baron Vasili’s two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked round with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter entered, as if to say: “Yes, that’s how I want you to look.”
“I say, Father, joking apart, is Marya very hideous?” Anatole asked, as if continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been mentioned during the journey.
“Enough! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious with Baron Bolkonski.”
“If he starts a row I’ll go away,” said Anatole. “I can’t bear those old men! Eh?”
“Remember, for you everything depends on this.”
In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants’ rooms that Baron Vasili and Anatole had arrived, but the appearance of both had been minutely described. Marya was sitting alone in her room, vainly trying to master her agitation.
“Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never happen!” Marya said, looking at herself in the glass. “How shall I enter the drawing room? Even if I like him I can’t now be myself with him.” The mere thought of Baron Bolkonski’s look filled her with terror. Lise and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne had already received from Másha, the lady’s maid, the necessary report of how handsome Anatole was, with his rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows, and with what difficulty Baron Vasili had dragged his legs upstairs while Anatole had followed him like an eagle, three steps at a time. Having received this information, Lise and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, whose chattering voices had reached her from the corridor, went into Marya’s room.
“You know they’ve come, Marya?” said Lise, waddling in, and sinking heavily into an armchair.
Marya was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the morning, but had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully done and her face was animated, which, however, did not conceal its sunken and faded outlines. Dressed as she used to be in St. Petersburg society, it was still more noticeable how much plainer she had become. In contrast, one unobtrusive touch had been added to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s toilet which rendered the lady’s maid’s fresh and pretty face yet more attractive.
“What! Are you going to remain as you are, dear Lise?” Lady-in-waiting Bourienne began. “They’ll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing room and we shall have to go down, and you have not smartened yourself up at all!”
Lise got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and merrily began to devise and carry out a plan of how Marya should be dressed. Marya’s self-esteem was wounded by the fact that the arrival of a suitor agitated her, and still more so by both her companions’ not having the least conception that it could be otherwise. To tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them would be to betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to dress her would prolong their banter and insistence. She flushed, her beautiful eyes grew dim, red blotches came on her face, and it took on the unattractive expression of martyrdom it so often wore, as she submitted herself to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne and Lise. Both these women quite sincerely tried to make Marya look pretty. She was so plain that neither of them could think of her as a rival, so they began dressing her with perfect sincerity, and with the naive and firm conviction women have that dress can make a face pretty.
“No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty,” said Lise, looking sideways at Marya from a little distance. “You have a maroon dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life may be at stake. But this one is too light, it’s not becoming!”
It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Marya that was not pretty, but neither Lady-in-waiting Bourienne nor Lise felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that the frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that however they might change the setting and adornment of that face, it would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three changes to which Marya meekly submitted, just as her hair had been arranged on the top of her head (a style that quite altered and spoiled her looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, Lise walked twice round her, now adjusting a fold of the dress with her little hand, now arranging the scarf and looking at her with her head bent first on one side and then on the other.
“No, it will not do,” Lise said decidedly, clasping her hands. “No, Marya, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Lise said to the maid, “bring Marya her gray dress, and you’ll see, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,” she added, smiling with a foretaste of artistic pleasure.
But when the maid brought the required dress, Marya remained sitting motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in the mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst into sobs.
“Come, Marya,” said Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, “just one more little effort.”
Lise, taking the dress from the maid, came up to Marya.
“Well, now we’ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,” she said.
The three voices, hers, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s, and the maid’s, who was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping of birds.
“No, leave me alone,” said Marya.
Marya’s voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist.
“At least, change your coiffure,” said Lise. “Didn’t I tell you,” she went on, turning reproachfully to Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, “Marya’s is a face which such a coiffure does not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it.”
“Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to me,” answered Marya, her voice struggling with tears.
Lady-in-waiting Bourienne and Lise had to own to themselves that Marya in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual, but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. While Marya’s expression did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), they knew that when it appeared on her face, she became mute and was not to be shaken in her determination.
“You will change it, won’t you?” said Lise. And as Marya gave no answer, she left the room.
Marya was left alone. She did not comply with Lise’s request, she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive being rose in her imagination, and carried her into a totally different happy world of his own. She fancied a child, her own—such as she had seen the day before in the arms of her nurse’s daughter—at her own breast, the husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the child. “But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly,” she thought.
“Please come to tea. Baron Bolkonski will be out in a moment,” came the maid’s voice at the door.
Marya roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking, and before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Savior lit by a lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments. A painful doubt filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Marya dreamed of happiness and of children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from others and even from herself, the stronger it grew. “Oh God,” she said, “how am I to stifle in my heart these temptations of the devil? How am I to renounce forever these vile fancies, so as peacefully to fulfill Thy will?” And scarcely had she put that question than God gave her the answer in her own heart. “Desire nothing for thyself, seek nothing, be not anxious or envious. Man’s future and thy own fate must remain hidden from thee, but live so that thou mayest be ready for anything. If it be God’s will to prove thee in the duties of marriage, be ready to fulfill His will.” With this consoling thought (but yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing) Marya sighed, and having crossed herself went down, thinking neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what she would say. What could all that matter in comparison with the will of God, without Whose care not a hair of man’s head can fall?
***
CHAPTER 4
When Marya came down, Baron Vasili and Anatole were already in the drawing room, talking to Lise and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne. When Marya entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels, the gentlemen and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne rose and Lise, indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Here she is: Marya!” Marya saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Baron Vasili’s face, serious for an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling again, and Lise curiously noting the impression that her exclamation produced on the visitors. And Marya saw Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face, and her unusually animated look which was fixed on Anatole, but Anatole she could not see, she only saw something large, brilliant, and handsome moving toward her as she entered the room. Baron Vasili approached first, and Marya kissed his bold forehead as he bent over her hand and she answered his question by saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well. Then Anatole came up to her. Marya still could not see him. She only felt a soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade. When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood with his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded and his back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a little bent, looked with beaming face at Marya without speaking and evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not quick-witted, nor ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable self-possession. If a man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of such silence and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect is bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined Marya’s hair. It was evident that he could be silent in this way for a very long time. “If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him talk, but I don’t want to,” he seemed to say. Besides this, in his behavior to women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in them curiosity, awe, and even love—a supercilious consciousness of his own superiority. It was as if he said to them: “I know you, I know you, but why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of course.” Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women—even probably he did not, for he thought very little—but his looks and manner gave that impression. Marya felt this, and as if wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him, she turned to Baron Vasili. The conversation was, thanks to Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over her white teeth. Lise met Baron Vasili with that playful manner often employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the assumption that between the person they so address and themselves there are some semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences, though no such reminiscences really exist—just as none existed in this case. Baron Vasili readily adopted her tone and Lise also drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections of things that had never occurred. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne also shared them and even Marya felt herself pleasantly made to share in these merry reminiscences.
“Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to ourselves, Baron Vasili,” said Lise (of course, in French). “It’s not as at Anna Pavlova receptions where you always ran away; you remember this dear Anna Pavlovna!”
“Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Anna Pavlovna!”
“And our little tea table?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Why is it you were never at Anna Pavlovna’s?” Lise asked Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!”
“And didn’t Hippolyte tell you?” asked Baron Vasili, turning to Anatole and seizing Lise’s arm as if she would have run away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t Hippolyte tell you how he himself was pining for Lise, and how she showed him the door? Oh, Lise is a pearl among women,” he added, turning to Marya.
When Paris was mentioned, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne for her part seized the opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.
She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered Lady-in-waiting Bourienne very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, Anatole came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either. “Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad, that little companion! I hope Marya will bring Lady-in-waiting Bourienne along with her when we’re married, the little one is charming.”
Baron Bolkonski dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are Baron Vasili and Anatole of his to me? Baron Vasili is a shallow braggart and Anatole, no doubt, is a fine specimen,” he grumbled to himself. What angered Baron Bolkonski was that the coming of these visitors revived in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever bring himself to part from his daughter Marya and give her to a husband. Baron Bolkonski never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without Marya, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrei—a better husband one would think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her lot? And who would marry Marya for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll take her for her connections and wealth. Are there no women living unmarried, and even the happier for it?” So thought Baron Bolkonski while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded an immediate answer. Baron Vasili had brought Anatole with the evident intention of proposing, and today or tomorrow he would probably ask for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad. “Well, I’ve nothing against it,” Baron Bolkonski said to himself, “but he must be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see.”
“That is what we shall see! That is what we shall see!” he added aloud.
Baron Bolkonski entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing rapidly round the company. He noticed the change in Lise’s dress, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s ribbon, Marya’s unbecoming coiffure, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s and Anatole’s smiles, and the loneliness of Marya amid the general conversation. “Got herself up like a fool!” he thought, looking irritably at her. “She is shameless, and he ignores her!”
Baron Bolkonski went straight up to Baron Vasili.
“Well! How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Glad to see you!”
“Friendship laughs at distance,” began Baron Vasili in his usual rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. “Here is my second son; please love and befriend him.”
Baron Bolkonski surveyed Anatole.
“Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!” he said. “Well, come and kiss me,” and he offered his cheek.
Anatole kissed Baron Bolkonski, and looked at him with curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his father had told him to expect.
Baron Bolkonski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa and, drawing up an armchair for Baron Vasili, pointed to it and began questioning him about political affairs and news. Baron Bolkonski seemed to listen attentively to what Baron Vasili said, but kept glancing at Marya.
“And so they are writing from Potsdam already?” Baron Bolkonski said, repeating Baron Vasili’s last words. Then rising, he suddenly went up to Marya.
“Is it for visitors you’ve got yourself up like that, eh?” said Baron Bolkonski. “Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for the visitors, and before the visitors I tell you that in future you are never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent.”
“It was my fault, father,” interceded Lise, with a blush.
“You must do as you please,” said Baron Bolkonski, bowing to Lise, “but she need not make a fool of herself, she’s plain enough as it is.”
And Baron Bolkonski sat down again, paying no more attention to Marya, who was reduced to tears.
“On the contrary, that coiffure suits Marya very well,” said Baron Vasili.
“Now you, Anatole, what’s your name?” said Baron Bolkonski, turning to him, “come here, let us talk and get acquainted.”
“Now the fun begins,” thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile beside Baron Bolkonski.
“Well, Anatole, I hear you’ve been educated abroad, not taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me, my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards?” asked Baron Bolkonski, scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently.
“No, I have been transferred to the line,” said Anatole, hardly able to restrain his laughter.
“Ah! That’s a good thing. So, Anatole, you wish to serve the Tzar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve. Well, are you off to the front?”
“No, Baron Bolkonski, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am attached... what is it I am attached to, Papa?” said Anatole, turning to Baron Vasili with a laugh.
“A splendid soldier, splendid! ‘What am I attached to!’ Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Baron Bolkonski, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly Baron Bolkonski frowned.
“You may go,” he said to Anatole.
Anatole returned smiling to the ladies.
“And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Baron Vasili, haven’t you?” said Baron Bolkonski to Baron Vasili.
“I have done my best for Anatole, and I can assure you the education there is much better than ours.”
“Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. Anatole is a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now.” Baron Bolkonski took Baron Vasili’s arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were alone together, Baron Vasili announced his hopes and wishes to Baron Bolkonski.
“Well, do you think I shall prevent Marya from marrying, that I can’t part from her?” said Baron Bolkonski angrily. “What an idea! I’m ready for it tomorrow! Only let me tell you, I want to know my Anatole better. You know my principles—everything aboveboard! I will ask Marya tomorrow in your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on. He can stay and I’ll see.” Baron Bolkonski snorted. “Let her marry, it’s all the same to me!” he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting from his son.
“I will tell you frankly,” said Baron Vasili in the tone of a crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so keen-sighted a companion. “You know, you see right through people. Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an excellent son or kinsman.”
“All right, all right, we’ll see!”
As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of time without male society, on Anatole’s appearance all the three women of Baron Bolkonski’s household felt that their life had not been real till then. Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing immediately increased tenfold, and their life, which seemed to have been passed in darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full of significance.
Marya grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure. The handsome open face of Anatole, who might perhaps be her husband, absorbed all her attention. Anatole seemed to her kind, brave, determined, manly, and magnanimous. She felt convinced of that. Thousands of dreams of a future family life continually rose in her imagination. She drove them away and tried to conceal them.
“But am I not too cold with him?” thought Marya. “I try to be reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him already, but then Anatole cannot know what I think of him and may imagine that I do not like him.”
And Marya tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to Anatole.
“Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly!” thought Anatole.
Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole’s arrival, thought in another way. Of course, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, a handsome young woman without any definite position, without relations or even a country, did not intend to devote her life to serving Baron Bolkonski, to reading aloud to him and being friends with Marya. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian Baron who, able to appreciate at a glance her superiority to the plain, badly dressed, ungainly Russian Baronesses, would fall in love with her and carry her off; and here at last was a Russian Baron. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne knew a story, heard from her aunt but finished in her own way, which she liked to repeat to herself. It was the story of a girl who had been seduced, and to whom her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) appeared, and reproached her for yielding to a man without being married. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this story to him, her seducer. And now he, a real Russian Baron, had appeared. He would carry her away and then his poor mother would appear and he would marry her. So her future shaped itself in Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s head at the very time she was talking to Anatole about Paris. It was not calculation that guided her (she did not even for a moment consider what she should do), but all this had long been familiar to her, and now that Anatole had appeared it just grouped itself around him and she wished and tried to please him as much as possible.
Lise, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the familiar gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or any struggle, but with naive and lighthearted gaiety.
Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Lady-in-waiting Bourienne that passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him with great suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.
After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Marya was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in high spirits, came and leaned on his elbows, facing her and beside Lady-in-waiting Bourienne. Marya felt his look with a painfully joyous emotion. Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world and the look she felt upon her made that world still more poetic. But Anatole’s expression, though his eyes were fixed on her, referred not to her but to the movements of Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s little foot, which he was then touching with his own under the clavichord. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne was also looking at Marya, and in her lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and hope that was also new to Marya.
“How Lady-in-waiting Bourienne loves me!” thought Marya. “How happy I am now, and how happy I may be with such a friend as Lady-in-waiting Bourienne and such a husband as Anatole! Husband? Can it be possible?” Marya thought, not daring to look at his face, but still feeling his eyes gazing at her.
In the evening, after supper, when all were about to retire, Anatole kissed Marya’s hand. Marya did not know how she found the courage, but she looked straight into his handsome face as it came near to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Marya, Anatole went up and kissed Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s hand. (This was not etiquette, but then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!) Lady-in-waiting Bourienne flushed, and gave Marya a frightened look.
“What delicacy!” thought Marya. “Is it possible that Amélie” (Lady-in-waiting Bourienne) “thinks I could be jealous of her, and not value her pure affection and devotion to me?” She went up to her and kissed her warmly.
Anatole went up to kiss Lise’ hand.
“No! No! No! When Baron Vasili writes to tell me that you are behaving well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!” Lise said. And smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room.
***
CHAPTER 5
They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as he got into bed, all kept awake a long time that night.
“Is Anatole really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind—yes, kind, that is the chief thing,” thought Marya; and fear, which she had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round, it seemed to her that someone was there standing behind the screen in the dark corner. And this someone was he—the devil—and he was also this man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red lips.
Marya rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room.
Lady-in-waiting Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, now working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her poor mother rebuking her for her fall.
Lise grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made. She could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every position was awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her now more than ever because Anatole’s presence had vividly recalled to her the time when she was not like that and when everything was light and gay. She sat in an armchair in her dressing jacket and nightcap and her maid, sleepy and disheveled, beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third time, muttering to herself.
“I told you it was all lumps and holes!” Lise repeated. “I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it’s not my fault!” and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.
Baron Bolkonski did not sleep either. Butler Tikhon, half asleep, heard him pacing angrily about and snorting. Baron Bolkonski felt as though he had been insulted through his daughter, Marya. The insult was the more pointed because it concerned not himself but another, Marya, whom he loved more than himself. Baron Bolkonski kept telling himself that he would consider the whole matter and decide what was right and how he should act, but instead of that he only excited himself more and more.
“The first man that turns up—she forgets me and everything else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike herself! Glad to throw me over! And she knew I should notice it. Fr... fr... fr! And don’t I see that that idiot Anatole had eyes only for Bourienne—I shall have to get rid of her. And how is it Marya has not pride enough to see it? If she has no pride for herself she might at least have some for my sake! Marya must be shown that the blockhead Anatole thinks nothing of her and looks only at Bourienne. No, Marya has no pride... but I’ll let her see...”
Baron Bolkonski knew that if he told Marya she was making a mistake and that Anatole meant to flirt with Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, Marya’s self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to be parted from her) would be gained, so pacifying himself with this thought, he called Butler Tikhon and began to undress.
“What devil brought Baron Vasili and Anatole here?” thought Baron Bolkonski, while Butler Tikhon was putting the nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest. “I never invited them. They came to disturb my life—and there is not much of it left.”
“Devil take ‘em!” Baron Bolkonski muttered, while his head was still covered by the shirt.
Butler Tikhon knew Baron Bolkonski’s habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and therefore met with unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive expression of the face that emerged from the shirt.
“Gone to bed?” asked Baron Bolkonski.
Butler Tikhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his master’s thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Baron Vasili and Anatole.
“They have gone to bed and put out their lights, Baron Bolkonski.”
“No good... no good...” said Baron Bolkonski rapidly, and thrusting his feet into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown, he went to the couch on which he slept.
The next day, though no words had passed between Anatole and Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, they quite understood one another as to the first part of their romance, up to the appearance of the poor mother; they understood that they had much to say to one another in private and so they had been seeking an opportunity since morning to meet one another alone. Thus, when Marya went to her father’s room at the usual hour, Lady-in-waiting Bourienne and Anatole met in the conservatory.
Marya went to the door of her father’s room with special trepidation. It seemed to her that not only did everybody know that her fate would be decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. Marya read this in Butler Tikhon’s face and in that of Baron Vasili’s valet, who made her a low bow when she met him in the corridor carrying hot water.
Baron Bolkonski was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of Marya that morning. Marya well knew this painstaking expression of her father’s. Baron Bolkonski’s face wore that expression when his dry hands clenched with vexation at her not understanding a sum in arithmetic, when rising from his chair he would walk away from her, repeating in a low voice the same words several times over.
Baron Bolkonski came to the point at once, treating her ceremoniously.
“I have had a proposition made me concerning you, Marya,” he said with an unnatural smile. “I expect you have guessed that Baron Vasili has not come and brought his pupil with him” (for some reason Baron Bolkonski referred to Anatole as a “pupil”) “for the sake of my beautiful eyes. Last night Baron Vasili made a proposition on your account and, as you know my principles, I refer it to you.”
“How am I to understand you, Father?” said Marya, growing pale and then blushing.
“How understand me!” cried her father angrily. “Baron Vasili finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and he makes a proposal to you on his pupil’s behalf. That’s how it’s to be understood! ‘How understand it’!... And I ask you!”
“I do not know what you think, Father,” whispered Marya.
“I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I’m not going to get married. What about you? That’s what I want to know.”
Marya saw that Baron Bolkonski regarded the matter with disapproval, but at that moment the thought occurred to her that her fate would be decided now or never. Marya lowered her eyes so as not to see the gaze under which she felt that she could not think, but would only be able to submit from habit, and she said: “I wish only to do your will, but if I had to express my own desire...” She had no time to finish. Baron Bolkonski interrupted her.
“That’s admirable!” he shouted. “Anatole will take you with your dowry and take Lady-in-waiting Bourienne into the bargain. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne will do “the wife’s duties”, while you...”
Baron Bolkonski stopped. He saw the effect his joke had produced on Marya. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears.
“Now then, now then, I’m only joking!” he said. “Remember this, Marya, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to choose. I give you freedom. Only remember that your life’s happiness depends on your decision. Never mind me!”
“But I do not know, Father!”
“There’s no need to talk! Anatole receives his orders and will marry you or anybody; but you, Marya, are free to choose... Go to your room, think it over, and come back in an hour and tell me in Anatole’s presence: yes or no. I know you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like, but you had better think it over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!” he still shouted when Marya, as if lost in a fog, had already staggered out of the study.
Marya’s fate was decided and happily decided. But what Baron Bolkonski had said about Lady-in-waiting Bourienne was dreadful. It was untrue to be sure, but still it was terrible, and Marya could not help thinking of it. She was going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing nor hearing anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of Lady-in-waiting Bourienne aroused her. Marya raised her eyes, and two steps away saw Anatole embracing Lady-in-waiting Bourienne and whispering something to her. With a horrified expression on Anatole’s handsome face, he looked at Marya, but did not at once take his arm from the waist of Lady-in-waiting Bourienne who had not yet seen her.
“Who’s that? Why? Wait a moment!” Anatole’s face seemed to say. Marya looked at them in silence. She could not understand it. At last Lady-in-waiting Bourienne saw her, gave a scream and ran away. Anatole bowed to Marya with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in a laugh at this strange incident, and then shrugging his shoulders went to the door that led to his own apartments.
An hour later, Butler Tikhon came to call Marya to Baron Bolkonski; he added that Baron Vasili was also there. When Butler Tikhon came to Marya, she was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping Lady-in-waiting Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her hair. Mar’s beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance were looking with tender affection and pity at Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s pretty face.
“No, Marya, I have lost your affection forever!” said Lady-in-waiting Bourienne.
“Why? I love you more than ever,” said Marya, “and I will try to do all I can for your happiness.”
“But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand being so carried away by passion. Oh, only my poor mother...”
“I quite understand,” answered Marya, with a sad smile. “Calm yourself, my dear. I will go to Baron Bolkonski,” she said, and went out.
Baron Vasili, with one leg thrown high over the other and a snuffbox in his hand, was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion on his face, as if stirred to his heart’s core and himself regretting and laughing at his own sensibility, when Marya entered. He hurriedly took a pinch of snuff.
“Ah, my dear, my dear!” Baron Vasili began, rising and taking her by both hands. Then, sighing, he added: “Anatole’s fate is in your hands. Decide, my dear, good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a daughter!”
He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye.
“Fr... fr...” snorted Baron Bolkonski. “Baron Vasili is making a proposition to you in his pupil’s—I mean, his son’s—name. Do you wish or not to be Anatole’s wife? Reply: yes or no,” he shouted, “and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion also. Yes, my opinion, and only my opinion,” added Baron Bolkonski, turning to Baron Vasili and answering his imploring look. “Yes, or no?”
“My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my life from yours. I don’t wish to marry,” Marya answered positively, glancing at Baron Vasili and at her father with her beautiful eyes.
“Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!” cried Baron Bolkonski, frowning and taking Marya’s hand; he did not kiss her, but only bending his forehead to hers just touched it, and squeezed her hand so hard that she winced and uttered a cry.
Baron Vasili rose.
“My dear Marya, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never forget. But, my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching my heart, so kind and generous? Say ‘perhaps’... The future is so long. Say ‘perhaps.’”
“Baron Vasili, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you for the honor, but I shall never be Anatole’s wife.”
“Well, so that’s finished! I am very glad to have seen you, Baron Vasili. Very glad! Go back to your rooms, Marya. Go!” said Baron Bolkonski. “Very, very glad to have seen you,” repeated he, embracing Baron Vasili.
“My vocation is a different one,” thought Marya. “My vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will arrange poor Lady-in-waiting Bourienne’s happiness, she loves Anatole so passionately, and so passionately repents. I will do all I can to arrange the match between them. If Anatole is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my father and Andrei. I shall be so happy when Lady-in-waiting Bourienne is his wife. She is so unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless! And, oh God, how passionately she must love him if she could so far forget herself! Perhaps I might have done the same!”
***
CHAPTER 6
It was long since the Rostovs had news of Nicholas. Not till midwinter was Count Rostov at last handed a letter addressed in his son’s handwriting. On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm and haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to read the letter.
Widow Drubetskoy, who always knew everything that passed in the house, on hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the room and found Count Rostov with it in his hand, sobbing and laughing at the same time.
Widow Drubetskoy, though her circumstances had improved, was still living with the Rostovs.
“Count Rostov? My dear friend?” said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared to sympathize in any way.
Count Rostov sobbed yet more.
“Nicholas... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling boy... Countess Rostov Nicholas... Nicholas promoted to be an officer... thank God... How tell my wife!”
Widow Drubetskoy sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief wiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried her own eyes she comforted Count Rostov, and decided that at dinner and till teatime she would prepare Countess Rostov, and after tea, with God’s help, would inform her.
So at dinner, Widow Drubetskoy talked the whole time about the war news and about Nicholas, twice asked when the last letter had been received from him, though she knew that already, and remarked that they might very likely be getting a letter from him that day. Each time that these hints began to make Countess Rostov anxious and she glanced uneasily at Count Rostov and at Widow Drubetskoy, the latter very adroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters. Natasha, who, of the whole family, was the most gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of intonation, look, and expression, pricked up her ears from the beginning of the meal and was certain that there was some secret between her father and Widow Drubetskoy, that it had something to do with her brother, Nicholas, and that Widow Drubetskoy was preparing them for it. Bold as she was, Natasha, who knew how sensitive her mother was to anything relating to her dear son Nicholas, did not venture to ask any questions at dinner, but she was too excited to eat anything and kept wriggling about on her chair regardless of her governess’ remarks.
After dinner, Natasha rushed headlong after Widow Drubetskoy and, dashing at her, flung herself on her neck as soon as she overtook her in the sitting room.
“Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!”
“Nothing, my dear.”
“No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won’t give up—I know you know something.”
Widow Drubetskoy shook her head.
“You are a little slyboots,” Natasha said.
“A letter from Nicholas! I’m sure of it!” exclaimed Natasha, reading confirmation in Widow Drubetskoy’s face.
“Yes, but for God’s sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your mamma.”
“I will, I will, only tell me! You won’t? Then I will go and tell at once.”
Widow Drubetskoy, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter, on condition that Natasha should tell no one.
“No, on my true word of honor,” said Natasha, crossing herself, “I won’t tell anyone!” and she ran off at once to the orphan niece Sonya.
“Sweet Nicholas... wounded... a letter,” Natasha announced in gleeful triumph.
“Nicholas!” was all Sonya said, instantly turning white.
Natasha, seeing the impression the news of her brother’s wound produced on Sonya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news.
Natasha rushed to Sonya, hugged her, and began to cry.
“A little wound, but Nicholas has been made an officer; he is well now, he wrote himself,” said Natasha through her tears.
“There now! It’s true that all you women are crybabies,” remarked Natasha’s little brother Petya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. “Now I’m very glad, very glad indeed, that Nicholas has distinguished himself so. You are all blubberers and understand nothing.”
Natasha smiled through her tears.
“You haven’t read the letter?” asked Sonya.
“No, but Widow Drubetskoy said that it was all over and that Nicholas is now an officer.”
“Thank God!” said Sonya, crossing herself. “But perhaps Widow Drubetskoy deceived you. Let us go to Mamma.”
Petya paced the room in silence for a time.
“If I’d been in Nicholas’s place I would have killed even more of those enemy Frenchmen,” he said. “What nasty brutes they are! I’d have killed so many that there’d have been a heap of them.”
“Hold your tongue, Petya, what a goose you are!”
“I’m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles,” said Petya.
“Do you remember him?” Natasha suddenly asked Sonya, after a moment’s silence.
Sonya smiled.
“Do I remember Nicholas?”
“Yes, but do you remember Nicholas so that you remember him perfectly, remember everything?” said Natasha, with an expressive gesture, evidently wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. “I remember Nicholas too, I remember him well,” she said. “But I don’t remember Boris. I don’t remember him a bit.”
“What! You don’t remember Boris?” asked Sonya in surprise.
“It’s not that I don’t remember—I know what he is like, but not as I remember Nicholas. Him—I just shut my eyes and remember, but Boris... No!” (She shut her eyes.) “No! there’s nothing at all.”
“Oh, Natasha!” said Sonya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at her cousin as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant to say and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking was out of the question, “I am in love with your brother Nicholas once for all and, whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him as long as I live.”
Natasha looked at Sonya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said nothing. Natasha felt that Sonya was speaking the truth, that there was such love as Sonya was speaking of. But Natasha had not yet felt anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it.
“Shall you write to him?” Natasha asked.
Sonya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas, and whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that Nicholas was already an officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of herself and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had taken on himself?
“I don’t know. I think if he writes, I will write too,” Sonya said, blushing.
“And you won’t feel ashamed to write to him?”
Sonya smiled.
“No.”
“And I should be ashamed to write to Boris. I’m not going to.”
“Why should you be ashamed?”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s awkward and would make me ashamed.”
“And I know why Natasha would be ashamed,” said Petya, offended by Natasha’s previous remark. “It’s because she was in love with that fat one in spectacles” (that was how Petya described his namesake, Pierre, the new count) “and now she’s in love with that singer” (he meant Natasha’s Italian singing master), “that’s why she’s ashamed!”
“Petya, you’re stupid!” said Natasha.
“Not more stupid than you, madam,” said the nine-year-old Petya, with the air of an old brigadier.
Countess Rostov had been prepared by Widow Drubetskoy’s hints at dinner. On retiring to her own room, Countess Rostov sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son Nicholas on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Widow Drubetskoy, with the letter, came on tiptoe to Countess Rostov’ door and paused.
“Don’t come in,” Widow Drubetskoy said to Count Rostov who was following her. “Come later.” And she went in, closing the door behind her.
Count Rostov put his ear to the keyhole and listened. At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Widow Drubetskoy’s voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. Widow Drubetskoy opened the door. Her face wore the proud expression of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operation and admits the public to appreciate his skill.
“It is done!” Widow Drubetskoy’s said to Count Rostov, pointing triumphantly to Countess Rostov, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her lips.
When she saw her husband, Countess Rostov stretched out her arms to him, embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at Nicholas’s letter and the portrait, and in order to press them again to her lips, she slightly pushed away the bald head. Vera, Natasha, Sonya, and Petya now entered the room, and the reading of the letter began. After a brief description of the campaign and the two battles in which he had taken part, and his promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his father’s and mother’s hands asking for their blessing, and that he kissed Vera, Natasha, and Petya. Besides that, he sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them to kiss for him “dear Sonya, whom he loved and thought of just the same as ever.” When she heard this, orphan cousin Sonya blushed so that tears came into her eyes and, unable to bear the looks turned upon her, ran away into the dancing hall, whirled round it at full speed with her dress puffed out like a balloon, and, flushed and smiling, plumped down on the floor. Countess Rostov was crying.
“Why are you crying, Mamma?” asked Vera. “From all he says one should be glad and not cry.”
This was quite true, but Count Rostov, Countess Rostov, and Natasha looked at her reproachfully. “And who is it Vera takes after?” thought Countess Rostov.
Through the following days, Nicholas’ letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were considered worthy to hear it had to come to Countess Rostov, for she did not let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses, and Dmítri, and several acquaintances, and Countess Rostov reread the letter each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh proofs of Nicholas’s virtues. How strange, how extraordinary, how joyful it seemed, that her son, the scarcely perceptible motion of whose tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her, that son about whom she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say “pear” and then “granny,” that this son should now be away in a foreign land amid strange surroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man’s work of his own, without help or guidance. The universal experience of ages, showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for Countess Rostov. Nicholas’s growth toward manhood, at each of its stages, had seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed the millions of human beings who grew up in the same way. As twenty years before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who lived somewhere under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast, and begin to speak, so now she could not believe that that little creature could be this strong, brave man, this model son and officer that, judging by this letter, he now was.
“What a style! How charmingly he describes!” said Countess Rostov, reading the descriptive part of the letter. “And what a soul! Not a word about himself... Not a word! About some Denisov or other, though he himself, I dare say, is braver than any of them. Nicholas says nothing about his sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how Nicholas has remembered everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was only so high—I always said...”
For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of letters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied out, while under the supervision of Countess Rostov and the solicitude of Count Rostov, money and all things necessary for the uniform and equipment of Nicholas, the newly commissioned officer, were collected.
Widow Drubetskoy, practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor with army authorities to secure advantageous means of communication for herself and her son Boris. Widow Drubetskoy had opportunities of sending her letters to the Grand Duke Pávlovich, who commanded the Guards. The Rostovs supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, was quite a definite address, and that if a letter reached the Grand Duke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should not reach the Pávlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood. And so it was decided to send the letters and money by the Grand Duke’s courier to Boris and then Boris was to forward them to Nicholas. The letters were from Count Rostov, Countess Rostov, Petya, Vera, Natasha, and Sonya, and finally there were six thousand rubles Count Rostov send to Nicholas’s new outfit and various other things.
***
CHAPTER 7
On the twelfth of November, General Kutuzov’s active army, in camp before the city of Olmütz, was preparing to be reviewed the next day by the two sovereigns—the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor. The Guards, just arrived from Russia, spent the night ten miles from Olmütz and next morning were to come straight to the review, reaching the field at Olmütz by ten o’clock.
That day Nicholas received a letter from Boris, telling him that the Ismáylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from Olmütz and that Boris wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for him. Nicholas was particularly in need of money now that the troops, after their active service, were stationed near Olmütz and the camp swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting wares. The Pávlograds soldiers held feast after feast, celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made expeditions to Olmütz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian, who had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses. Nicholas, who had just celebrated his promotion to cornet and had bought Denisov’s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to his comrades and the sutlers. On receiving Boris’ letter Nicholas rode with a fellow officer to Olmütz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone to the Guards’ camp to find his old playmate, Boris. Nicholas had not yet had time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with a soldier’s cross, equally shabby cadet’s riding breeches lined with worn leather, and an officer’s saber with a sword knot. The horse he was riding was one was of a breed known as the “Russian Don” which he had bought from a Cossack during the campaign, and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily back on one side of his head. As Nicholas rode up to the camp he thought how he would impress Boris and all his comrades of the Russian Guards by his appearance—that of a fighting hussar who had been under fire.
The Russian Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip, parading their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy stages, their knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian authorities had provided excellent dinners for the officers at every halting place. The regiments had entered and left the town with their bands playing, and by the Grand Duke’s orders the men had marched all the way in step (a practice on which the Guards prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their proper posts.
Boris had been quartered with Berg and had marched all the way with him. Both men had done quite well for themselves in the last campaign. Berg, was now in command of a company and had obtained his captaincy. During the campaign he had gained the confidence of his superiors by his promptitude and accuracy, and all in all, Berg had arranged his money matters very satisfactorily. Boris, too, had made the acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him during the campaign, and by a letter of recommendation Boris had brought from Pierre, he had become acquainted with Andrei, through whom he hoped to obtain a post on General Kutuzov’s staff.
Berg and Boris, having rested after yesterday’s march, were sitting, clean and neatly dressed, at a round table in the clean quarters allotted to them, playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between his knees. Boris, in the accurate way characteristic of him, was building a little pyramid of chessmen with his delicate white fingers while awaiting Berg’s move, and watched his opponent’s face, evidently thinking about the game as he always thought only of whatever he was engaged on.
“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” Boris remarked.
“We’ll try to,” replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing his hand.
At that moment the door opened.
“Here he is at last!” shouted Nicholas as he burst in. “And Berg too! Oh, you petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!” he exclaimed, imitating his Russian nurse’s French, at which he and Boris used to laugh long ago.
“Dear me, how you have changed!”
Boris rose to meet Nicholas, but in doing so did not omit to steady and replace some chessmen that were falling. Boris was then about to embrace his friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of youth, that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a manner different from that of its elders which is often insincere, Nicholas wished to do something special on meeting his friend. He wanted to pinch him, push him, do anything but kiss him—a thing everybody did. But notwithstanding this, Boris reached out and embraced Nicholas in a quiet, friendly way and kissed him three times.
Nicholas and Boris had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when young men take their first steps on life’s road, each saw immense changes in the other, quite a new reflection of the society in which they had taken those first steps. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both were in a hurry to show the changes that had taken place in them.
“Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you’d been to a fete, not like us sinners of the line,” cried Nicholas, with martial swagger and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Boris, pointing to his own mud-bespattered breeches.
The German landlady, hearing Nicholas’s loud voice, popped her head in at the door.
“Eh, is she pretty?” Nicholas asked Boris with a wink.
“Why do you shout so? You’ll frighten them!” said Boris. “I did not expect you today,” he added. “I only sent you the note yesterday by Andrei—an adjutant of General Kutuzov’s, who’s a friend of mine. I did not think he would get it to you so quickly... Well, how are you? Been under fire already?” asked Boris.
Without answering, Nicholas shook the soldier’s Cross of St. George fastened to the cording of his uniform and, indicating a bandaged arm, glanced at Berg with a smile.
“As you see,” Nicholas said.
“Indeed? Yes, yes!” said Boris, with a smile. “And we too have had a splendid march. You know, of course, that the Tzar rode with our regiment all the time, so that we had every comfort and every advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and balls! I can’t tell you. And the Tzar’s son was very gracious to all our officers.”
And the two friends told each other of their doings, Nicholas of his hussar revels and life in the fighting line, Boris of the pleasures and advantages of service under members of the Tzar’s family.
“Oh, you Guards!” said Nicholas. “I say, send for some wine.”
Boris made a grimace. “If you really want it,” said he. Boris went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent for wine.
“Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,” Boris added.
Nicholas took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, Nicholas glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the letter.
“Well, they’ve sent you a tidy sum,” said Berg, eying the heavy purse that sank into the sofa. “As for us, Nicholas, we get along on our pay. I can tell you for myself...”
“I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Nicholas, “when you get a letter from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk everything over with, and I happen to be there, I’ll go at once, to be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere... to the devil!” Nicholas exclaimed, and immediately seizing Berg by the shoulder and looking amiably into his face, evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his words, Nicholas added, “Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak from my heart as to an old acquaintance.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, Nicholas! I quite understand,” said Berg, getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.
“Go across to our hosts, Berg: they invited you,” added Boris.
Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust, stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples upwards, in the way affected by the Tzar, and, having assured himself from the way Nicholas looked at it that his coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.
“Oh dear, what a beast I am!” muttered Nicholas, as he read the letter.
“Why?”
“Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!” Nicholas repeated, flushing suddenly. “Well, have you sent your aide for some wine? All right let’s have some!”
In the letter from Nicholas’s parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to Major-General Bagration which Countess Rostov, at Widow Drubetskoy’s advice, had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to Boris, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it.
“What nonsense! Much I need it!” said Nicholas, throwing the letter under the table.
“Why have you thrown that away?” asked Boris.
“It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it for!”
“Why ‘What the devil’?” said Boris, picking it up and reading the address. “This letter would be of great use to you.”
“I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.”
“Why not?” inquired Boris.
“It’s a lackey’s job!”
“You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Boris, shaking his head.
“And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the point... Come, how are you?” asked Nicholas.
“Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.”
“Why?”
“Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to make as successful a career of it as possible.”
“Oh, that’s it!” said Nicholas, evidently thinking of something else.
Nicholas looked intently and inquiringly into Boris’s eyes, evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question.
The aide brought in the wine.
“Shouldn’t we now send for Berg?” asked Boris. “He would drink with you. I can’t.”
“Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?” asked Nicholas, with a contemptuous smile.
“Berg is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” answered Boris.
Again Nicholas looked intently into Boris’ eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became animated. Boris and Berg told Nicholas of their march and how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the stories of the Grand Duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed to deal with the Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts!” (“Arnauts” was the Tzar’s son’s favorite expression when he was in a rage) and called for the company commander.
Berg said, “Would you believe it, Nicholas, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the Army Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord’s Prayer. So, Nicholas, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease. I came forward...” (Berg stood up and showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency than his did.) “Well, the Grand Duke stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but rather of death, as the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’ and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Nicholas?... ‘Hey, are you dumb?’ the Grand Duke shouted. Still I remained silent. And what do you think, Nicholas? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way, Nicholas,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke.
“Yes, that was fine,” said Nicholas, smiling.
But Boris noticed that Nicholas was preparing to make fun of Berg, and so Boris skillfully changed the subject. He asked Nicholas to tell them how and where he got his wound. This pleased Nicholas and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated. Nicholas told them of his adventure at the battle near the village of Schön Grabern, just as those who have taken part in a battle generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it really was. Nicholas was a truthful young man and would on no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If Nicholas had told the truth to his hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still worse, would have thought that Nicholas was himself to blame since what generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened to him. Nicholas could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran way as hard as he could from a French soldier into the woods. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely capable of it. Nicholas’s hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so Nicholas told them all that.
In the middle of his story, just as Nicholas was saying: “You cannot imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,” Andrei, whom Boris was expecting, entered the room. Andrei, who liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance and being well disposed toward Boris, who had managed to please him the day before, he wished to do what Boris wanted. Having been sent with papers from General Kutuzov to the Tzar’s son, Andrei looked in on Boris, hoping to find him alone. When Andrei came in and saw Nicholas, an hussar of the line, recounting his military exploits (Andrei could not endure that sort of man), Andrei gave Boris a pleasant smile, frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at Nicholas, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: Andrei felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company. Nicholas flushed up on noticing this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Boris, Nicholas saw that Boris, too, seemed ashamed of Nicholas’s boasting.
As a result of Andrei’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of the contempt with which Nicholas, from his fighting army point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently one, Nicholas felt confused, blushed, and became silent.
Boris inquired of Andrei what news there might be on the staff, and what, without indiscretion, one might ask about our plans.
“We shall probably advance,” replied Andrei, evidently reluctant to say more in the presence of a stranger.
Berg took the opportunity to ask Andrei, with great politeness, whether, as was rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be doubled. To this Andrei answered with a smile that he could give no opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed gaily.
“As to your business,” Andrei continued, addressing Boris, “we will talk of it later” (and he looked round at Nicholas). “Come to me after the review and we will do what is possible.”
And, having glanced round the room, Andrei turned to Nicholas, whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to anger he did not condescend to notice, and Andrei said: “I think you were talking of the Schön Grabern battle? Were you there?”
“I was there,” said Nicholas angrily, as if intending to insult the aide-de-camp Andrei.
Andrei noticed Nicholas’s state of mind, and it amused him. With a slightly contemptuous smile, Andrei said: “Yes, there are many stories now told about that battle!”
“Yes, stories!” repeated Nicholas loudly, looking with eyes suddenly grown furious, now at Boris, now at Andrei. “Yes, many stories! But our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy’s fire! Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything!”
“Of whom you imagine me to be one?” said Andrei, with a quiet and particularly amiable smile.
A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man’s self-possession mingled at that moment in Nicholas’s soul.
“I am not talking about you,” Nicholas said, “I don’t know you and, frankly, I don’t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.”
“And I will tell you this,” Andrei interrupted in a tone of quiet authority, “you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven’t sufficient self-respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen. In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more serious duel, and besides, Boris, who says he is an old friend of yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to displease you. However,” Andrei added rising, “you know my name and where to find me, but don’t forget that I do not regard either myself or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older than you, my advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, Boris, on Friday after the review I shall expect you. Goodbye!” exclaimed Andrei, and with a bow to them both he went out.
Only when Andrei was gone did Nicholas think of what he ought to have said. And Nicholas was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Boris, rode home. Should he go to headquarters the next day and challenge that affected adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question that worried Nicholas all the way. He thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at seeing the fright of Andrei, that small and frail but proud man, when covered by his pistol. Then, to his surprise, Nicholas felt that of all the men he knew there was none he would so much like to have for a friend as Andrei, that very adjutant whom he so hated.
***
CHAPTER 8
The day after Nicholas had been to see Boris, a review was held of the Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and those who had been campaigning under General Kutuzov. The two sovereigns, the Tzar with his son, and the Austrian Emperor with the Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men.
From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned with banners flying, formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan, or gray horses; then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position. Not only the generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and solemn affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that enormous whole.
From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten o’clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the infantry.
A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: General Kutuzov’s fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front); those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines, under one command, and in a like order.
Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: “They’re coming! The Tzar and Emperor are coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final preparation swept over all the troops.
From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its joy at the approach of the Tzar and Emperor. One voice was heard shouting: “Eyes front!” Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was repeated by others from various sides and all became silent.
In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This was the leaders’ suites. The Tzar and Emperor rode up to the flank, and the trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army itself, rejoicing at their leaders’ approach, had naturally burst into music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Tzar was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the first regiment roared “Hurrah!” so deafeningly, continuously, and joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the immensity of the power they constituted.
Nicholas, standing in the front lines of General Kutuzov’s army which the Tzar approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this triumph.
Nicholas felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water, commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” thundered from all sides, one regiment after another greeting the Tzar with the strains of the march, and then “Hurrah!” Then the general march, and again “Hurrah! Hurrah!” growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar.
Till the Tzar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive, its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices, amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but symmetrically and above all freely, and in front of them two men—the Tzar and the Emperor of Austria. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that whole mass of men was concentrated.
The handsome young Tzar, in the uniform of the Horse Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone’s attention.
Nicholas was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had recognized the Tzar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every movement of the Tzar’s seemed to him enchanting.
Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tzar said something in French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled.
Seeing that smile, Nicholas involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry. The Tzar called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him.
“Oh God, what would happen to me if the Tzar spoke to me?” thought Nicholas. “I should die of happiness!”
The Tzar addressed the officers also: “I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank you with my whole heart.” To Nicholas every word sounded like a voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tzar!
“You have earned the St. George’s standards and will be worthy of them.”
“Oh, to die, to die for him,” thought Nicholas.
The Tzar said something more which Nicholas did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted “Hurrah!”
Nicholas too, bending over his saddle, shouted “Hurrah!” with all his might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if only to express his rapture fully.
The Tzar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided.
“How can the Tzar be undecided?” thought Nicholas, but then even this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else the Tzar did.
That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tzar’s foot, in the narrow pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp. Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at last only his white plumes were visible to Nicholas from amid the suites that surrounded the Tzar and the Emperor of Austria.
Among the gentlemen of the suite, Nicholas noticed Andrei, sitting his horse indolently and carelessly. Nicholas recalled their quarrel of yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought not to challenge Andrei. “Of course not!” he now thought. “Is it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now.”
When the Tzar had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past him, and Nicholas on new horse, Bedouin, recently purchased from Denisov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron—that is, alone and in full view of the Tzar.
Before he reached him, Nicholas, who was a splendid horseman, spurred Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Tzar’s eye upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground.
Nicholas himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling himself one with his horse, rode past the Tzar with a frowning but blissful face “like a vewy devil,” as Denisov expressed it.
“Fine fellows, the Pávlograds!” remarked the Tzar.
“My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this instant!” thought Nicholas.
When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also General Kutuzov’s, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards, about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about Napoleon, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side.
But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Tzar. His every word and movement was described with ecstasy.
They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the enemy under the Tzar’s command. Commanded by the Tzar himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought the Tzar and most of the officers after the review.
All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles would have made them.
***
CHAPTER 9
The day after the review, Boris, in his best uniform and with his comrade Berg’s best wishes for success, rode to Olmütz to see Andrei, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself the best post he could—preferably that of adjutant to some important personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most attractive. “It is all very well for Nicholas, whose father sends him ten thousand rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not be anyone’s lackey, but I who have nothing but my brains have to make a career and must not miss opportunities, but must avail myself of them!” he reflected.
Boris did not find Andrei in Olmütz that day, but the appearance of the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed and the Tzar and Napoleon were living with their suites, households, and courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world.
Boris knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman’s uniform, all these exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military men, seemed so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be aware of his existence. At the quarters of the General Kutuzov, where Boris inquired for Andrei, all the adjutants and even the orderlies looked at him as if they wished to impress on him that a great many officers like him were always coming there and that everybody was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather because of it, the next day, November 15, after dinner Boris again went to Olmütz and, entering the house occupied by General Kutuzov, asked for Andrei.
Andrei was in and so Boris was shown into a large hall probably formerly used for dancing, but in which five beds now stood, and furniture of various kinds: a table, chairs, and a clavichord. One adjutant, nearest the door, was sitting at the table in a Persian dressing gown, writing. Another, the red, stout Sergeant Nesvitski, lay on a bed with his arms under his head, laughing with an officer who had sat down beside him. A third was playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord, while a fourth, lying on the clavichord, sang the tune. Andrei was not there. None of these gentlemen changed his position on seeing Boris. The one who was writing and whom Boris addressed turned round crossly and told him Andrei was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the reception room if he wished to see him. Boris thanked him and went to the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals.
When he entered, Andrei, his eyes drooping contemptuously (with that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, “If it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment”), was listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier’s obsequious expression on his purple face, reporting something.
“Very well, then, be so good as to wait,” said Andrei to the general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Boris, Andrei, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring him to hear something more, nodded and turned to him with a cheerful smile.
At that moment Boris clearly realized what he had before surmised, that in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was another, more important, subordination, which made this tight-laced, purple-faced general wait respectfully while Andrei, a mere captain, for his own pleasure chose to chat with Boris, a mere lieutenant. More than ever was Boris resolved to serve in future not according to the written code, but under this unwritten law. He felt now that merely by having been recommended to Andrei he had already risen above the general (who at the front had the power to annihilate him, a mere lieutenant of the Guards).
Andrei came up to Boris and took his hand.
“I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about with Germans all day. We went with General Weyrother to survey the dispositions. When Germans start being accurate, there’s no end to it!”
Boris smiled, as if he understood what Andrei was alluding to as something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard General Weyrother’s name, or even the term “dispositions.”
“Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have been thinking about you.”
“Yes, I was thinking”—for some reason Boris could not help blushing—“of asking General Kutuzov for the promotion. He has had a letter from Baron Vasili about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards won’t be in action,” Boris added as if in apology.
“All right, all right. We’ll talk it over,” replied Andrei. “Only let me report this gentleman’s business, and I shall be at your disposal.”
While Andrei went to report about the purple-faced general, that gentleman—evidently not sharing Boris’ conception of the advantages of the unwritten code of subordination—looked so fixedly at the Boris, this presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to say to Andrei, that Boris felt uncomfortable. He turned away and waited impatiently for Andrei’s return from General Kutuzov’s room.
“You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you,” said Andrei to Boris when he returned, and they proceeded into the large room where the clavichord was. “It’s no use your going to General Kutuzov. He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner” (“That would not be bad as regards the unwritten code,” thought Boris), “but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we’ll do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, General Dolgorúkov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now General Kutuzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is now centered round the Tzar. So we will go to General Dolgorúkov; I have to go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We shall see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you somewhere nearer the sun.”
Andrei always became specially keen whenever he had to guide a young man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining help of this kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers success and which attracted him. He very readily took up Boris’ cause and went with him to General Dolgorúkov.
It was late in the evening when Boris and Andrei entered the palace at Olmütz occupied by the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor and their retinues.
That day, a council of war had been held in which all the members of the Hofkriegsrath and both the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor took part. At that council, contrary to the views of General Kutuzov and Baron Schwartzenberg, it had been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Napoleon. The council of war was just finishing when Andrei, accompanied by Boris, arrived at the palace to find General Dolgorúkov.
Everyone at headquarters was still under the spell of the day’s council, at which the party of the young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled delay and advised waiting for something else before advancing had been so completely silenced and their arguments disproved by such conclusive evidence of the advantages of attacking that what had been discussed at the council—the coming battle and the victory that would certainly result from it—no longer seemed to be in the future but in the past. All the advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly superior to Napoleon’s, were concentrated in one place, the troops inspired by the presence of the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor were eager for action. The strategic position where the operations would take place was familiar in all its details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had ordained that the Austrian army should maneuver the previous year on the very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps, and Napoleon, evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing.
General Dolgorúkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud of the victory that had been gained. Andrei introduced his protégé, but General Dolgorúkov politely and firmly pressing his hand said nothing to Boris and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Andrei in French.
“Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear fellow,” General Dolgorúkov said abruptly and eagerly, “I must confess to having been unjust to the Austrians and especially to General Weyrother. What exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with Russian valor—what more could be wished for?”
“So the attack is definitely resolved on?” asked Andrei.
“And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Napoleon has decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him today for the Tzar.” General Dolgorúkov smiled significantly.
“Is that so? And what did he say?” inquired Andrei.
“What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time. I tell you Napoleon is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most amusing,” General Dolgorúkov continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, “was that we could not think how to address the reply to Napoleon! If not as ‘Consul’ would be appropriate, and of course not ‘Tzar,’ it so seemed to me it should be to ‘General Napoleon.’”
“But between not recognizing him as Tzar and calling him General Napoleon, there is a difference,” remarked Andrei.
“That’s just it,” interrupted General Dolgorúkov quickly, laughing. “You know Adjutant Bilibin—he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’”
General Dolgorúkov laughed merrily.
“Only that?” said Andrei.
“All the same, it was Adjutant Bilibin who found a suitable form for the address. He is a wise and clever fellow.”
“What was it?”
“To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement français,” said General Dolgorúkov, with grave satisfaction. “Good, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but Napoleon will dislike it extremely,” said Andrei.
“Oh yes, very much! My brother knows Napoleon, he’s dined with him—Napoleon, who is the present leader—more than once in Paris, and my brother tells me he never met a more cunning or subtle diplomatist—you know, a combination of French adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about Napoleon and Count Markóv? Count Markóv was the only man who knew how to handle Napoleon. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!”
And the talkative General Dolgorúkov, turning now to Boris, now to Andrei, told how Napoleon, wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador, purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markóv, probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how Markóv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching Napoleon’s.
“Delightful!” said Andrei. “But I have come to you, General Dolgorúkov, as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see...” but before Andrei could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon General Dolgorúkov to the Tzar.
“Oh, what a nuisance,” said General Dolgorúkov, getting up hurriedly and pressing the hands of Andrei and Boris. “You know I should be very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young man.” Again he pressed the hand of Boris’s with an expression of good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. “But you see... another time!”
Boris was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny, obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed General Dolgorúkov out into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Tzar’s room by which General Dolgorúkov had entered—a short man in civilian clothes with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression. This short man nodded to General Dolgorúkov as to an intimate friend and stared at Andrei with cool intensity, walking straight toward him and evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Andrei did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other turned away and went down the side of the corridor.
“Who was that?” asked Boris.
“He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Baron Czartorýski... It is such men as he who decide the fate of nations,” added Bolkonski with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.
The next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of Austerlitz, Boris was unable to see either Andrei or General Dolgorúkov again and remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment.
***
CHAPTER 10
At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denisov’s squadron, in which Nicholas served and which was in Major-General Bagration’s detachment, moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing into action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about two-thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Nicholas saw the Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then Major-General Bagration and General Dolgorúkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear before action that he had experienced previously, all the inner struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nicholas spent that day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and shouts of hurrah and saw wounded being brought back (there were not many of them), and at last, he saw how a whole detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a company of Cossacks. Evidently, the affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement. The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost, and the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Nicholas going or coming. And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed.
“Come here, Nicholas. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted Denisov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food.
The officers gathered around Denisov’s canteen, eating and talking.
“There! They are bringing another!” cried one of the officers, indicating a captive French cavalryman who was being brought in on foot by two Cossacks.
One of the Cossacks was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he had taken from the prisoner.
“Sell us that horse!” Denisov called out to the Cossacks.
“If you like, your honor!”
The officers got up and stood around the Cossacks and their prisoner. The French hussar was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when he heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers, addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have been taken, it was not his fault but the corporal’s who had sent him to seize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians were there. And at every word he added: “But don’t hurt my little horse!” and stroked the animal. It was plain that the dazed cavalryman did not quite grasp where he was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now, imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierly discipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into our rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army, which was so alien to us.
The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Nicholas, being the richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it.
“But don’t hurt my little horse!” said the Alsatian good-naturedly to Nicholas when the animal was handed over to the hussar.
Nicholas smilingly reassured the hussar and gave him money.
“Alley! Alley!” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner’s arm to make him go on.
“The Tzar! The Tzar is coming!” was suddenly heard among the hussars.
All began to run and bustle and Nicholas saw coming up the road behind him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone was in his place, waiting.
Nicholas did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted. Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected mood amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly every thought of himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to the Tzar. He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him for the day he had lost. Nicholas was happy as a lover when the longed-for moment of meeting arrives. Not daring to look round and without looking round, he was ecstatically conscious of his approach. He felt it not only from the sound of the hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew near everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more festive around him. Nearer and nearer to Nicholas came that sun shedding beams of mild and majestic light around, and already he felt enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm, and majestic voice that was yet so simple! And as if in accord with Nicholas’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard the Tzar’s voice.
“The Pávlograd hussars?” the Tzar inquired.
“The reserves, sire!” replied a voice, a very human one compared to that which had said: “The Pávlograd hussars?”
The Tzar drew level with Nicholas and halted. The Tzar’s face was even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. It shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that it suggested the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face of the majestic Tzar. Casually, while surveying the squadron, the Tzar’s eyes met Nicholas’s and rested on them for not more than two seconds. Whether or not the Tzar understood what was going on in Nicholas’s soul (it seemed to Nicholas that the Tzar understood everything), at any rate, the Tzar’s light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into Nicholas’s face. A gentle, mild light poured from them. Then all at once, the Tzar raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horse with his left foot, and galloped on.
Earlier in the day, the Tzar had not been able to not restrain his wish to be present at the battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve o’clock he left the third column with which he had been and galloped toward the vanguard. Before the Tzar came up with the hussars, several adjutants met him with news of the successful result of the action.
This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron, was represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the Tzar and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over the battlefield, believed that the French had been defeated and were retreating against their will.
A few minutes after the Tzar had passed, the Pávlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau itself, a petty German town, Nicholas saw the Tzar again. In the marketplace, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the Tzar’s arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whom there had not been time to move. The Tzar, surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare, a different one from that which he had ridden at the review, and bending to one side he gracefully held a gold opera glasses to his eyes and looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered head. The wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his proximity to the Tzar shocked Nicholas. Nicholas saw how the Tzar’s rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horse’s side with the spur, and how the well-trained horse looked round unconcerned and did not stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to place him on a stretcher that had been brought. The soldier groaned.
“Gently, gently! Can’t you do it more gently?” said the Tzar apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.
Nicholas had seen tears filling the Tzar’s eyes and had heard him, as he was riding away, say to Czartorýski: “What a terrible thing war is: what a terrible thing! What a terrible thing is war!”
The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within sight of the enemy’s lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us at the least firing. The Tzar’s gratitude was announced to the vanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a double ration of vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs resounded even more merrily than on the previous night. Denisov celebrated his promotion to the rank of major, and Nicholas, who had already drunk enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Tzar’s health. “Not ‘our Sovereign, the Tzar,’ as they say at official dinners,” said Nicholas, “but the health of our Sovereign, that good, enchanting, and great man! Let us drink to his health and to the certain defeat of the French!”
“If we fought before,” Nicholas said, “not letting the French pass, as at the battle at the village Schön Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front? We will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not saying it right, but I have drunk a good deal—but that is how I feel, and so do you too! To the health of the Tzar! Hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.
Even the old cavalry captain shouted enthusiastically and no less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Nicholas.
When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, the old cavalry captain filled others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to the soldiers’ bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white chest showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the light of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm.
“Lads! here’s to our Sovereign, the Tzar, and victory over our enemies! Hurrah!” the old cavalry captain exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar’s baritone.
The hussars crowded around and responded heartily with loud shouts.
Late that night, when all had separated, Denisov with his short hand patted his favorite, Nicholas, on the shoulder.
“As there are no women to fall in love with on campaign, Nicholas has fallen in love with the Tzar,” Denisov said.
“Denisov, don’t make fun of it!” cried Nicholas. “It is such a lofty, beautiful feeling, such a...”
“I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove...”
“No, you don’t understand!”
And Nicholas got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of what happiness it would be to die—not in saving the Tzar’s life (he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before his eyes. Nicholas really was in love with the Tzar and the glory of the Russian arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle of Austerlitz: nine-tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tzar and the glory of the Russian arms.
***
CHAPTER 11
The next day the Tzar stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician, was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and among the troops nearby the news spread that the Tzar was unwell. The Tzar ate nothing and had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by the sight of the killed and wounded.
At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with a flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Tzar, was brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The Tzar had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At midday, Savary was admitted to the Tzar, and an hour later he rode back with General Dolgorúkov to the advanced post of the French army.
It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to the Tzar a meeting with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a personal interview was refused, and instead of the Tzar, it was just General Dolgorúkov, the victor at Wischau, who was sent with Savary to negotiate with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were actuated by a real desire for peace.
Toward evening General Dolgorúkov came back, went straight to the Tzar, and remained alone with him for a long time.
On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two days’ march, and the enemy’s outposts after a brief interchange of shots retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz was fought.
Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity—the eager talk, running to and fro, and dispatching of adjutants—was confined to the Tzar’s headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached General Kutuzov’s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of columns. By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of the army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth, the whole eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles long.
The concentrated activity which had begun at the Tzar’s headquarters in the morning and had started the whole movement that followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and a third, and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to work, chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands to advance with regular motion as a result of all that activity.
Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared to remain so for a hundred years, but the moment comes when the lever catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken.
Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the hands which shows the time, so the result of all the complicated human activities of 160,000 Russians and French—all their passions, desires, remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and enthusiasm—was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the so-called battle of the three nations—that is to say, a slow movement of the hand on the dial of human history.
Andrei was on duty that day and in constant attendance on General Kutuzov.
At six in the evening, General Kutuzov went to the Tzar’s headquarters and after staying but a short time with the Tzar went to see Grand Marshal of the Court Tolstóy.
Andrei took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the coming action from General Dolgorúkov. Andrei felt that General Kutuzov was upset and dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were dissatisfied with Kutuzov, and also that at the Tzar’s headquarters everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something others do not know: Andrei, therefore, wished to speak to General Dolgorúkov.
“Well, how d’you do, my dear Andrei?” said General Dolgorúkov, who was sitting at tea with Adjutant Bilibin. “The fete is for tomorrow. How is General Kutuzov? Out of sorts?”
“I won’t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be heard.”
“But they heard Kutuzov at the council of war and will hear him when he talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Napoleon fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible.”
“Yes, you have seen Napoleon?” said Andrei. “Well, what is he like? How did he impress you?”
“Yes, I saw Napoleon, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as a general engagement,” repeated General Dolgorúkov, evidently prizing this conclusion which he had arrived at from his meeting. “If Napoleon weren’t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that meeting? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is so contrary to his method of conducting war? Believe me, Napoleon is afraid, afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!”
“But tell me, what is he like, eh?” said Andrei again.
“Napoleon is merely a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call him ‘Your Majesty,’ but who, to his chagrin, got no title from me! That’s the sort of man Napoleon is, and nothing more,” replied General Dolgorúkov, looking round at Adjutant Bilibin with a smile.
“Despite my great respect for old General Kutuzov,” General Dolgorúkov continued, “we should be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give Napoleon a chance to escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in our hands! No, we mustn’t forget Suvórov and his rule—not to put yourself in a position to be attacked, but instead, you should attack the enemy first. Believe me, in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than all the experience of old procrastinators.”
“But in what position are we going to attack Napoleon? I have been at the outposts today and it is impossible to say where Napoleon’s chief forces are situated,” said Andrei.
Andrei wished to explain to General Dolgorúkov a plan of attack he had himself formed.
“Oh, that is all the same,” General Dolgorúkov said quickly, and getting up he spread a map on the table. “All eventualities have been foreseen. If Napoleon is standing before Brünn...”
And General Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained General Weyrother’s plan of a flanking movement.
Andrei began to reply and to state his own plan, which might have been as good as General Weyrother’s, but for the disadvantage that General Weyrother’s had already been approved. As soon as Andrei began to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan, General Dolgorúkov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not at the map, but at Andrei’s face.
“There will be a council of war at General Kutuzov’s tonight, though; you can say all this there,” remarked General Dolgorúkov.
“I will do so,” said Andrei, moving away from the map.
“Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?” said Adjutant Bilibin, who, till then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and now was evidently ready with a joke. “Whether tomorrow brings victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except for your General Kutuzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column! The commanders are Herr General Wimpfen, Commander Langeron, le Baron de Lichtenstein, le Baron de Hohenlohe, and finally Prishprish, and so on like all those Polish names.”
“Be quiet, backbiter!” said General Dolgorúkov. “It is not true; there are now two Russians, General Milorádovich, and General Dokhtúrov, and there would be a third, War Minister Arakchéev, if his nerves were not too weak.”
“However, I think General Kutuzov has come out,” said Andrei. “I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!” he added and went out after shaking hands with General Dolgorúkov and Adjutant Bilibin.
On the way home, Andrei could not refrain from asking General Kutuzov, who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrow’s battle.
General Kutuzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: “I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Grand Marshal of the Court Tolstóy and asked him to tell the Tzar. What do you think he replied? ‘But, my dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military matters yourself!’ Yes... That was the answer I got!”
***
CHAPTER 12
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, General Weyrother drove with his plans to General Kutuzov’s quarters where the council of war was to be held. All the commanders of columns were summoned and with the exception of Major-General Bagration, who declined to come, were all there at the appointed time.
General Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied and drowsy General Kutuzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and president of the council of war. General Weyrother evidently felt himself to be at the head of a movement that had already become unable to be restrained. He was like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was pulling it or being pushed by it he did not know but rushed along at headlong speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead to. General Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy’s picket line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor, to report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had dictated the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived at General Kutuzov’s.
General Weyrother was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to General Kutuzov. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly, without looking at the man he was addressing and did not reply to questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful, weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and self-confident.
General Kutuzov was occupying a nobleman’s castle of modest dimensions near Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become his office were gathered Kutuzov himself, General Weyrother, and the members of the council of war. They were drinking tea and only awaited Major-General Bagration to begin the council. At last Major-General Bagration’s orderly arrived with the news that the general could not attend. Hearing this, Andrei came into the drawing room to inform the General Kutuzov and, availing himself of permission previously given him by General Kutuzov to be present at the council, Andrei remained in the room.
“Since Major-General Bagration is not coming, we may begin,” said General Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on which an enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out.
General Kutuzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair, with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound of General Weyrother’s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort.
“Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late,” said General Kutuzov, and nodding his head he let it droop and again closed his eye.
If at first the members of the council thought that General Kutuzov was pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that followed proved that General Kutuzov at that moment was absorbed by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for the dispositions or anything else—he was engaged in satisfying the irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. General Weyrother, with the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment, glanced at General Kutuzov and, having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in a loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the impending battle, under a heading which he also read out:
“Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805.”
The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as follows:
“As the enemy’s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there, while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy’s latter wing especially if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we can both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy’s front. For this object, it is necessary that... The first column marches... The second column marches... The third column marches...” and so on, read General Weyrother.
The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions. The tall, fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and seemed not to listen or even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite General Weyrother, with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache twisted upwards, sat the ruddy General Milorádovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees, and his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at General Weyrother’s face, and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished reading. Then General Milorádovich looked around significantly at the other generals. But one could not tell from that significant look whether he agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next to General Weyrother sat Commander Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left his typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading, gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his thin lips interrupted General Weyrother, wishing to say something. But the Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his elbows as if to say: “You can tell me your views later, but now be so good as to look at the map and listen.” Commander Langeron lifted his eyes with an expression of perplexity and turned round to General Milorádovich as if seeking an explanation, but meeting the latter’s impressive but meaningless gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.
“A geography lesson!” Commander Langeron muttered as if to himself, but loud enough to be heard.
Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his hand to his ear toward General Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention. Dohktúrov, a little man, sat opposite General Weyrother, with an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He asked General Weyrother several times to repeat words he had not clearly heard and the difficult names of villages. General Weyrother complied and Dohktúrov noted them down.
When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Commander Langeron again brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at General Weyrother or at anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out such a plan in which the enemy’s position was assumed to be known, whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement. Commander Langeron’s objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief aim was to show General Weyrother—who had read his dispositions with as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school children—that he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something in military matters.
When the monotonous sound of General Weyrother’s voice ceased, General Kutuzov opened his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel is interrupted. He listened to what Commander Langeron said as if remarking, “So you are still at that silly business!” quickly closed his eye again, and let his head sink still lower.
Commander Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting General Weyrother’s vanity as author of the military plan, argued that Napoleon might easily attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this plan perfectly worthless. General Weyrother met all objections with a firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections be they what they might.
“If he could attack us, he would have done so today,” said he.
“So you think he is powerless?” said Commander Langeron.
“He has forty thousand men at most,” replied General Weyrother, with the smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of a case.
“In that case, he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,” said Commander Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing around for support to General Milorádovich who was near him.
But General Milorádovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything rather than of what the room was disputing about.
“My faith!” said he, “tomorrow we shall see all that on the battlefield.”
General Weyrother again gave that smile that seemed to say that to him it was strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but had also convinced the sovereigns of.
“The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from his camp,” said General Weyrother. “What does that mean? Either he is retreating, which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.” (He smiled ironically.) “But even if he also took up a position in the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our arrangements to the minutest detail remain the same.”
“How is that?...” began Andrei, who had for long been waiting for an opportunity to express his doubts.
General Kutuzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the generals.
“Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow—or rather for today, for it is past midnight—cannot now be altered,” said he. “You have heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is nothing more important...” he paused, “than to have a good sleep.”
General Kutuzov moved as if to rise. The officers bowed and retired. It was past midnight. Andrei went out.
The council of war, at which Andrei had not been able to express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy impression. Whether General Dolgorúkov and General Weyrother, or General Kutuzov, Commander Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were right—he did not know. “But was it really not possible for General Kutuzov to state his views plainly to the Tzar? Is it possible that on account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives, and my life, my life,” Andrei thought, “must be risked?”
“Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,” Andrei thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened mood, he went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Sergeant Nesvitski and began to walk up and down before it.
The night was foggy and through the fog, the moonlight gleamed mysteriously. “Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!” Andrei thought. “Tomorrow everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly, I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all I can do.” And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation of all the commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly expresses his opinion to General Kutuzov, to General Weyrother, to the Tzar, and to the Austrian Emperor. All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division—stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangements—leads his division to the decisive point, and gains the victory alone. “But death and suffering?” suggested another voice. Andrei, however, did not answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs. The dispositions for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an adjutant on General Kutuzov’s staff, but he does everything alone. The next battle is won by him alone. General Kutuzov is removed and he is appointed... “Well and then?” asked the other voice. “If before that you are not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well... what then?...” “Well then,” Andrei answered himself, “I don’t know what will happen and don’t want to know, and can’t, but if I want this—want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh God! what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men’s esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of family—I fear nothing. And precious and dear as many persons are to me—father, sister, wife—those dearest to me—yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men I don’t know and never shall know, for the love of these men here,” he thought, as he listened to voices in General Kutuzov’s courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a coachman’s, was teasing General Kutuzov’s old cook whom Andrei knew, and who was called Tit. He was saying, “Tit, I say, Tit!”
“Well?” returned the old cook.
“Go, Tit, thresh a bit!” said the wag.
“Oh, go to the devil!” called out a voice, drowned by the laughter of the orderlies and servants.
“All the same,” Andrei thought, “I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this mist!”
***
CHAPTER 13
That same night, Nicholas was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front of Major-General Bagration’s detachment. Nicholas’s hussars were placed along the line in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our army’s campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; in front of him was misty darkness. Nicholas could see nothing, peer as he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray, now there was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared—now the Tzar, now Denisov, and now Moscow memories—and he again hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them, the black figures of hussars, but in the distance was still the same misty darkness. “Why not?... It might easily happen,” thought Nicholas, “that the Tzar will meet me and give me an order as he would to any other officer; he’ll say: ‘Go and find out what’s there.’ There are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just such a chance way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place near him? Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I would unmask his deceivers!” And in order to realize vividly his love and devotion to the sovereign, Nicholas pictured to himself an enemy or a deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom he would slap in the face before the Tzar. Suddenly a distant shout aroused him. He started and opened his eyes.
Nicholas thought, “Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and watchword—shaft, Olmütz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in reserve tomorrow,” he thought. “I’ll ask leave to go to the front, this may be my only chance of seeing the Tzar. It won’t be long now before I am off duty. I’ll take another turn and when I get back I’ll go to the general and ask him.” Nicholas readjusted himself in the saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more around his hussars. It seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left, he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Nicholas could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on that white spot. “I expect it’s snow... that spot... a spot—une tache,” he thought. “There now... it’s not a tache... Natasha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won’t she be surprised when I tell her how I’ve seen the Tzar?) Natasha... take my sabretache...”—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes here,” came the voice of a hussar, past whom Nicholas was riding in the act of falling asleep. Nicholas lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the Tzar? No, that’s not it—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natasha... sabretache... saber them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house... Old Gúryev... Oh, but Denisov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing is that the Tzar is here. How he looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not... No, it was I who dared not. But that’s nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s right!” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once, it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What? What? What?... Cut them down! What?...” said Nicholas, waking up. At the moment he opened his eyes he heard in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar near him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the shouting came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then another, and all along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the shouting grew louder and louder. Nicholas could hear the sound of French words but could not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too great; all he could hear was: “ahahah!” and “rrrr!”
“What’s that? What do you make of it?” said Nicholas to the hussar beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!”
The hussar did not reply.
“Why, don’t you hear it?” Nicholas asked again, after waiting for a reply.
“Who can tell, your honor?” replied the hussar reluctantly.
“From the direction, it must be the enemy,” repeated Nicholas.
“It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s dark... Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse.
Nicholas’s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground, pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting grew still louder and merged into a roar that only an army of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Nicholas no longer wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating effect on him. “Long live Napoleon! Long live Napoleon!” he now heard distinctly.
“They can’t be far off, probably just beyond the stream,” Nicholas said to the hussar beside him.
The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The sound of horse’s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was heard, and out of the foggy darkness, the figure of a sergeant of hussars suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant.
“Your honor, the generals are coming!” said the sergeant, riding up to Nicholas.
Nicholas, still looking around toward the fires and the shouts, rode with the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line. One was on a white horse. Major-General Bagration and General Dolgorúkov with their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Nicholas rode up to Major-General Bagration, reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the generals were saying.
“Believe me,” said General Dolgorúkov, addressing Major-General Bagration, “it is nothing but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us.”
“Hardly,” said Major-General Bagration. “I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too... Officer!” said Major-General Bagration to Nicholas, “are the enemy’s skirmishers still there?”
“They were there this evening, but now I don’t know, your excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied Nicholas.
Major-General Bagration stopped and, before replying, tried to see Nicholas’s face in the mist.
“Well, go and see,” he said, after a pause.
“Yes, sir.”
Nicholas spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and pleased to be riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty distance where no one had been before him. Major-General Bagration called to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Nicholas pretended not to hear him and did not stop but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes. Having descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or the enemy’s fires but heard the shouting of the French more loudly and distinctly. In the valley, he saw before him something like a river, but when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto the road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or cross it and ride over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the road which gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it would be easier to see people coming along it. “Follow me!” said he, crossed the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the point where the French pickets had been standing that evening.
“Nicholas, there is the enemy!” cried one of the hussars behind him. And before Nicholas had time to make out what the black thing was that had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report, and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan. Nicholas turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones. Nicholas reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well, some more! Some more!” a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no more shots came.
Only when approaching Major-General Bagration did Nicholas let his horse gallop again, and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.
General Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only lit fires to deceive us.
“What does that prove?” he was saying as Nicholas rode up. “They might retreat and leave the pickets.”
“It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Nicholas,” said Major-General Bagration. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything tomorrow.”
“The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was in the evening,” reported Nicholas, stooping forward with his hand at the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his ride and especially by the sound of the bullets.
“Very good, very good,” said Major-General Bagration. “Thank you, officer.”
“Your excellency,” said Nicholas, “may I ask a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached to the first squadron?”
“What’s your name?”
“Nicholas Rostov.”
“Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.”
“Count Rostov’s son?” asked General Dolgorúkov.
But Nicholas did not reply.
“Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?”
“I will give the order.”
“Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the Tzar,” thought Nicholas.
“Thank God!”
The fires and shouting in the enemy’s army were occasioned by the fact that while Napoleon’s proclamation was being read to the troops Napoleon himself rode around his bivouacs. The soldiers, on seeing him, lit wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting, “Long live Napoleon!”
Napoleon’s proclamation was as follows:
Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the Austrian army of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke at Hollabrünn and have pursued ever since to this place. The position we occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go around me on the right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers! I will myself direct your battalions. I will keep out of fire if you with your habitual valor carry disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks but should victory be in doubt, even for a moment, you will see your Tzar exposing himself to the first blows of the enemy, for there must be no doubt of victory, especially on this day when what is at stake is the honor of the French infantry, so necessary to the honor of our nation.
Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let every man be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings of England, inspired by such hatred of our nation! This victory will conclude our campaign and we can return to winter quarters, where fresh French troops who are being raised in France will join us, and the peace I shall conclude will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself.
NAPOLEON
***
CHAPTER 14
At five in the morning, it was still quite dark. The troops of the center, the reserves, and Major-General Bagration’s right flank had not yet moved, but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan, were already up and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into which they were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes smart. It was cold and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting, the soldiers, munching biscuits and beating a tattoo with their feet to warm themselves, gathering around the fires throwing into the flames the remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they did not want or could not carry away with them. Austrian column guides were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance. As soon as an Austrian officer showed himself near a commanding officer’s quarters, the regiment began to move: the soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots, their bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank. The officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave final instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and was unable, from the masses around them, the smoke, and the increasing fog, to see either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going.
A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Iván Mítrich, the same company dog Jack, and the same commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle—heaven knows how and whence—a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an army, announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn, and awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask about what is going on around them.
The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could not see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one might encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off. But the columns advanced for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became aware that in front, behind, and on all sides, other Russian columns were moving in the same direction. Every soldier felt glad to know that to the unknown place where he was going, many more of our men were going too.
“There now, the Kúrskies have also gone past,” was being said in the ranks.
“It’s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A regular Moscow!”
Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves to cheer the men but merely carried out the orders), yet the troops marched gaily, as they always do when going into action, especially to an attack. But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks. How such a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek. Had the Russian army been alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid Germans, and everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had been occasioned by the sausage eater Germans.
The Russian soldiers talked to each other.
“Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up against the French?”
“No, one can’t hear them. They’d be firing if we had.”
“They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It’s all those damned Germans’ muddling! What stupid devils!”
“Yes, I’d send them on in front, but no fear, they’re crowding up behind. And now here we stand hungry.”
“I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the way,” said an officer.
“Ah, those damned Germans! They don’t know their own country!” said another.
“What division are you?” shouted an adjutant, riding up.
“The Eighteenth.”
“Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you won’t get there till evening.”
“What stupid orders! They don’t themselves know what they are doing!” said the officer and rode off.
Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian.
“Tafa-lafa! But what he’s jabbering no one can make out,” said a soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. “I’d shoot them, the scoundrels!”
“We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven’t got halfway. Fine orders!” was being repeated on different sides.
And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the Germans.
The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center was too far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in front of the infantry, who had to wait.
At the front, an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a Russian general. The Russian general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be halted, the Austrian guide argued that not he, but the higher command, was to blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited. After an hour’s delay, they, at last, moved on, descending the hill. The fog that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below, where they were descending. In front in the fog, a shot was heard and then another, at first irregularly at varying intervals—trata...tat—and then more and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream began.
Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading through the ranks, and above all being unable to see anything in front or around them in the thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown surroundings unable to find their own regiments. In this way, the action began for the first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into the valley. The fourth column, with which General Kutuzov was, stood on Pratzen Heights.
Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog; on the higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was going on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed, six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one knew till after eight o’clock.
It was nine o’clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon stood with his generals around him, it was quite light. Above him was a clear blue sky, and the sun’s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front of his generals. He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face—which in those days was still thin—moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. Napoleon’s predictions were justified. Part of the Russian force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and part was leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still, Napoleon did not begin the engagement.
Today was a great day for Napoleon—the anniversary of his coronation. Before dawn, he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds. He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love. The generals stood behind him not venturing to distract his attention. Napoleon looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating up out of the mist.
When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were aglow with dazzling light—as if Napoleon had only awaited this to begin the action—he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign with it to the generals, and ordered the action to begin. The generals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions, and a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly toward those Pratzen Heights which was being more and more denuded by Russian troops moving down the valley to their left.
***
CHAPTER 15
At eight o’clock General Kutuzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth column, General Milorádovich’s, the one that was to take the place of Przebyszéwski’s and Commander Langeron’s columns which had already gone down into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead that column himself. When General Kutuzov had reached the village of Pratzen he halted. Andrei was behind, among the immense number forming General Kutuzov’s suite. Andrei was in a state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlled calm as a man is at the approach of a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would come about he did not know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality and the position of our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into General Weyrother’s plan, Andrei considered possible contingencies and formed new projects such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision.
To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces could be heard. It was there Andrei thought the fight would concentrate. “There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,” thought Andrei, “I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there, standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of me.”
Andrei could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions. Seeing them he kept thinking, “That may be the very standard with which I shall lead the army.”
In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys, it still lay like a milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing. Above the heights was the dark clear sky and to the right the vast orb of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist, some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably was, for something could be descried. On the right, the Guards were entering the misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and then a gleam of bayonets; to the left beyond the village similar masses of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and behind moved infantry. General Kutuzov was standing at the end of the village letting the troops pass by him. That morning he seemed worn and irritable. The infantry passing before him came to a halt without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in front.
“Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the village!” General Kutuzov said angrily to a general who had ridden up. “Don’t you understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the enemy?”
“I intended to re-form them beyond the village,” answered the general.
General Kutuzov laughed bitterly.
“You’ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy! Very fine!”
“The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the dispositions...”
“The dispositions!” exclaimed General Kutuzov bitterly. “Who told you that?... Kindly do as you are ordered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My dear fellow,” Sergeant Nesvitski whispered to Andrei, “General Kutuzov is as surly as a dog.”
An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat galloped up to General Kutuzov and asked in the Tzar’s name had the fourth column advanced into action.
General Kutuzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall upon Andrei, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutuzov’s malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what was being done was not his adjutant’s fault, and still not answering the Austrian officer, he addressed Andrei.
“Go, Andrei, and see whether the third division has passed the village. Tell it to stop and await my orders.”
Hardly had Andrei started than General Kutuzov stopped him.
“And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted,” Kutuzov added. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still not replying to the Austrian.
Andrei galloped off to execute the order.
Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, Andrei stopped the third division and convinced himself that there really were no sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the regiment was much surprised at General Kutuzov’ s order to throw out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away. There was really nothing to be seen in front except a barren descent hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in General Kutuzov’s name to rectify this omission, Andrei galloped back. General Kutuzov still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily with closed eyes. The troops were no longer moving but stood with the butts of their muskets on the ground.
“All right, all right!” General Kutuzov said to Andrei and turned to a general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all the left-flank columns had already descended.
“Plenty of time,” muttered Kutuzov in the midst of a yawn, as if talking to the Tzar. “Plenty of time,” he repeated.
Just then at a distance behind General Kutuzov was heard the sound of regiments saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently, the persons they were greeting were riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front of which General Kutuzov was standing began to shout, Kutuzov rode a little to one side and looked around with a frown. Along the road from Pratzen galloped what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of the horsemen rode side by side in front, at full gallop. One horseman, who wore a black uniform with white plumes in his hat, rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other horseman was in a white uniform and he rode a black horse.
These horsemen were the Tzar’s and the Austrian Emperor’s, followed by their suites of attendants. General Kutuzov, affecting the manners of an old soldier at the front, gave the command “Attention!” and rode up to the sovereigns with a salute. Kutuzov’s whole appearance and manner were suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning. With an affectation of respect which evidently struck Tzar unpleasantly, Kutuzov rode up and saluted.
This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face of the Tzar like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished. After his illness, he looked rather thinner that day than on the field of Olmütz where Andrei had seen him for the first time abroad, but there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness in his fine gray eyes and on his delicate lips the same capacity for varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted innocent youth.
Previously, at the Olmütz review, the Tzar had seemed more majestic; here he seemed brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own. All the richly dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the Tzar. The Austrian Emperor, a rosy, long-faced young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked some questions—“Most likely the Austrian Emperor is asking at what o’clock they started,” thought Andrei, watching his old acquaintance with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brünn. In the suites of the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor were the picked young orderly officers of the Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms leading the beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered cloths.
As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters a stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of success reached General Kutuzov’s cheerless staff with the galloping advent of all these brilliant young men.
“Why aren’t you beginning, General Kutuzov?” said the Tzar hurriedly to Kutuzov, glancing courteously at the same time at the Austrian Emperor.
“I am waiting, Your Majesty,” answered General Kutuzov, bending forward respectfully.
The Tzar, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not quite heard.
“Waiting, Your Majesty,” repeated General Kutuzov. (Andrei noted that Kutuzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word “waiting.”) “Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your Majesty.”
The Tzar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him as if complaining of General Kutuzov.
“You know, Kutuzov, we are not on the Empress’ Field where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled,” said the Tzar with another glance at the Emperor of Austria, as if inviting him if not to join in at least to listen to what he was saying. But the Emperor of Austria continued to look about him and did not listen.
“That is just why I do not begin, sire,” said General Kutuzov in a resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and again something in his face twitched—“That is just why I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress’ Field,” said he clearly and distinctly.
In the soveriegns’ suite, all exchanged rapid looks that expressed dissatisfaction and reproach. “Old though he may be, he should not, he certainly should not speak like that,” their glances seemed to say.
The Tzar looked intently and observantly into General Kutuzov’s eye waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutuzov, with respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted for about a minute.
“However, if you command it, Your Majesty,” said General Kutuzov, lifting his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but submissive general. He touched his horse and having called General Milorádovich, the commander of the column, gave him the order to advance.
The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Nóvgorod and one of the Ápsheron battalions went forward past the Tzar.
As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced General Milorádovich, without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front and back, galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined in his horse before the Tzar.
“God be with you, general!” said the Tzar.
“Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to do, Sire,” General Milorádovich answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among the gentlemen of the Tzar’s suite by his poor French.
General Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little behind the Tzar. The men of the Ápsheron battalion, excited by the Tzar’s presence, passed in step before the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor and their suites of attendants at a bold, brisk pace.
“Lads!” shouted General Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of battle, and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons, his comrades in Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor, that he forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village you’ve had to take,” cried he.
“Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers.
The Tzar’s horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the Empress’ Field, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor of the nearness of the Austrian Emperor’s black horse, nor of all that was being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider.
The Tzar turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a remark, pointing to the men of the gallant Ápsheron battalion.
***
CHAPTER 16
General Kutuzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind the carabineers.
When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column he stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been an inn, where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill and troops were marching along both.
The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly visible about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down below, on the left, the firing became more distinct. General Kutuzov had stopped and was speaking to an Austrian general. Andrei, who was a little behind looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask him for a field glass.
“Look, look!” said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the distance, but down the hill before him. “It’s the French!”
The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass, trying to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces suddenly changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to be a mile and a half away but had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in front of us.
“It’s the enemy?... No!... Yes, see it is!... for certain... But how is that?” said different voices.
With the naked eye, Andrei saw below them to the right, not more than five hundred paces from where General Kutuzov was standing, a dense French column coming up to meet the Ápsheron battalion.
“Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,” thought Andrei, and striking his horse he rode up to General Kutuzov.
“Our Ápsheron battalion must be stopped, your excellency,” cried Andrei. But at that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all around, firing was heard quite close at hand, and a voice of naive terror barely two steps from Andrei shouted, “Brothers! All’s lost!” And at this as if at a command, everyone began to run.
Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five minutes before the troops had passed the Tzar and the Austrian Emperor. Not only would it have been difficult to stop that crowd, but it was also impossible not to be carried back with it oneself. Andrei only tried not to lose touch with it and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening in front of him. Sergeant Nesvitski with an angry face, red and unlike himself, was shouting to General Kutuzov that if he did not ride away at once he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutuzov remained in the same place and without answering drew out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing from his cheek. Andrei forced his way to him.
“You are wounded?” Andrei asked, hardly able to master the trembling of his lower jaw.
“The wound is not here, it is there!” said General Kutuzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers. “Stop them!” Kutuzov shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right.
A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it.
The Russian troops were running away in such a dense mass that once surrounded by them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, “Get on! Why are you hindering us?” Another in the same place turned round and fired in the air; a third was striking the horse General Kutuzov himself rode. Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, Kutuzov, with his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward a sound of artillery fire nearby. Having forced his way out of the crowd of fugitives, Andrei, trying to keep near General Kutuzov, saw on the slope of the hill amid the smoke a Russian battery that was still firing and Frenchmen running towards it. Higher up stood some Russian infantry, neither moving forward to protect the battery nor backward with the fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself from the infantry and approached General Kutuzov. Of General Kutuzov’s suite, only four remained. They were all pale and exchanged looks in silence.
“Stop those wretches!” gasped General Kutuzov to the regimental commander, pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to punish him for those words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment and across General Kutuzov’s suite like a flock of little birds.
The French had attacked the battery and when they saw General Kutuzov they started firing at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg; several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who was holding the flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without orders.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” groaned General Kutuzov despairingly and looked around... “Andrei!” he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness of the feebleness of age, “Andrei!” he whispered, pointing to the disordered battalion and at the enemy, “what’s that?”
But before Kutuzov had finished speaking, Andrei, feeling tears of shame and anger choking him, had already leaped from his horse and run to the standard.
“Forward, lads!” Andrei shouted in a voice as piercing as a child’s.
“Here it is!” he thought, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him. Several soldiers fell.
“Hurrah!” shouted Andrei, and, scarcely able to hold up the heavy standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole battalion would follow him.
And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting “Hurrah!” and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag that was swaying from its weight in Andrei’s hands, but he was immediately killed. Andrei again seized the standard and, dragging it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front, he saw our artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having abandoned their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French infantry soldiers who were seizing the artillery horses and turning the guns around. Andrei and the battalion were already within twenty paces of the cannon. He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly and to right and left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But he did not look at them: he looked only at what was going on in front of him—at the battery. He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugged at the other. He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men, who evidently did not realize what they were doing.
“What are they about?” thought Andrei as he gazed at them. “Why doesn’t the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed? Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? The gunner will not get away before the Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him...”
Another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him, was about to be decided. But Andrei did not see how it ended. It seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of it was that the pain distracted him and prevented him from seeing what he had been looking at.
“What’s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,” thought Andrei, and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not, and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it. “How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as I ran,” thought Andrei—“not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing, but that. But even if it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace. Thank God!...”
***
CHAPTER 17
On our right flank commanded by Major-General Bagration, at nine o’clock the battle had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to General Dolgorúkov’s demand to commence the action, and wishing to avert responsibility from himself, Major-General Bagration proposed to General Dolgorúkov to send to inquire of General Kutuzov. Major-General Bagration knew that as the distance between the two flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed (which he very likely would be), and found General Kutuzov (which would be very difficult), he would not be able to get back before evening.
Major-General Bagration cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes around his suite, and the boyish face of Nicholas, breathless with excitement and hope, was the first to catch his eye. He sent Nicholas.
“And if I should meet the Tzar before I meet General Kutuzov, your excellency?” said Nicholas, with his hand to his cap.
“You can give the message to the Tzar,” said General Dolgorúkov, hurriedly interrupting Major-General Bagration.
Earlier that night, Nicholas had been relieved from picket duty and so he had managed to get a few hours of sleep before morning. As a result, he felt cheerful, bold, and resolute, with an elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and generally in that state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and easy.
All Nicholas’s wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be a general engagement in which he was taking part, more than that, he was orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a message to General Kutuzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of joy and happiness. On receiving the order Nicholas gave his horse the rein and galloped along the line. At first, he rode along the line of Major-General Bagration’s troops, which had not yet advanced into action but were standing motionless; then he came to the region occupied by Uvárov’s cavalry, and here he noticed a stir and signs of preparation for battle; having passed Uvárov’s cavalry he clearly heard the sound of cannon and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder and louder.
In the fresh morning air was now heard, not two or three musket shots at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots, but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before Pratzen, interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes several of them were not separated from one another but merged into a roar.
Nicholas could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another down the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling, spreading, and mingling with one another. He could also, by the gleam of bayonets visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow lines of artillery with green caissons.
Nicholas stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was going on, but strain his attention as he would he could not understand or make out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men of some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of troops; but why, whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make out. These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him; on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination.
“Go on! Go on! Give it to them!” Nicholas mentally exclaimed at these sounds, and again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating farther and farther into the region where the army was already in action.
“How it will be there I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought Nicholas.
After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the line (the Guards) was already in action.
“So much the better! I shall see it close,” he thought.
Nicholas was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came galloping toward him. They were our light cavalry who with disordered ranks were returning from the attack. Nicholas got out of their way, involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on.
“That is no business of mine,” Nicholas thought. He had not ridden many hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and across his path. Nicholas put his horse to full gallop to get out of the way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at the same speed, but they kept increasing their pace, so that some of the horses were already galloping. Nicholas heard the thud of their hoofs and the jingle of their weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and even their faces, more and more distinctly. They were our Horse Guards, advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them.
The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses. Nicholas could already see their faces and heard the command: “Charge!” shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to full speed. Nicholas, fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack on the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, but still was not in time to avoid them.
The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily on seeing Nicholas before him, with whom he would inevitably collide. This Guardsman would certainly have bowled over Nicholas and his horse, Bedouin (Nicholas felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men and horses) had it not occurred to Nicholas to flourish his whip before the eyes of the Guardsman’s horse. The heavy black horse, sixteen hands high, shied, throwing back its ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman drove his huge spurs in violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail and extending its neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse Guards passed Nicholas before he heard them shout, “Hurrah!” and looking back saw that their foremost ranks were mixed up with some foreign cavalry with red epaulets, probably French. He could see nothing more, for immediately afterward cannon began firing from somewhere and smoke enveloped everything.
At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him, disappeared in the smoke, Nicholas hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go where he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of the Horse Guards that amazed the French themselves. Nicholas was horrified to hear later that of all that mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant, rich youths, officers, and cadets, who had galloped past him on their thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen men were left after the charge.
“Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see the Tzar immediately!” thought Nicholas and galloped on.
When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them and around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so much because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on the soldiers’ faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the officers.
Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he heard a voice calling him by name.
“Nicholas!”
“What?” he answered, not recognizing Boris.
“I say, we’ve been in the front line! Our regiment attacked!” said Boris with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have been under fire for the first time.
Nicholas stopped.
“Have you?” he said. “Well, how did it go?”
“We drove them back!” said Boris with animation, growing talkative. “Can you imagine it?” and Boris began describing how the Guards, having taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had unexpectedly to go into action. Nicholas without hearing Boris to the end spurred his horse.
“Where are you off to?” asked Boris.
“With a message to His Majesty.”
“There he is!” said Boris, thinking Nicholas had said “His Highness,” and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet and Horse Guards’ jacket, shouting something to a pale, white uniformed Austrian officer.
“But that’s the Grand Duke, and I want General Kutuzov or the Tzar,” said Nicholas, and was about to spur his horse.
“Nicholas! Nicholas!” shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager as Boris. “Nicholas! I am wounded in my right hand” (and he showed his bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it) “and I remained at the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Nicholas. All our family—the von Bergs—have been knights!”
Berg said something more, but Nicholas did not wait to hear it and rode away.
Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Nicholas, to avoid again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far around the place where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops, where he could never have expected the enemy to be.
“What can it be?” Nicholas thought. “The enemy in the rear of our army? Impossible!” And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself and for the issue of the whole battle. “But be that what it may,” he reflected, “there is no riding around it now. I must look for General Kutuzov here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with the rest.”
The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Nicholas was more and more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds.
“What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing?” Nicholas kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian soldiers running in confused crowds across his path.
“The devil knows! They’ve killed everybody! It’s all up now!” he was told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who understood what was happening as little as he did.
“Kill the Germans!” shouted one.
“May the devil take them—the traitors!”
“Hang these Russians!” muttered a German.
Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, and groans mingled in a hubbub, then the firing died down. Nicholas learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another.
“My God! What does it all mean?” thought Nicholas. “And here, where at any moment the Tzar may see them... But no, these must be only a handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can’t be that, it can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!”
The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Nicholas’s head. Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where he had been ordered to look for General Kutuzov, he could not, did not wish to, believe that.
***
CHAPTER 18
Nicholas had been ordered to look for General Kutuzov and the Tzar near the village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. Nicholas urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The high road on which he had come out was thronged with carriages, carriages of all sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries stationed on the Pratzen Heights.
“Where is the Tzar? Where is General Kutuzov?” Nicholas kept asking everyone he could stop but got no answer from anyone.
At last, seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer.
“Eh, brother! They’ve all bolted long ago!” said the soldier, laughing for some reason and shaking himself free.
Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Nicholas stopped the horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to question him. The man announced that the Tzar had been driven in a carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and that he was dangerously wounded.
“It can’t be!” said Nicholas. “It must have been someone else.”
“I saw him myself,” replied the man with a self-confident smile of derision. “I ought to know the Tzar by now, after the times I’ve seen him in St. Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you... There he sat in the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It’s time I knew the Imperial horses and Ilyá Iványch. I don’t think Ilyá drives anyone except the Tzar!”
Nicholas let go of the horse and was about to ride on when a wounded officer passing by addressed him:
“Who is it you want?” he asked. “General Kutuzov? He was killed by a cannonball—struck in the breast before our regiment.”
“Not killed—wounded!” another officer corrected him.
“Who? General Kutuzov?” asked Nicholas.
“Not General Kutuzov, but what’s his name—well, never mind... there are not many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders are there,” said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek, and he walked on.
Nicholas rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The Tzar was wounded, and the battle was lost. It was impossible to doubt it now. Nicholas rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say to the Tzar or to General Kutuzov, even if they were alive and unwounded?
“Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!” a soldier shouted to him. “They’d kill you there!”
“Oh, what are you talking about?” said another. “Where is he to go? That way is nearer.”
Nicholas considered, and then went in the direction where they said he would be killed.
“It’s all the same now. If the Tzar is wounded, am I to try to save myself?” Nicholas thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians—the uninjured and slightly wounded—had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes and one could hear their distressing screams and groans, sometimes feigned—or so it seemed to Nicholas. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these suffering men, and he felt afraid—afraid not for his life, but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not stand the sight of these unfortunates.
The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an adjutant riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around him merged in Nicholas’s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity for himself. He remembered his mother’s last letter. “What would she feel,” thought he, “if she saw me here now on this field with the cannon aimed at me?”
In the village of Hosjeradek, there were Russian troops retiring from the field of battle, who though still in some confusion were less disordered. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle was lost. No one whom Nicholas asked could tell him where the Tzar or General Kutuzov was. Some said the report that the Tzar was wounded was correct, others that it was not, and explained the false rumor that had spread by the fact that the Tzar’s carriage had really galloped from the field of battle with the pale and terrified Grand Marshal of the Court Tolstóy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in the Tzar’s suite. One officer told Nicholas that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village to the left, and thither Nicholas rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience. When he had ridden about two miles and had passed the last of the Russian troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch around it, two men on horseback facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed familiar to Nicholas; the other on a beautiful chestnut horse (which Nicholas fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his horse with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only a little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse’s hind hoofs. Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially addressed the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting that he should do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Nicholas and involuntarily riveted his attention, made a gesture of refusal with his head and hand, and by that gesture, Nicholas instantly recognized his lamented and adored Tzar.
“But it can’t be he, alone in the midst of this empty field!” thought Nicholas. At that moment the Tzar turned his head and Nicholas saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The Tzar was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm, the mildness of his features, was all the greater. Nicholas was happy in the assurance that the rumors about the Tzar being wounded were false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even ought to go straight to him and give the message General Dolgorúkov had ordered him to deliver.
But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help or a chance of delay and flight when the longed-for moment comes and he is alone with her, so Nicholas, now that he had attained what he had longed for more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach the Tzar, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so.
“What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant or painful to him at this moment of sorrow; besides, what can I say to him now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight of him?” Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the Tzar that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall. Those speeches were intended for quite other conditions, they were, for the most part, to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph, generally when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked him for heroic deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his actions had proved.
“Besides how can I ask the Tzar for his instructions for the right flank now that it is nearly four o’clock and the battle is lost? No, certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his reflections. Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind look or bad opinion from him,” Nicholas decided; and sorrowfully and with a heart full of despair he rode away, continually looking back at the Tzar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision.
While Nicholas was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away, Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the Tzar at once rode up to him, offered his services, and assisted him to cross the ditch on foot. The Tzar, wishing to rest and feeling unwell, sat down under an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him. Nicholas from a distance saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke long and warmly to the Tzar and how the Tzar, evidently weeping, covered his eyes with his hand and pressed von Toll’s hand.
“And I might have been in his place!” thought Nicholas, and hardly restraining his tears of pity for the Tzar, he rode on in utter despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding.
Nicholas’s despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was the cause of his grief.
Nicholas might... not only might but should, have gone up to the Tzar. It was a unique chance to show his devotion to the Tzar and he had not made use of it... “What have I done?” thought he. And he turned round and galloped back to the place where he had seen the Tzar, but there was no one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages were passing by. From one of the drivers, he learned that General Kutuzov’s staff were not far off, in the village the vehicles were going to. Nicholas followed them. In front of him walked General Kutuzov’s groom leading horses in horsecloths. Then came a cart, and behind that walked an old, bandy-legged domestic serf in a peaked cap and sheepskin coat.
“Tit! I say, Tit!” said the groom.
“What?” answered the old man absent-mindedly.
“Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!”
“Oh, you fool!” said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed in silence, and then the same joke was repeated.
Before five in the evening, the battle had been lost at all points. More than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French.
Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused masses.
The remains of Commander Langeron’s and General Dokhtúrov’s mingled forces were crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of Augesd.
After five o’clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot cannonade (delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from numerous batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights, directed at our retreating forces.
In the rearguard, General Dokhtúrov and others rallying some battalions kept up a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It was growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many years the old miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap peacefully angling, while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the floundering silvery fish in the watering can, on that dam over which for so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven their two-horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty with flour whitening their carts—on that narrow dam amid the wagons and the cannon, under the horses’ hoofs and between the wagon wheels, men disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another, only to move on a few steps and be killed themselves in the same way.
Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and splashing with blood those near them.
Private Dolokhov—now promoted to officer—wounded in the arm, and on foot, with the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company, represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and, jammed in on all sides, had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a cannon and the crowd was dragging it out. A cannonball killed someone behind them, and another fell in front and splashed Dolokhov with blood. The crowd, pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few steps, and again stopped.
“Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here another two minutes and it is certain death,” thought each one.
Dolokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the edge of the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto the slippery ice that covered the mill pool.
“Turn this way!” he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked under him; “turn this way!” he shouted to those with the gun. “It bears!...”
The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd but very soon even under his weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to the bank, hesitating to step onto the ice. A general on horseback at the entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to address Dolokhov. Suddenly a cannonball hissed so low above the crowd that everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist, and the general fell from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of raising him.
“Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don’t you hear? Go on!” innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck the general, the men themselves not knowing what, or why, they were shouting.
One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto the ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond. The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to his waist. The nearest soldiers shrank back, and the gun driver stopped his horse, but from behind still came the shouts: “Onto the ice, why do you stop? Go on! Go on!” And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice, that had held under those on foot, collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on it dashed, some forward and some back, drowning one another.
Still, the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered the dam, the pond, and the bank.
***
CHAPTER 19
On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his hand, lay Andrei bleeding profusely and unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan.
Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head.
“Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw today?” was Andrei’s first thought. “And I did not know this suffering either,” he thought. “Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all till now. But where am I?”
Andrei listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up and stopped near him.
It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Napoleon riding over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left on the field.
“Fine men!” remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier, who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide.
“The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Sire,” said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were firing at Augesd.
“Have some brought from the reserve,” said Napoleon, and having gone on a few steps he stopped before Andrei, who lay on his back with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already been taken by the French as a trophy.)
“That’s a fine death!” said Napoleon as he gazed at Andrei.
Andrei understood that this was said of him and that it was Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was passing now between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him, or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan which aroused his own pity.
“Ah! He is alive,” said Napoleon. “Lift this young man up and carry him to the dressing station.”
Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Général Lannes, who, hat in hand, rode up smiling to the Tzar to congratulate him on the victory.
Andrei remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting while being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station. He did not regain consciousness till late in the day when with other wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital. During this transfer, he felt a little stronger and was able to look around and even speak.
The first words Andrei heard on coming to his senses were those of a French convoy officer, who said rapidly: “We must halt here: the Tzar will pass here immediately; it will please him to see these gentlemen prisoners.”
“There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer.
“All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Tzar’s Guards,” said the first one, indicating a Russian officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.
Andrei recognized Baron Repnín whom he had met in St. Petersburg society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of the Horse Guards.
Napoleon, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.
“Which is the senior?” he asked, on seeing the prisoners.
They named Colonel Repnín.
“You are the commander of the Tzar’s regiment of Horse Guards?” asked Napoleon.
“I commanded a squadron,” replied Colonel Repnín.
“Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,” said Napoleon.
“The praise of a great commander is a soldier’s highest reward,” said Repnín.
“I bestow it with pleasure,” said Napoleon. “And who is that young man beside you?”
Colonel Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen.
After looking at him Napoleon smiled.
“He’s very young to come to meddle with us.”
“Youth is no hindrance to courage,” muttered Lieutenant Sukhtélen in a failing voice.
“A splendid reply!” said Napoleon. “Young man, you will go far!”
Andrei, who had also been brought forward before the Tzar’s eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield and, addressing him, again used the epithet “young man” that was connected in his memory with Andrei.
“Well, and you, young man,” said he. “How do you feel, my brave man?”
Though five minutes before, Andrei had been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed straight on Napoleon, he was silent... So insignificant at that moment seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so mean did his hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear, compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and understood, that he could not answer him.
Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood, suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into Napoleon’s eyes Andrei thought of the insignificance of greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one alive could understand or explain.
Napoleon, without waiting for an answer, turned away and said to one of the officers as he went: “Have these gentlemen attended to and taken to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their wounds. Goodbye, Colonel Repnín!” and he spurred his horse and galloped away.
Napoleon's face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.
The soldiers who had carried Andrei had noticed and taken the little gold icon Marya had hung around her brother’s neck, but seeing the favor Napoleon showed the prisoners, they now hastened to return the holy image.
Andrei did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest outside his uniform.
“It would be good,” thought Andrei, glancing at the icon his sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, “it would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to Marya. How good it would be to know where to seek help in this life, and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I should be if I could now say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me!’... But to whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable, incomprehensible, which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in words—the Great All or Nothing-” said he to himself, “or to that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Marya! There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible but all-important.”
The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain; his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father, wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious fancies.
The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented themselves to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and torments had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of unconsciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon’s doctor, Dr. Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence.
“This patient is a nervous, bilious subject,” said Dr. Larrey, “and will not recover.”
And Andrei, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care of the inhabitants of the district.
BOOK 4: 1806
***
CHAPTER 1
Early in the year 1806, Nicholas returned home on leave. Denisov was going home to Vorónezh and Nicholas persuaded him to travel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at the last post station but one before Moscow, Denisov had drunk three bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to Moscow, but lay at the bottom of the sleigh beside Nicholas, who grew more and more impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.
“How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets, shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!” thought Nicholas, when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and they had entered Moscow.
“Denisov! We’re here! Oh, he’s asleep,” Nicholas added, leaning forward with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed of the sleigh.
Denisov gave no answer.
“There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár, has his stand, and there’s Zakhár himself and still the same horse! And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t you hurry up? Now then!”
“Which house is it?” asked the driver.
“Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don’t you see? That’s our house,” said Nicholas. “Of course, it’s our house! Denisov, Denisov! We’re almost there!”
Denisov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.
“Dmítri,” said Nicholas to his valet on the box, “those lights are in our house, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study.”
“Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now, don’t forget to put out my new coat,” added Nicholas, fingering his new mustache. “Now then, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “Do wake up, Denisov!” he went on, turning to Denisov, whose head was again nodding. “Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for vodka—get on!” Nicholas shouted when the sleigh was only three houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at all. At last, the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and Nicholas saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house stood cold and silent as if quite regardless of who had come to it. There was no one in the hall. “Oh, God! Is everyone all right?” he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always angered Countess Rostov when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely as ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.
Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy, the footman, who was so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat plaiting slippers out of cloth selvages. Prokófy looked up at the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one of delighted amazement.
“Gracious heavens! Nicholas!” cried Prokófy, recognizing his young master. “Can it be? My treasure!” and Prokófy, trembling with excitement, rushed toward the drawing-room door, probably in order to announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the young man’s shoulder.
“All well?” asked Nicholas, drawing away his arm.
“Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have a look at you, your excellency.”
“Is everything quite all right?”
“The Lord be thanked, yes!”
Nicholas, who had completely forgotten Denisov, not wishing anyone to forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was Count Rostov, which Natasha, and which little Petya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed that.
“And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!...”
“Here he is... our own... Nicholas, dear fellow... How he has changed!... Where are the candles?... Tea!...”
“And me, kiss me!”
“Dearest... and me!”
Sonya, Natasha, Petya, Widow Drubetskoy, Vera, and Count Rostov were all hugging him, and the serfs, men, and maids flocked into the room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.
Petya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!”
Natasha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly.
All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around were lips seeking a kiss.
Orphan niece Sonya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss, looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she longed. Sonya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at Nicholas, not taking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. Count Rostov had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s.
Yet it was her, Countess Rostov, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denisov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped his eyes at the sight.
“Denisov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing himself to Count Rostov, who was looking inquiringly at him.
“You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said Count Rostov, kissing and embracing Denisov. “Nicholas wrote us... Natasha, Vera, look! Here is Denisov!”
The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denisov.
“Darling Denisov!” screamed Natasha, beside herself with rapture, springing to him, putting her arms around him, and kissing him. This escapade made everybody feel confused. Denisov blushed too, but smiled and, taking Natasha’s hand, kissed it.
Denisov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostovs all gathered around Nicholas in the sitting room.
Countess Rostov, not letting go of Nicholas’s hand and kissing it every moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding around him, watched every movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest to him and disputed with one another about who should bring him his tea, handkerchief, and pipe.
Nicholas was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.
The next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers slept till ten o’clock.
In the room next to their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers, satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco.
“Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe!” came Denisov’s husky voice. “Nicholas, get up!”
Nicholas, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow.
“Why, is it late?”
“Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natasha’s voice. A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair, and merry faces. It was Natasha, Sonya, and Petya, who had come to see whether they were getting up.
“Nicholas! Get up!” Natasha’s voice was again heard at the door.
“Directly!”
Meanwhile, Petya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer room, with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed, opened the bedroom door.
“Is this your saber?” Petya shouted.
The girls sprang aside. Denisov hid his hairy legs under the blanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let Petya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it.
“Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natasha’s voice.
“Is this your saber?” asked Petya. “Or is it yours?” he said, addressing the black-mustached Denisov with servile deference.
Nicholas hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown, and went out. Natasha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting her foot into the other. Orphan niece Sonya, when he came in, was twirling around and was about to expand her dress into a balloon and sit down. They were dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and bright. Sonya ran away, but Natasha, taking her brother’s arm, led him into the sitting room, where they began talking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natasha laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter.
“Oh, how nice, how splendid!” Natasha said to everything.
Nicholas felt that under the influence of the warm rays of love, that childlike smile that had not once appeared on his face since he left home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his soul and his face.
“No, but listen,” Natasha said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his mustache. “I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as us? No?”
“Why did Sonya run away?” asked Nicholas.
“Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to her—the informal thou or the formal you?”
“As may happen,” said Nicholas.
“No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it some other time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sonya’s my dearest friend. Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!”
Natasha pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long, slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered even by a ball dress.
“I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there!”
Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natasha’s wildly bright eyes, Nicholas re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life; and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it.
“Well, and is that all?” Nicholas asked.
“We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just nonsense, but we are friends forever. Sonya, if she loves anyone, does it for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.”
“Well, what then?”
“Well, Sonya loves me and you like that.”
Natasha suddenly flushed.
“Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, Sonya says you are to forget all that... She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble? Yes, very noble. Isn’t it?” asked Natasha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.
Nicholas became thoughtful.
“I never go back on my word,” Nicholas said. “Besides, Sonya is so charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.”
“No, no!” cried Natasha, “she and I have already talked it over. We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.”
Nicholas saw that it had been well considered by them. Sonya had already struck him with her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry her, Nicholas thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he thought, “I must remain free.”
“Well then, that’s excellent,” said Nicholas. “We’ll talk it over later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!”
“Well, and are you still true to Boris?” Nicholas continued.
“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Natasha, laughing. “I don’t think about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.”
“Dear me! Then what are you up to now?”
“Now?” repeated Natasha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have you seen Duport?”
“No.”
“Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t understand. That’s what I’m up to.”
Curving her arms, Natasha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.
“See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself on her toes any longer. “So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.”
Nicholas laughed so loud and merrily that Denisov, in his bedroom, felt envious and Natasha could not help joining in.
“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” Natasha kept repeating.
“Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Boris?”
Natasha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell him so when I see him!”
“Dear me!” said Nicholas.
“But that’s all rubbish,” Natasha chattered on. “And is Denisov nice?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed!”
“Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible, Denisov?”
“Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid fellow.”
“You call him Váska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?”
“Very.”
“Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together.”
And Natasha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When Nicholas met Sonya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as you—Sonya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by Natasha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to love her, for that would be impossible.
“How strange it is,” said Vera, selecting a moment when all were silent, “that Sonya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet like strangers.”
Vera’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not only Sonya, Nicholas, and Natasha, but even Count Rostov, who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making a brilliant match—blushed like a girl.
Denisov, to Nicholas’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the ladies and gentlemen than Nicholas had ever expected to see him.
***
CHAPTER 2
On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas was welcomed by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their darling Nicholas; by his relations as a charming, attractive, and polite young man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good dancer, and one of the best matches in the city.
The Rostovs knew everybody in Moscow. Count Rostov had money enough that year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas, acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the latest cut, such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the latest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs, passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himself to the old conditions of life, Nicholas found it very pleasant to be at home again. He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. His despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money from Gavríl to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sonya on the sly—he now recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind. Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, and wearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to soldiers for bravery in action, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respected racing men was training a trotter of his own for a race. Nicholas knew a lady on one of the boulevards whom he visited some evenings. He led the mazurka at the Arkhárovs’ ball, talked about the war with General Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with a colonel of forty to whom Denisov had introduced him.
Nicholas’s passion for the Tzar had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But still, as he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him, he often spoke about him and about his love for him, letting it be understood that he had not told all and that there was something in his feelings for the Tzar not everyone could understand, and with his whole soul he shared the adoration then common in Moscow for the Tzar, who was spoken of as the “angel incarnate.”
During Nicholas’s short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army, he did not draw closer to Sonya but rather drifted away from her. She was very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him, but he was at the period of youth when there seems so much to do that there is no time for that sort of thing and a young man fears to bind himself and prizes his freedom which he needs for so many other things. When he thought of Sonya, during this stay in Moscow, Nicholas said to himself, “Ah, there will be, and there are, many more such girls somewhere whom I do not yet know. There will be time enough to think about love when I want to, but now I have no time.” Besides, it seemed to him that the society of women was rather derogatory to his manhood. He went to balls and into ladies’ society with an affectation of doing so against his will. The races, the English Club, sprees with Denisov, and visits to a certain house—that was another matter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar!
At the beginning of March, Count Rostov was very busy arranging a dinner in honor of Major-General Bagration at the English Club.
Count Rostov walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving orders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktíst, the club’s head cook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish for this dinner. Count Rostov had been a member and on the committee of the club from the day it was founded. To him, the club entrusted the arrangement of the festival in honor of Major-General Bagration, for few men knew so well how to arrange a feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale, and still fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out of their own resources what might be needed for the success of the fete. The club cook and the steward listened to Count Rostov’s orders with pleased faces, for they knew that under no other management could they so easily extract a good profit for themselves from a dinner costing several thousand rubles.
“Well then, mind and have cocks’ comb in the turtle soup, you know!”
“Shall we have three cold dishes then?” asked the cook.
Count Rostov considered.
“We can’t have less—yes, three... the mayonnaise, that’s one,” said he, bending down a finger.
“Then am I to order those large sterlets?” asked the steward.
“Yes, it can’t be helped if they won’t take less. Ah, dear me! I was forgetting. We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!” Count Rostov clutched at his head. “Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmítri! Eh, Dmítri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate,” he said to the factotum who appeared at his call. “Hurry off and tell Maksím, the gardener, to set the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must be brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots here on Friday.”
Having given several more orders, Count Rostov was about to go to his wife to have a rest, but remembering something else of importance, he returned again, called back the cook and the club steward, and again began giving orders. A light footstep and the clinking of spurs were heard at the door, and Nicholas, handsome, rosy, with a dark little mustache, evidently rested and made sleeker by his easy life in Moscow, entered the room.
“Ah, Nicholas, my boy, my head’s in a whirl!” said Count Rostov with a smile, as if he felt a little confused before his son. “Now, if you would only help a bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my own orchestra, but shouldn’t we get the Bohemian singers as well? You military men like that sort of thing.”
“Really, Papa, I believe Major-General Bagration worried himself less before the battle of Schön Grabern than you do now,” said Nicholas with a smile.
Count Rostov pretended to be angry.
“Yes, you talk, but try it yourself!”
And Count Rostov turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and son.
“What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktíst?” said Count Rostov. “Laughing at us old fellows!”
“That’s so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good dinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that’s not their business!”
“That’s it, that’s it!” exclaimed Count Rostov, and gaily seizing his son by both hands, he cried, “Now I’ve got you, so take the sleigh and pair at once, and go to Pierre’s, and tell him ‘Count Rostov has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples.’ We can’t get them from anyone else. He’s not there himself, so you’ll have to go in and ask Katerina and her sisters, and from there go on to the Rasgulyáy—the coachman Ipátka knows—and look up the Bohemian Ilyúshka, the one who danced at Count Orlóv’s, you remember, in a white Cossack coat, and bring him along to me.”
“And am I to bring the Bohemian girls along with him?” asked Nicholas, laughing. “Dear, dear!...”
At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with the businesslike, preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which never left her face, Widow Drubetskoy entered the hall. Though she came upon Count Rostov in his dressing gown every day, he invariably became confused and begged her to excuse his costume.
“No matter at all, my dear Count Rostov,” Widow Drubetskoy said, meekly closing her eyes. “But I’ll go to Pierre’s estate myself. Now that Pierre himself has arrived, now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him in any case. Pierre has forwarded me a letter from Boris. Thank God, Boris is now on the staff.”
Count Rostov was delighted at Widow Drubetskoy’s taking upon herself one of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her.
“Tell Pierre to come. I’ll put his name down. Is Helene with him?” he asked.
Widow Drubetskoy turned up her eyes, and profound sadness was depicted on her face.
“Ah, my dear friend, Pierre is very unfortunate,” she said. “If what we hear is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thing when we were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soul as young Pierre! Yes, I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give him what consolation I can.”
“Wh-what is the matter?” asked both the young and Count Rostov.
Widow Drubetskoy sighed deeply.
“Dolokhov, Marya Ivánovna’s son,” she said in a mysterious whisper, “has compromised Helene completely, they say. Pierre took Dolokhov up, invited him to his house in St. Petersburg, and now... Helene has come here and that daredevil after her!” said Widow Drubetskoy, wishing to show her sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile betraying her sympathy for the “daredevil,” as she called Dolokhov. “They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune.”
“Dear, dear! But still, tell Pierre to come to the club—it will all blow over. It will be a tremendous banquet.”
The next day, the third of March, soon after one o’clock, two hundred and fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaiting the guest of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, Major-General Bagration, for dinner.
On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscow had been bewildered. At that time, the Russians were so used to victories that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it, while others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an event. In the English Club, where all who were distinguished, important, and well-informed foregathered when the news began to arrive in December, nothing was said about the war and the last battle, as though all were in a conspiracy of silence. The men who set the tone in conversation—Mayor Rostopchin, Baron Yúri General Dolgorúkov, Valúev, Count Markóv, and Baron Vyázemski—did not show themselves at the club, but met in private houses in intimate circles, and the Moscovites who took their opinions from others—Count Rostov among them—remained for a while without any definite opinion on the subject of the war and without leaders. The Moscovites felt that something was wrong and that discussing the bad news was difficult, so it was best to be silent. But after a while, just as a jury comes out of its room, the bigwigs who guided the club’s opinion reappeared, and everybody began speaking clearly and definitely. Reasons were found for the incredible, unheard-of, and impossible event of a Russian defeat, everything became clear, and in all corners of Moscow, the same things began to be said. These reasons were the treachery of the Austrians, a defective commissariat, the treachery of the Pole Przebyszéwski and of the Frenchman Commander Langeron, General Kutuzov’s incapacity, and (it was whispered) the youth and inexperience of the sovereign, who had trusted worthless and insignificant people. But the army, the Russian army, everyone declared, was extraordinary and had achieved miracles of valor. The soldiers, officers, and generals were heroes. But the hero of heroes was Major-General Bagration, distinguished by his Schön Grabern affair and by the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had withdrawn his column unbroken and had all day beaten back an enemy force twice as numerous as his own. What also conduced to Major-General Bagration’s being selected as Moscow’s hero was the fact that he had no connections in the city and was a stranger there. In his person, honor was shown to a simple fighting Russian soldier without connections and intrigues, and to one who was associated by memories of the Italian campaign with the name of Suvórov. Moreover, paying such honor to Major-General Bagration was the best way of expressing disapproval and dislike of General Kutuzov.
“Had there been no Major-General Bagration, it would have been necessary to invent him,” said Cousin Sinchin, parodying the words of Voltaire. General Kutuzov no one spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers, calling him a court weathercock and an old satyr.
All Moscow repeated General Dolgorúkov’s saying: “If you go on modeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay,” suggesting consolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; and the words of Mayor Rostopchin, that French soldiers have to be incited to battle by highfalutin words, and Germans by logical arguments to show them that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, but that Russian soldiers only need to be restrained and held back! On all sides, new and fresh anecdotes were heard of individual examples of heroism shown by our officers and men at Austerlitz. One had saved a standard, another had killed five Frenchmen, and a third had loaded five cannons singlehanded. Berg was mentioned, by those who did not know him, as having, when wounded in the right hand, taken his sword in the left, and gone forward. Of Andrei, nothing was said, and only those who knew him intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving a pregnant wife, Lise, with his eccentric father, Baron Bolkonski.
***
CHAPTER 3
On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime. The members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat, stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress, and a few here and there with powdered hair and in Russian kaftáns. Powdered footmen, in livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings, stood at every door anxiously noting visitors’ every movement in order to offer their services. Most of those present were elderly, respected men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices. This class of guests and members sat in certain habitual places and met in certain habitual groups. A minority of those present were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denisov, Nicholas, and Dolokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov regiment. The faces of these young people, especially those who were military men, bore that expression of condescending respect for their elders which seems to say to the older generation, “We are prepared to respect and honor you, but all the same remember that the future belongs to us.”
Sergeant Nesvitski was there as an old member of the club. Pierre, who at his wife Helene’s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles, went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here, as elsewhere, Pierre was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people, he treated them with absent-minded contempt.
By Pierre's age, he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and so he went from one group to another. Some of the most important old men were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully to hear the voices of well-known men. The largest circles formed around Mayor Rostopchin, Valúev, and Narýshkin. Mayor Rostopchin was describing how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to force their way through them with bayonets.
Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from St. Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz.
In the third circle, Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the Austrian Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to the nonsense talked by the Austrian Generals. Cousin Sinchin, standing close by, tried to make a joke, saying that General Kutuzov had evidently failed to learn from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a cock, but the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him feel that in that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of General Kutuzov.
Count Rostov, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all equals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Nicholas stood at a window with Dolokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately made and highly valued. Count Rostov came up to them and pressed Dolokhov’s hand.
“Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... been together out there... both playing the hero... Ah, how d’ye do, old fellow?” Count Rostov said, turning to an old man who was passing, but before he had finished his greeting there was a stir, and a footman who had run in announced, with a frightened face: “Major-General Bagration has arrived!”
Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and—as rye shook together in a shovel—the guests who had been scattered about in different rooms came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the door of the ballroom.
Major-General Bagration appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without a hat or sword, which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall porter. He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip over his shoulder, as when Nicholas had seen him on the eve of the battle of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign Orders, and the Star of St. George on his left breast. Evidently, just before coming to the dinner, he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed, which changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naively festive in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile features, gave him a rather comical expression. Bekleshëv and Theodore Uvárov, who had arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him, as the guest of honor, to enter first. Major-General Bagration was embarrassed, not wishing to avail himself of their courtesy, and this caused some delay at the doors, but after all, he did at last enter first. He walked shyly and awkwardly over the parquet floor of the reception room, not knowing what to do with his hands; he was more accustomed to walking over a plowed field under fire, as he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schön Grabern—and he would have found that easier. The committeemen met him at the first door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a highly honored guest, took possession of him as it were, without waiting for his reply, surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was at first impossible to enter the drawing-room door for the crowd of members and guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look at Major-General Bagration over each other’s shoulders as if he were some rare animal. Count Rostov, laughing and repeating the words, “Make way, dear boy! Make way, make way!” pushed through the crowd more energetically than anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and seated them on the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members of the club, beset the new arrivals. Count Rostov, again thrusting his way through the crowd, went out of the drawing room and reappeared a minute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salver which he presented to Major-General Bagration. On the salver lay some verses composed and printed in the hero’s honor. Major-General Bagration, on seeing the salver, glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help. But all eyes demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself in their power, he resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked sternly and reproachfully at Count Rostov who had presented it to him. Someone obligingly took the dish from Major-General Bagration (or he would, it seemed, have held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it) and drew his attention to the verses.
“Well, I will read them, then!” Major-General Bagration seemed to say, and, fixing his weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed and serious expression. But the author himself took the verses and began reading them aloud. Major-General Bagration bowed his head and listened:
“Bring glory then to The Tzar’s reign
And on the throne our Titus shield.
A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man,
A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field!
E’en fortunate Napoleon
Knows by experience, now, Major-General Bagration,
And dare not Herculean Russians trouble...”
But before Major-General Bagration had finished reading, a stentorian majordomo announced that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from the dining room came the resounding strains of the polonaise:
“Conquest’s joyful thunder waken,
Triumph, valiant Russians, now!...”
…and Count Rostov, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading his verses, bowed to Major-General Bagration. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner was more important than verses, and Major-General Bagration, again preceding all the rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between two guests of honor—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin—which was a significant allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance: the more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows deepest where the land lies lowest.
Just before dinner, Count Rostov presented his Nicholas to Major-General Bagration, who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward, as were all the words he spoke that day, and Count Rostov looked joyfully and proudly around while Major-General Bagration spoke to Nicholas.
Nicholas, with Denisov and his new acquaintance, Dolokhov, sat almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Baron Sergeant Nesvitski. Count Rostov with the other members of the committee sat facing Major-General Bagration and, as the very personification of Moscow hospitality, did the honors to the Baron.
Count Rostov’s efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the end of the meal. He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at the sight of which Count Rostov blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses. After the fish, which made a certain sensation, Count Rostov exchanged glances with the other committeemen. “There will be many toasts, it’s time to begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were silent, waiting for what he would say.
“To the health of our Sovereign, the Tzar!” Count Rostov cried, and at the same moment, his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm. The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder waken...” All rose and cried “Hurrah!” Major-General Bagration also rose and shouted “Hurrah!” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted it on the field at Schön Grabern. Nicholas’s ecstatic voice could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. “To the health of our Sovereign, the Tzar!” he roared, “Hurrah!” and emptying his glass in one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging remarks. Count Rostov rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside his plate, and proposed a toast, “To the health of the hero of our last campaign, Major-General Bagration!” and again his blue eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again, but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by General Kutuzov:
“Russians! O’er all barriers on!
Courage conquest guarantees;
Have we not Major-General Bagration?
He brings foemen to their knees,...” etc.
As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed and Count Rostov became more and more moved, more glass was smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv, Narýshkin, Uvárov, General Dolgorúkov, Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee, to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to Count Rostov separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that toast, Count Rostov took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept outright.
***
CHAPTER 4
Pierre sat opposite Dolokhov and Nicholas. As usual, Pierre ate and drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixed eyes and a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some depressing and unsolved problem.
The unsolved problem that tormented Pierre was caused by hints given by Katerina, at Moscow, concerning Dolokhov’s intimacy with his wife Helene, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw badly through his spectacles, but that Helene’s connection with Dolokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely disbelieved both Katerina’s hints and the letter, but he feared now to look at Dolokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Every time he chanced to meet Dolokhov’s handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly away. Involuntarily recalling Helene’s past and her relations with Dolokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be true, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife. Pierre involuntarily remembered how Dolokhov, who had fully recovered his former position after the campaign, had returned to St. Petersburg and come to him. Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon companion, Dolokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre had put him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Helene had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dolokhov’s living at their house, and how cynically Dolokhov had praised his wife’s beauty to him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day.
“Yes, Dolokhov is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. It would be particularly pleasant for him to dishonor my name and ridicule me, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him, and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the pleasure of deceiving me if it really were true. Yes, if it were true, but I do not believe it. I have no right to, and can’t, believe it.” Pierre remembered the expression Dolokhov’s face assumed in his moments of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any reason, or shot a post-boy’s horse with a pistol. That expression was often on Dolokhov’s face when looking at him. “Yes, he is a bully,” thought Pierre, “to kill a man means nothing to him. It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him. He must think that I, too, am afraid of him—and in fact, I am afraid of him,” he thought, and again he felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul. Dolokhov, Denisov, and Nicholas were now sitting opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Nicholas was talking merrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very noticeable one at the dinner. Nicholas looked inimically at Pierre, first because Pierre appeared to his hussar's eyes as a rich civilian, the husband of a beauty, and in a word—an old woman; and secondly, because Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized Nicholas and had not responded to his greeting. When the Tzar’s health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass.
“What are you about?” shouted Nicholas, looking at him in an ecstasy of exasperation. “Don’t you hear it’s His Majesty the Tzar’s health?”
Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waiting till all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Nicholas.
“Why, I didn’t recognize you!” Pierre said. But Nicholas was otherwise engaged; he was shouting “Hurrah!”
“Why don’t you renew the acquaintance?” said Dolokhov to Nicholas.
“Confound him, Pierre is a fool!” said Nicholas.
“One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,” said Denisov.
Pierre did not catch what they were saying but knew they were talking about him. He reddened and turned away.
“Well, now to the health of handsome women!” said Dolokhov, and with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre.
“Here’s to the health of lovely women, Pierre—and their lovers!” he added.
Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at Dolokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing leaflets with General Kutuzov’s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the principal guests. Pierre was just going to take it when Dolokhov, leaning across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked at Dolokhov and his eyes dropped, the something terrible and monstrous that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and took possession of him. He leaned his whole massive body across the table.
“How dare you take it?” Pierre shouted.
Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Sergeant Nesvitski and the neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Pierre.
“Don’t! Don’t! What are you about?” whispered their frightened voices.
Dolokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that smile of his which seemed to say, “Ah! This is what I like!”
“You shan’t have it!” Dolokhov said distinctly.
Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.
“You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!” Pierre ejaculated, and, pushing back his chair, he rose from the table.
At the very instant Pierre did this and uttered those words, he felt that the question of his wife’s guilt which had been tormenting him the whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative. He hated Helene and was forever sundered from her.
Despite Denisov’s request that Nicholas would take no part in the duel, Nicholas agreed to be Dolokhov’s second, and after dinner, Nicholas discussed the arrangements for the duel with Sergeant Nesvitski, Pierre’s second. Pierre went home, but Nicholas, Dolokhov, and Denisov stayed on at the club till late, listening to the Bohemians and other singers.
“Well then, till tomorrow at Sokólniki,” said Dolokhov, as he took leave of Nicholas on the club porch.
“And do you feel quite calm?” Nicholas asked.
Dolokhov paused.
“Well, you see, I’ll tell you the whole secret of dueling in two words. If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and write affectionate letters to your parents, and if you think you may be killed, you are a fool and are lost for certain. But go with the firm intention of killing your man as quickly and surely as possible, and then all will be right, as our bear huntsman at Kostromá used to tell me. ‘Everyone fears a bear,’ he says, ‘but when you see one your fear’s all gone, and your only thought is not to let him get away!’ And that’s how it is with me. Till tomorrow, my dear fellow.”
The next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Sergeant Nesvitski drove to the Sokólniki forest and found Dolokhov, Denisov, and Nicholas already there.
Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations that had no connection with the matter at hand. His haggard face was yellow. He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about distractedly and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. He was entirely absorbed by two considerations: his wife’s guilt, of which after his sleepless night he had not the slightest doubt, and the guiltlessness of Dolokhov, who had no reason to preserve the honor of a man who was nothing to him... “I should perhaps have done the same thing in his place,” thought Pierre. “It’s even certain that I should have done the same, then why this duel, this murder? Either I shall kill him, or he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee. Can’t I go away from here, run away, bury myself somewhere?” passed through his mind. But just at moments when such thoughts occurred to him, he would ask in a particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the respect of the onlookers, “Will it be long? Are things ready?”
When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the barriers, and the pistols loaded, Sergeant Nesvitski went up to Pierre.
“I should not be doing my duty, Pierre,” he said in timid tones, “and should not justify your confidence and the honor you have done me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very grave, moment I did not tell you the whole truth. I think there is no sufficient ground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it... You were not right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous...”
“Oh yes, it is horribly stupid,” said Pierre.
“Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure your opponent will accept them,” said Sergeant Nesvitski (who like the others concerned in the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did not yet believe that the affair had come to an actual duel). “You know, Pierre, it is much more honorable to admit one’s mistake than to let matters become irreparable. There was no insult on either side. Allow me to convey...”
“No! What is there to talk about?” said Pierre. “It’s all the same... Is everything ready?” he added. “Only tell me where to go and where to shoot,” he said with an unnaturally gentle smile.
Pierre took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working of the trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand—a fact that he did not wish to confess.
“Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot,” said Pierre.
“No apologies, none whatever,” said Dolokhov to Denisov (who on his side had been attempting a reconciliation), and Dolokhov also went up to the appointed place.
The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road, where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pine forest covered with melting snow, the frost having begun to break up during the last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart at the farther edge of the clearing. The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and Sergeant Nesvitski’s and Dolokhov’s sabers, which were stuck into the ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at forty paces distance, nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had been ready, but they were still delayed and all were silent.
***
CHAPTER 5
“Well, begin!” said Dolokhov.
“All right,” said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feeling of dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightly begun could no longer be averted but was taking its course independently of men’s will.
Denisov first went to the barrier and announced: “As the adve’sawies have wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your pistols, and at the word thwee begin to advance.
“One! Two! Thwee!” he shouted angrily and stepped aside.
The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer and nearer to one another, beginning to see one another through the mist. They had the right to fire when they liked as they approached the barrier. Dolokhov walked slowly without raising his pistol, looking intently with his bright, sparkling blue eyes into his antagonist’s face. His mouth wore its usual semblance of a smile.
“So I can fire when I like!” said Pierre, and at the word “three,” he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping into the deep snow. He held the pistol in his right hand at arm’s length, apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left hand he held carefully back because he wished to support his right hand with it and knew he must not do so.
Having advanced six paces and strayed off the track into the snow, Pierre looked down at his feet, then quickly glanced at Dolokhov and, bending his finger as he had been shown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierre shuddered at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations, stood still. The smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented him from seeing anything for an instant, but there was no second report as he had expected. Pierre only heard Dolokhov’s hurried steps, and his figure came into view through the smoke. Dolokhov was pressing one hand to his left side, while the other clutched his drooping pistol. His face was pale. Nicholas ran toward him and said something.
“No-o-o!” muttered Dolokhov through his teeth, “no, it’s not over.” And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the saber, he sank on the snow beside it. Dolokhov’s left hand was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowning face was pallid and quivered.
“Plea...” began Dolokhov, but could not at first pronounce the word. “Please,” he uttered with an effort.
Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dolokhov and was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dolokhov cried:
“To your barrier!”
Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped by his saber. A mere ten paces divided them. Dolokhov lowered his head to the snow, greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself, drew in his legs, and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. He sucked and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered but his eyes, still smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation as he mustered his remaining strength. He raised his pistol and aimed.
“Pierre! Stand sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!” cried Sergeant Nesvitski.
“Cover yourself!” even Denisov cried to his adversary, Pierre.
Instead, Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing Dolokhov and looked sorrowfully at him.
Denisov, Nicholas, and Sergeant Nesvitski closed their eyes. At the same instant, they heard a report and Dolokhov’s angry cry.
“Missed!” shouted Dolokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards on the snow.
Pierre clutched his temples, and turning around, he ran into the forest, trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:
“Folly... folly! Death... lies...” Pierre repeated to himself, puckering his face.
Sergeant Nesvitski ran up to Pierre, stopped him, and took him home.
Nicholas and Denisov drove away with the wounded Dolokhov.
Dolokhov lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer a word to the questions addressed to him. But on entering Moscow he suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Nicholas, who was sitting beside him, by the hand. Nicholas was struck by the totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on Dolokhov’s face.
“Well? How do you feel?” Nicholas asked.
“Bad! But it’s not that, my friend—” said Dolokhov with a gasping voice. “Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don’t matter, but I have killed her, killed... She won’t get over it! She won’t survive...”
“Who?” asked Nicholas.
“My mother! My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother,” and Dolokhov pressed Nicholas’s hand and burst into tears.
When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Nicholas that he was living with his mother, who, if she saw him hurt so badly, would not survive it. He implored Nicholas to go on and prepare her.
Nicholas went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise learned that Dolokhov the brawler, Dolokhov the bully, lived in Moscow with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate of sons and brothers.
***
CHAPTER 6
Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone. Both in St. Petersburg and in Moscow their house was always full of visitors. The night after the duel he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remained in his father’s room, that huge room in which Pierre had died.
Pierre lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all that had happened to him but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings, thoughts, and memories suddenly arose within him that he could not fall asleep, nor even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pace the room with rapid steps. Now he seemed to see Helene in the early days of their marriage, with bare shoulders and a languid, passionate look on her face, and then immediately he saw beside her Dolokhov’s handsome, insolent, hard, and mocking face as he had seen it at the banquet, and then that same face pale, quivering, and suffering, as it had been when he reeled and sank on the snow.
“What has happened?” Pierre asked himself. “I have killed her lover, yes, killed my wife’s lover. Yes, that was it! And why? How did I come to do it?”—
“Because you married her,” answered an inner voice.
“But in what was I to blame?” Pierre asked. “In marrying Helene without loving her; in deceiving yourself and her.” And Pierre vividly recalled that moment after supper at Baron Vasili’s, when he spoke those words he had found so difficult to utter: “I love you.”
“It all comes from that! Even then I felt it,” he thought. “I felt then that it was not so, that I had no right to do it. And so it turns out.”
Pierre remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection. Particularly vivid, humiliating, and shameful was the recollection of how one day soon after his marriage Pierre came out of the bedroom into his study a little before noon in his silk dressing gown and found his head steward there, who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face and at his dressing gown and smiled slightly as if expressing respectful understanding of his employer’s happiness.
“But how often I have felt proud of Helene, proud of her majestic beauty and social tact,” thought Pierre; “been proud of my house, in which she received all St. Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability and beauty. So this is what I was proud of! I then thought that I did not understand her. How often when considering her character I have told myself that I was to blame for not understanding her, for not understanding that constant composure and complacency and lack of all interests or desires, and the whole secret lies in the terrible truth that she is a depraved woman. Now I have spoken that terrible word to myself all has become clear.
“Anatole used to come to borrow money from Helene and used to kiss her naked shoulders. She did not give him the money, but let herself be kissed. Her father, Baron Vasili, in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous: ‘Let Pierre do what he pleases,’ Helene used to say of me.”
Pierre continued his thoughts. “One day I asked her if she felt any symptoms of pregnancy. She laughed contemptuously and said she was not a fool to want to have children, and that she was not going to have any children by me.”
Then Pierre recalled the coarseness and bluntness of Helene’s thoughts and the vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, though she had been brought up in the most aristocratic circles.
“I’m not such a fool... Just you try it on... You clear out of this,” she used to say. Often seeing the success Helene had with young and old men and women, Pierre could not understand why he did not love her.
“Yes, I never loved her,” said Pierre to himself; “I knew she was a depraved woman,” he repeated, “but dared not admit it to myself. And now there’s Dolokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and perhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!”
Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He digested his sufferings alone.
“It is all, all her fault,” he said to himself; “but what of that? Why did I bind myself to her? Why did I say ‘I love you’ to her, which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure... what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s nonsense,” he thought. “The slur on my name and honor—that’s all apart from myself.”
“Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a criminal,” came into Pierre’s head, “and from their point of view, they were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a martyr’s death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being a despot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are alive—live: tomorrow you’ll die as I might have died an hour ago. And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life in comparison with eternity?”
But at the moment when Pierre imagined himself calmed by such reflections, she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and he felt the blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break and tear whatever came to his hand. “Why did I tell her that ‘I love you?” he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it for the tenth time, Molière’s words: “But what the devil was he doing in that galley?” occurred to him, and he began to laugh at himself.
That night Pierre called his valet and told him to pack up to go to St. Petersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to Helene now. He resolved to go away the next day and leave a letter informing her of his intention to part from her forever.
The next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee, Pierre was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand.
Pierre woke up and looked around for a while with a startled expression, unable to realize where he was.
“Helene told me to inquire whether your excellency was at home,” said the valet.
But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, Helene herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered with silver and with simply dressed hair (two immense plaits twice round her lovely head like a coronet) entered the room, calm and majestic, except that there was a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominent marble brow. With her imperturbable calm, she did not begin to speak in front of the valet. She knew of the duel and had come to speak about it. She waited till the valet had set down the coffee things and left the room. Pierre looked at her timidly over his spectacles, and like a hare surrounded by hounds who lays back her ears and continues to crouch motionless before her enemies, he tried to continue reading. But feeling this to be senseless and impossible, he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down but looked at him with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to go.
“Well, what’s this now? What have you been up to now, I should like to know?” Helene asked sternly.
“I? What have I...?” stammered Pierre.
“So it seems you’re a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duel about? What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you.”
Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth, but could not reply.
“If you won’t answer, I’ll tell you...” Helene went on. “You believe everything you’re told. You were told...” Helene laughed, “that Dolokhov was my lover,” she said in French with her coarse plainness of speech, uttering the word lover as casually as any other word, “and you believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this duel prove? That you’re a fool, that you are a fool, but everybody knew that. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock of all Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowing what you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause.”
Helene raised her voice and became more and more excited, “A man who’s a better man than you in every way...”
“Hm... Hm...!” growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her, and not moving a muscle.
“And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I like his company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I should prefer yours.”
“Don’t speak to me... I beg you,” muttered Pierre hoarsely.
“Why shouldn’t I speak? I can speak as I like, and I tell you plainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you who would not have taken lovers (des amants), but I have not done so,” said Helene.
Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange expression she did not understand, and lay down again. He was suffering physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could not breathe. He knew that he must do something to put an end to this suffering, but what he wanted to do was too terrible.
“We had better separate,” Pierre muttered in a broken voice.
“Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune,” said Helene. “Separate! That’s a thing to frighten me with!”
Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and seizing the marble top of a table with a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward her brandishing the slab.
Helene’s face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside.
His father’s powerful nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination and delight of frenzy. He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping down on her with outstretched hands shouted, “Get out!” in such a terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knows what he would have done at that moment had Helene not fled from the room.
A week later Pierre gave Helene full power to control all his estates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property and left for St. Petersburg alone.
***
CHAPTER 7
Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and the loss of Andrei had reached Bald Hills, and in spite of the letters sent through the embassy and all the searches made, his body had not been found nor was he on the list of prisoners. What was worst of all for his relations was the fact that there was still a possibility of his having been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the place and that he might now be lying, recovering or dying, alone among strangers and unable to send news of himself. The gazettes from which Baron Bolkonski first heard of the defeat at Austerlitz stated, as usual very briefly and vaguely, that after brilliant engagements the Russians had had to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order. Baron Bolkonski understood from this official report that our army had been defeated. A week after the gazette report of the battle of Austerlitz came a letter from General Kutuzov informing the Baron of the fate that had befallen his son.
“Your son Andrei,” wrote General Kutuzov, “fell before my eyes, a standard in his hand and at the head of a regiment—he fell as a hero, worthy of his father and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of the whole army, it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfort myself and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwise he would have been mentioned among the officers found on the field of battle, a list of whom has been sent me under a flag of truce.”
After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his study, Baron Bolkonski went for his walk, as usual, the next morning, but he was silent with his steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though he looked very grim he said nothing to anyone.
When Marya went to him at the usual hour he was working at his lathe and, as usual, did not look around at her.
“Ah, Marya!” he said suddenly in an unnatural voice, throwing down his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its own impetus, and Marya long remembered the dying creak of that wheel, which merged in her memory with what followed.)
Marya approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her. Her eyes grew dim. By the expression on her father’s face, not sad, not crushed, but angry and working unnaturally, she saw that hanging over her and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, the worst in life, one she had not yet experienced, irreparable and incomprehensible—the death of one she loved.
“Father! Andrei!”—said the ungraceful, awkward Marya with such an indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father could not bear her look but turned away with a sob.
“Bad news! He’s not among the prisoners nor among the killed! General Kutuzov writes...” Baron Bolkonski screamed as piercingly as if he wished to drive Marya away by that scream... “Killed!”
Marya did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, but on hearing these words her face changed and something brightened in her beautiful, radiant eyes. It was as if joy—a supreme joy apart from the joys and sorrows of this world—overflowed the great grief within her. She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, took his hand, and drawing him down put her arm around his thin, scraggy neck.
“Father,” Marya said, “do not turn away from me, let us weep together.”
“Scoundrels! Blackguards!” shrieked Baron Bolkonski, turning his face away from her. “Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why? Go, go and tell Lise.”
Marya sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and wept. She saw her brother Andrei now as he had been at the moment when he took leave of her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She saw him as tender and amused as he was when he put on the little icon. “Did he believe? Had he repented of his unbelief? Was he now there? There in the realms of eternal peace and blessedness?” she thought.
“Father, tell me how it happened,” Marya asked through her tears.
“Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men and Russia’s glory were led to destruction. Go, Marya. Go and tell Lise. I will follow.”
When Marya returned from Baron Bolkonski, Lise sat working and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happy calm peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes did not see Marya but were looking within... into herself... at something joyful and mysterious taking place within her.
“Marya,” Lise said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying back, “give me your hand.” Lise took her sister-in-law’s hand and held it below her waist.
Lise’s eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained lifted in childlike happiness.
Marya knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her sister-in-law’s dress.
“There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know, Marya, I am going to love him very much,” said Lise, looking with bright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law.
Marya could not lift her head, she was weeping.
“What is the matter, Marya?”
“Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrei,” Marya said, wiping away her tears on her sister-in-law’s knee.
Several times in the course of the morning Marya began trying to prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as was Lise, these tears, the cause of which she did not understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as if in search of something. Before dinner, Baron Bolkonski, of whom Lise was always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at Marya, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women, and suddenly began to cry.
“Has anything come from Andrei?” Lise asked.
“No, you know it’s too soon for news. But Baron Bolkonski is anxious and I feel afraid.”
“So there’s nothing?”
“Nothing,” answered Marya, looking firmly with her radiant eyes at her sister-in-law.
Marya had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected within a few days. Marya and Baron Bolkonski each bore and hid their grief in their own way. Baron Bolkonski would not cherish any hope: he made up his mind that Andrei had been killed, and though he sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. Baron Bolkonski tried not to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Marya hoped. She prayed for Andrei as living and was always awaiting news of his return.
***
CHAPTER 8
“Dearest,” said Lise after breakfast on the morning of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit, but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so now the smile of Lise—influenced by the general mood though without knowing its cause—was such as to remind one still more of the general sorrow.
“Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s breakfast—“ “frühstück” Fóka the cook calls it—has disagreed with me.”
“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you are very pale!” said Marya in alarm, running with her soft, ponderous steps up to Lise.
“Your excellency, should not the midwife be sent for?” said one of the maids who was present. (The midwife was from the neighboring town, and had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)
“Oh yes,” assented Marya, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go. Courage, my angel.” She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room.
“Oh, no, no!” And besides the pallor and the physical suffering on Lise’s face, an expression of childish fear of inevitable pain showed itself.
“No, it’s only indigestion?... Say it’s only indigestion, say so, Marya! Say...” And Lise began to cry capriciously like a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some affectation. Marya ran out of the room to fetch the midwife.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh!” Marya heard as she left the room.
The midwife was already on her way to meet Marya, rubbing her small, plump white hands with an air of calm importance.
“I think it’s beginning!” said Marya looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm.
“Well, the Lord be thanked, Marya,” said the midwife, not hastening her steps. “You young ladies should not know anything about it.”
“But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?” said Marya. (In accordance with Lise’s and Andrei’s wishes they had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at any moment.)
“No matter, Marya, don’t be alarmed,” said the midwife. “We’ll manage very well without a doctor.”
Five minutes later Marya from her room heard something heavy being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the large leather sofa from Andrei’s study into the bedroom. On their faces was a quiet and solemn look.
Marya sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in and out of the bedroom glanced at Marya and turned away. She did not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before the icon stand. To her surprise and distress, she found that her prayers did not calm her excitement. Suddenly her door opened softly and her old nurse, Praskóvya Sávishna, who hardly ever came to that room as Baron Bolkonski had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl round her head.
“I’ve come to sit with you a bit, Marya,” said the nurse, “and here I’ve brought Baron Bolkonski’s wedding candles to light before his saint, my angel,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh, nurse, I’m so glad!”
“God is merciful, birdie.”
The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door with her knitting. Marya took a book and began reading. Only when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, Marya anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the house was dominated by the same feeling that Marya experienced as she sat in her room. But owing to the superstition that the fewer the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the Baron’s household, a common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished at that moment made itself felt.
There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’ hall, all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’ quarters, torches and candles were burning and no one slept. Baron Bolkonski, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent Butler Tikhon to ask the midwife what news.—“Say only that ‘the Baron told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer.”
“Inform the Baron that labor has begun,” said the midwife, giving the messenger a significant look.
Butler Tikhon went and told the Baron.
“Very good!” said Baron Bolkonski closing the door behind him, and Butler Tikhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.
After a while Tikhon re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing Baron Bolkonski was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissed him on the shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course. The evening passed, night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased. No one slept.
It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its hollows and snow-covered pools of water.
Marya had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin.
Nurse Sávishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of times before: how the late mother of Marya had given birth to her in Kishenëv with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a midwife.
“God is merciful, doctors are never needed,” the nurse said.
Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the window, from which the double frame had been removed (by order of the Baron, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft. Marya shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose locks of gray hair.
“Marya, my dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!” the nurse said, holding the casement and not closing it. “With lanterns. Most likely the doctor.”
“Oh, my God! thank God!” said Marya. “I must go and meet him, he does not know Russian.”
Marya threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer. As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs. On a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots, and a voice that seemed familiar to Marya was saying something.
“Thank God!” said the voice. “And Father?”
“Gone to bed,” replied the voice of Demyán the house steward, who was downstairs.
Then the voice said something more, Demyán replied, and the steps in the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly.
“It’s Andrei!” thought Marya. “No it can’t be, that would be too extraordinary,” and at the very moment she thought this, the face and figure of Andrei, in a fur cloak the deep collar of which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman stood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. Andrei came up the stairs and embraced his sister.
“You did not get my letter?” Andrei asked, and not waiting for a reply—which he would not have received, for Marya was unable to speak—he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the doctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the last post station), and again embraced Marya.
“What a strange fate, Marya darling!” And having taken off his cloak and felt boots, Andrei went to Lise’s apartment.
***
CHAPTER 9
Lise lay supported by pillows, with a white cap on her head (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hair lay around her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully. Andrei entered and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying. Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested on him without changing their expression. “I love you all and have done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so? Help me!” her look seemed to say. Lise saw her husband but did not realize the significance of his appearance before her now. Andrei went round the sofa and kissed her forehead.
“My darling!” Andrei said—a word he had never used with her before. “God is merciful...”
Lise looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach.
“I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!” said her eyes. Lise was not surprised at Andrei having come; she did not realize that he had come. His coming had nothing to do with her sufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and The midwife advised Andrei to leave the room.
The doctor entered. Andrei went out and, meeting Marya, again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke off at every moment. They waited and listened.
“Go, Andrei,” said Marya.
Andrei went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next to hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became confused when she saw Andrei. Andrei covered his face with his hands and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless, animal moans came through the door. Andrei got up, went to the door, and tried to open it. Someone was holding it shut.
“You can’t come in! You can’t!” said a terrified voice from within.
Andrei began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few more seconds went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek—it could not be hers, she could not scream like that—came from the bedroom. Andrei ran to the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant.
“What have they taken a baby in there for?” thought Andrei in the first second. “A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Or is the baby born?”
Then suddenly Andrei realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry, sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out of the room. Andrei turned to him, but the doctor gave him a bewildered look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and seeing Andrei stopped, hesitating on the threshold. Andrei went into his wife’s room. Lise was lying dead, in the same position he had seen her in five minutes before, and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of the cheeks, the same expression was on her charming childlike face with its upper lip covered with tiny black hair.
“I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you done to me?”—said Lise’s charming, pathetic, dead face.
In a corner of the room, something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed in the midwife’s trembling white hands.
Two hours later Andrei, stepping softly, went into his father’s room. Baron Bolkonski already knew everything. He was standing close to the door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise around Andrei’s neck, and without a word, he began to sob like a child.
Three days later Lise was buried, and Andrei went up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss. And there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes. “Ah, what have you done to me?” Lise’s face still seemed to say, and Andrei felt that something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep.
Baron Bolkonski too came up and kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly crossed one on the other on her breast, and to him, too, Lise’s face seemed to say: “Ah, what have you done to me, and why?” And at the sight, Baron Bolkonski turned angrily away.
Another five days passed, and then the young Nikolenka was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy’s little red and wrinkled soles and palms.
Baron Bolkonski, who was Nikolenka’s godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping him, carried the infant around the battered tin font and handed him over to the godmother, Marya.
Andrei sat in another room, faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited the termination of the ceremony. He looked up joyfully at Nikolenka when the nurse brought him in and nodded approval when she told him that the wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated.
***
CHAPTER 10
Nicholas’s share in Dolokhov’s duel with Pierre was hushed up by the efforts of Count Rostov, and instead of being degraded to the ranks as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor-general of Moscow. As a result, Nicholas could not go to the country with the rest of the family but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dolokhov recovered, and Nicholas became very friendly with him during his convalescence. Dolokhov lay ill at his mother’s who loved him passionately and tenderly, and Dolokhov’s mother, who had grown fond of Nicholas for his friendship with her son, often talked to Nicholas about him.
“Yes, Nicholas,” Dolokov’s mother would say, “my son is too noble and pure-souled for our present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like a reproach to everyone. Now tell me, Nicholas, was it right, was it honorable, of Pierre? And my son, with his noble spirit, loved him and even now never says a word against him. Those pranks in St. Petersburg when they played some tricks on a policeman, didn’t they do it together? And there! Pierre got off scot-free, while my son had to bear the whole burden on his shoulders. Fancy what he had to go through! It’s true he has been reinstated, but how could they fail to do that? I think there were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out there as he. And now—this duel! Have these people no feeling, or honor? Knowing him to be an only son, to challenge him and shoot so straight! It’s well God had mercy on us. And what was it for? Who doesn’t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I see things he should have shown it sooner, but he lets it go on for months. And then to call him out, reckoning on my son’s not fighting because he owed him money! What baseness! What meanness! I know you understand my son, my dear Nicholas; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you. Few people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!”
Dolokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Nicholas in a way no one would have expected of him.
“I know people consider me a bad man!” Dolokhov said. “Let them! I don’t care a straw about anyone but those I love; but those I love, I love so that I would give my life for them, and the others I’d throttle if they stood in my way. I have an adored, priceless mother, and two or three friends—you among them—and as for the rest I only care about them in so far as they are harmful or useful. And most of them are harmful, especially the women. Yes, Nicholas,” he continued, “I have met loving, noble, high-minded men, but I have not yet met any women—countesses or cooks—who were not venal. I have not yet met that divine purity and devotion I look for in women. If I found such a one I’d give my life for her! But those!...” and he made a gesture of contempt. “And believe me, if I still value my life it is only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you don’t understand it.”
“Oh, yes, I quite understand,” answered Nicholas, who was under his new friend’s influence.
In the autumn the Rostovs returned to Moscow. Early in the winter Denisov also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the winter of 1806, which Nicholas spent in Moscow, was one of the happiest, merriest times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought many young men to his parents’ house. Vera was a handsome girl of twenty; orphan niece Sonya a girl of sixteen with all the charm of an opening flower; Natasha, half grown up and half child, was now childishly amusing, now girlishly enchanting.
At that time in the Rostovs’ house there prevailed an amorous atmosphere characteristic of homes where there are very young and very charming girls. Every young man who came to the house—seeing those impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him, and hearing the fitful bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of young girls ready for anything and full of hope—experienced the same feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostovs’ household a readiness to fall in love and an expectation of happiness.
Among the young men introduced by Nicholas one of the first was Dolokhov, whom everyone in the house liked except Natasha. She almost quarreled with her brother about him. Natasha insisted that he was a bad man and that in the duel with Pierre, it was Pierre who was right and Dolokhov who was wrong, and further that Dolokhov was disagreeable and unnatural.
“There’s nothing for me to understand,” Natasha cried out with resolute self-will, “he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like your Denisov though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so you see I do understand. I don’t know how to put it... with this one, everything is calculated, and I don’t like that. But Denisov...”
“Oh, Denisov is quite different,” replied Nicholas, implying that even Denisov was nothing compared to Dolokhov—“you must understand what a soul there is in Dolokhov, you should see him with his mother. What a heart!”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And do you know Dolokhov has fallen in love with Sonya?”
“What nonsense...”
“I’m certain of it; you’ll see.”
Natasha’s prediction proved true. Dolokhov, who did not usually care for the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the question for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it) was soon settled. He came because of Sonya. And Sonya, though she would never have dared to say so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dolokhov appeared.
Dolokhov often dined at the Rostovs’, never missed a performance at which they were present, and went to Dancing Master Iogel’s balls for young people which the Rostovs always attended. Dolokhov was pointedly attentive to Sonya and looked at her in such a way that not only could she not bear his glances without coloring, but even Countess Rostov and Natasha blushed when they saw his looks.
It was evident that this strange, strong man, Dolokhov, was under the irresistible influence of the dark, graceful girl, Sonjay, who loved another (Nicholas).
Nicholas noticed something new in Dolokhov’s relations with Sonya, but he did not explain to himself what these new relations were. “They’re always in love with someone,” Nicholas thought of Sonya and Natasha. But he was not as much at ease with Sonya and Dolokhov as before and was less frequently at home.
In the autumn of 1806, everybody had again begun talking of the war with Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before. Orders were given to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army, and besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere Napoleon was anathematized and in Moscow, nothing but the coming war was talked of. For the Rostov family, the whole interest of these preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denisov’s furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His approaching departure did not prevent his amusing himself but rather gave zest to his pleasures. He spent the greater part of his time away from home, at dinners, parties, and balls.
***
CHAPTER 11
On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner, as he and Denisov were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people were present, including Dolokhov and Denisov.
Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostovs’ house as at this holiday time. “Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we are interested in here,” said the spirit of the place.
Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses, without visiting all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited, returned home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and felt the tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a curious embarrassment among some of those present. Sonya, Dolokhov, and Count Rostov were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree Natasha. Nicholas understood that something must have happened between Sonya and Dolokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness natural to him was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner. On that same evening, there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the dancing master) gave for his pupils during the holidays.
“Nicholas, will you come to Dancing Master Iogel’s party? Please do!” said Natasha. “He asked you, and Denisov is also going.”
“Where would I not go at Countess Rostov’s command!” said Denisov, who at the Rostovs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natasha’s knight. “I’m even weady to dance the dance of the shawl.”
“If I have time,” answered Nicholas. “But I promised the Arkhárovs; they have a party.”
“And you?” Nicholas asked Dolokhov, but as soon as he had asked the question he noticed that it should not have been put.
“Perhaps,” coldly and angrily replied Dolokhov, glancing at Sonya, and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre at the club dinner.
“There is something up,” thought Nicholas, and he was further confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dolokhov left immediately after dinner. Nicholas called Natasha and asked her what was the matter.
“And I was looking for you,” said Natasha running out to Nicholas. “I told you, but you would not believe it,” she said triumphantly. “Dolokhov has proposed to Sonya!”
Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sonya of late, something seemed to give way within him at this news. Dolokhov was a suitable and in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless, orphan girl. From the point of view of Count Rostov and of society it was out of the question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling on hearing the news was one of anger with Sonya... He tried to say, “That’s capital; of course, she’ll forget her childish promises and accept the offer,” but before he had time to say it Natasha began again.
“And fancy! Sonya refused him quite definitely!” adding, after a pause, “Sonya told him she loved another.”
“Yes, my Sonya could not have done otherwise!” thought Nicholas.
“Much as Mamma pressed her, Sonya refused, and I know she won’t change once she has said...”
“And Mamma pressed her!” said Nicholas reproachfully.
“Yes,” said Natasha. “Do you know, Nicholas—don’t be angry—but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but I know for certain that you won’t marry her.”
“Now you don’t know that at all!” said Nicholas. “But I must talk to her. What a darling Sonya is!” he added with a smile.
“Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you.”
And Natasha kissed her brother and ran away.
A minute later Sonya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand. This was the first time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love.
“Sonya,” he began, timidly at first and then more and more boldly, “if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and advantageous match but a splendid, noble fellow... he is my friend...”
Sonya interrupted him.
“I have already refused,” she said hurriedly.
“If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I...”
Sonya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look.
“Nicholas, don’t tell me that!” she said.
“No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still, it is best to say it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I love you, and I think I love you more than anyone else...”
“That is enough for me,” said Sonya, blushing.
“No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship, confidence, and love as I have for you. Then, too, I am young. Mamma does not wish it. In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider Dolokhov’s offer,” Nicholas said, articulating his friend’s name with difficulty.
“Don’t say that to me! I want nothing. I love you as a brother and always shall, and I want nothing more.”
“You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of misleading you.”
And Nicholas again kissed Sonya’s hand.
***
CHAPTER 12
Dancing Master Iogel’s parties were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers as they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps, and so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they were ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who came to these balls with an air of condescension and found them most enjoyable. That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two pretty young Baronesses Gorchakóv met suitors there and were married, which further increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished them from others was the absence of a host or hostess and the presence of the good-natured Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according to the rules of his art, as he collected the tickets from all his visitors. There was the fact that only those came who wished to dance and amuse themselves as girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are wearing long dresses for the first time. With scarcely any exceptions they all were or seemed to be, pretty—so rapturous were their smiles and so sparkling their eyes. Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom Natasha, who was exceptionally graceful, was first, even danced the dance of the shawl, but at this last ball only the Scottish dance, the English dance, and the mazurka, which was just coming into fashion, were danced. Iogel had taken a ballroom in Pierre’s house, and the ball, as everyone said, was a great success. There were many pretty girls and the Nicholas girls were among the prettiest. They were both particularly happy and gay. That evening, proud of Dolokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her explanation with Nicholas, Sonya twirled about before she left home so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was transparently radiant with impulsive joy.
Natasha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink ribbons.
Natasha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment.
“Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sonya.
Nicholas and Denisov were walking up and down, looking with kindly patronage at the dancers.
“How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said Denisov.
“Who?”
“Natasha,” answered Denisov.
“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause.
“Who are you talking about?”
“About your sister,” ejaculated Denisov testily.
Nicholas smiled.
“Nicholas, you were one of my best pupils—you must dance,” said little Dancing Master Iogel coming up to Nicholas. “Look how many charming young ladies—” He turned with the same request to Denisov who was also a former pupil of his.
“No, my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower,” said Denisov. “Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?”
“Oh no!” said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. “You were only inattentive, but you had talent—oh yes, you had talent!”
The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not refuse Iogel and asked Sonya to dance. Denisov sat down by the old ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young people dancing, Iogel with Natasha, his pride and his best pupil, were the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little feet in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natasha, who, though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denisov did not take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Nicholas who was passing:
“This is not at all the thing,” he said. “What sort of Polish mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly.”
Knowing that Denisov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly way in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natasha:
“Go and choose Denisov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!” Nicholas said.
When it came to Natasha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and, tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran timidly to the corner where Denisov sat. She saw that everybody was looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denisov was refusing though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them.
“Please, Denisov,” Natasha was saying, “do come!”
“Oh no, let me off, Natasha,” Denisov replied.
“Now then, Denisov,” said Nicholas.
“They coax me as if I were Denisov the cat!” said Denisov jokingly.
“I’ll sing for you a whole evening,” said Natasha.
“Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!” said Denisov, and he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot, waiting for the beat. Only on horseback and in the mazurka was Denisov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow he felt himself to be. At the right beat of the music, he looked sideways at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew around the room taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at them when suddenly, clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs, he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natasha guessed what Denisov meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly knowing how. First, he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her around him, and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath, and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natasha did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement, smiling as if she did not recognize him.
“What does this mean?” Natasha thought.
Although Dancing Master Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone was delighted with Denisov’s skill, he was asked again and again as a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the good old days.
Denisov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself with his handkerchief, sat down by Natasha and did not leave her for the rest of the evening.
***
CHAPTER 13
For two days after that Nicholas did not see Dolokhov at his own home or at Dolokhov’s home: on the third day Nicholas received a note from him:
Nicholas - As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel. - Dolokhov
At about ten o’clock Nicholas went to the English Hotel straight from the theater, where he had been with his family and Denisov. He was at once shown to the best room, which Dolokhov had taken for that evening. Some twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dolokhov sat between two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he was keeping the bank. Nicholas had not seen him since his proposal and Sonya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they would meet.
Dolokhov’s clear, cold glance met Nicholas as soon as he entered the door, as though he had long expected him.
“It’s a long time since we met,” Dolokhov said. “Thanks for coming. I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his chorus.”
“I called once or twice at your house,” said Nicholas, reddening.
Dolokhov made no reply.
“You may play cards with me,” Dolokhov then said.
Nicholas recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had with Dolokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dolokhov had said.
“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dolokhov now asked as if guessing Nicholas thought.
Beneath his smile, Nicholas saw in Dolokhov the mood he had shown at the club dinner and at other times when as if tired of everyday life he had felt a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.
Nicholas felt ill at ease. He tried but failed, to find some joke with which to reply to Dolokhov’s words. But before Nicholas had thought of anything, Dolokhov, looking straight into his face, said slowly and deliberately so that everyone could hear:
“Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try.”
“To try his luck or the certainty?” Nicholas asked himself.
“Well, you’d better not play,” Dolokhov added, and springing a new pack of cards said: “Bank, gentlemen!”
Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Nicholas sat down by his side and at first did not play. Dolokhov kept glancing at him.
“Why don’t you play?” Dolokhov asked.
And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a card, putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play.
“I have no money with me,” Nicholas said.
“I’ll trust you.”
Nicholas staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again lost. Dolokhov “killed,” that is, beat, ten cards of Nicholas’s running.
“Gentlemen,” said Dolokhov after he had dealt for some time. “Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the reckoning.”
One of the players said he hoped Dolokhov might be trusted.
“Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I ask you to put the money on your cards,” replied Dolokhov. “Don’t stint yourself, we’ll settle afterward,” he added, turning to Nicholas.
The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne.
All Nicholas’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored up against him. Nicholas wrote “800 rubles” on a card, but while the waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual stake of twenty rubles.
“Leave it,” said Dolokhov, though he did not seem to be even looking at Nicholas, “you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?” Dolokhov asked again.
Nicholas submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He well remembered that seven afterward. He laid down the seven of hearts, on which with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles” in clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was handed him, smiled at Dolokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart, waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dolokhov’s hands which held the pack. Much depended on Nicholas’s winning or losing on that seven of hearts. On the previous Sunday Count Rostov had given his son two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money difficulties, Count Rostov had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have till May and asked Nicholas to be more economical this time. Nicholas had replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve hundred rubles was left of that money so this seven of hearts meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles but the necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart, Nicholas watched Dolokhov’s hands and thought, “Now then, make haste and let me have this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denisov, Natasha, and Sonya, and will certainly never touch a card again.” At that moment Nicholas’s home life, jokes with Petya, talks with Sonya, duets with Natasha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness, clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and unappreciated bliss, long past. Nicholas could not conceive that a stupid chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left, might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined misery. That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the movement of Dolokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took up a glass and a pipe that were handed him.
“So you are not afraid to play with me?” repeated Dolokhov, and as if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his chair, and began deliberately with a smile:
“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow that I’m a card sharp, so I advise you to be careful.”
“Come now, deal!” exclaimed Nicholas.
“Oh, those Moscow gossips!” said Dolokhov, and he took up the cards with a smile.
“Aah!” Nicholas almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The seven he needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had lost more than he could pay.
“Still, don’t quit yet!” said Dolokhov with a side glance at Nicholas as he continued to deal.
***
CHAPTER 14
An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested in their own play.
The whole interest was concentrated on Nicholas. Instead of sixteen hundred rubles, he had a long column of figures scored against him, which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality, it already exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dolokhov was no longer listening to stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Nicholas’s hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him. He had decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand. He had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and Sonya’s joint ages. Nicholas, leaning his head on both hands, sat at the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine, and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him: that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him in their power.
“Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back’s impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or quits... it can’t be!... And why is he doing this to me?” Nicholas pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dolokhov refused to accept it and fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand from the crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other players, or peered at the now cold face of Dolokhov and tried to read what was passing in his mind.
“Dolokhov knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my ruin. Wasn’t Dolokhov my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck?... And it’s not my fault either,” Nicholas thought to himself, “I have done nothing wrong. Have I killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home. I was so happy, so free, and so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table, chose and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it will all end in nothing!”
Nicholas was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot. His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless efforts to seem calm.
The score against Nicholas reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand. Nicholas had just prepared a card by bending the corner of which he meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when Dolokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began rapidly adding up the total of Nicholas’s debt, breaking the chalk as he marked the figures in his clear, bold hand.
“Supper, it’s time for supper! And here are the Bohemians!”
Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside and saying something in their Bohemian accents. Nicholas understood that it was all over, but he said in an indifferent tone:
“Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,” as if it were the fun of the game which interested him most.
“It’s all up! I’m lost!” thought Nicholas. “Now a bullet through my brain—that’s all that’s left me!” And at the same time Nicholas said in a cheerful voice:
“Come now, just this one more little card!”
“All right!” said Dolokhov, having finished the addition. “All right! Twenty-one rubles,” he said, pointing to the figure twenty-one by which the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and taking up a pack he prepared to deal. Nicholas submissively unbent the corner of his card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended, carefully wrote twenty-one.
“It’s all the same to me,” Nicholas said. “I only want to see whether you will let me win this ten, or beat it.”
Dolokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Nicholas detested at that moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists, which held him in their power... The ten fell to him.
“You owe forty-three thousand, Nicholas,” said Dolokhov, and stretching himself he rose from the table. “One does get tired sitting so long,” he added.
“Yes, I’m tired too,” said Nicholas.
Dolokhov cut him short as if to remind him that it was not for him to jest.
“When am I to receive the money, Nicholas?”
Nicholas, flushing, drew Dolokhov into the next room.
“I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?” he said.
“I say, Nicholas,” said Dolokhov clearly, smiling and looking Nicholas straight in the eyes, “you know the saying, ‘Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’ Sonya is in love with you, I know.”
“Oh, it’s terrible to feel oneself so in this man’s power,” thought Nicholas. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to escape it all, and felt that Dolokhov knew that he could save him from all this shame and sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does with a mouse.
“Your cousin, Sonya...” Dolokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted him.
“Sonya has nothing to do with this and it’s not necessary to mention her!” Nicholas exclaimed fiercely.
“Then when am I to have my money?”
“Tomorrow,” replied Nicholas and left the room.
***
CHAPTER 15
To say “tomorrow” and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult, but to go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father, confess and ask for money that Nicholas had no right to after giving his word of honor, was terrible.
At home, the Rostovs had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning from the theater, had had supper and were grouped around the clavichord. As soon as Nicholas entered, he was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere of love that pervaded the Nicholas household that winter and, now after Dolokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, seemed to have grown thicker around Sonya and Natasha as the air does before a thunderstorm. Sonya and Natasha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater, looking pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord, happy and smiling. Vera was playing chess with Cousin Sinchin in the drawing room. Countess Rostov, waiting for the return of her husband and son, sat playing patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house. Denisov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some verses called “Enchantress,” which he had composed, and to which he was trying to fit music:
Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre
What magic power is this recalls me still?
What spark has set my inmost soul on fire,
What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?
Denisov was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natasha.
“Splendid! Excellent!” exclaimed Natasha. “Another verse,” she said, without noticing Nicholas.
“Everything’s still the same with them,” thought Nicholas, glancing into the drawing-room, where he saw Vera and Countess Rostov with Widow Drubetskoy.
“Ah, and here’s Nicholas!” cried Natasha, running up to him.
“Is Papa at home?” he asked.
“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natasha, without answering him. “We are enjoying ourselves! Denisov is staying a day longer for my sake! Did you know?”
“No, Papa is not back yet,” said Sonya.
“Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!” called Countess Rostov from the drawing room.
Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade Natasha to sing.
“All wight! All wight!” shouted Denisov. “It’s no good making excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla—I entweat you!”
Countess Rostov glanced at her silent Nicholas.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” said Nicholas, as if weary of being continually asked the same question. “Will Papa be back soon?”
“I expect so.”
“Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where am I to go?” thought Nicholas, and went again into the dancing room where the clavichord stood.
Sonya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to Denisov’s favorite barcarolle. Natasha was preparing to sing. Denisov was looking at her with enraptured eyes.
Nicholas began pacing up and down the room.
“Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s nothing to be happy about!” thought he.
Sonya struck the first chord of the prelude.
“My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain is the only thing left me—not singing!” Nicholas’s thoughts ran on. “Go away? But where to? It’s one—let them sing!”
He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denisov and the girls and avoiding their eyes.
“Nicholas, what is the matter?” Sonya’s eyes fixed on him seemed to ask. She noticed at once that something had happened to him.
Nicholas turned away from her. Natasha too, with her quick instinct, had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though Natasha noticed it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment, so far from sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself as young people often do. “No, I am too happy now to spoil my enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow,” she felt, and she said to herself: “No, I must be mistaken, he must be feeling happy, just as I am.”
“Now, Sonya!” Natasha said, going to the very middle of the room, where she considered the resonance was best. Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet dancers do, Natasha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes, stepped to the middle of the room and stood still.
“Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with which Denisov followed her.
“And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his sister. “Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?”
As Natasha sang the first note of the song, her throat swelled, her chest rose, and her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill you and make you weep.
Natasha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously, mainly because Denisov was so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish, painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: “It is not trained, but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained.” Only they generally said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in it and wished to hear it again. In Natasha’s voice, there was a virginal freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling it.
“What is this?” thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely opened eyes. “What has happened to Natasha? How she is singing today!” And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into three beats: “Oh, my cruel affliction.” One, two, three... One, two, three... One... “Oh, my cruel affliction.”One, two, three... One. “Oh, this senseless life of ours!” thought Nicholas. “All this misery, and money, and Dolokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all nonsense... but this is real... Now then, Natasha, now then, dearest! Now then, darling! How will she take that si? She’s taken it! Thank God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si he sang a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did I really take it? How fortunate!” he thought.
Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest in Nicholas’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and Dolokhov, and words of honor?... All nonsense! One might kill and rob and yet be happy...”
***
CHAPTER 16
It was long since Nicholas had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that day. But no sooner had Natasha finished her barcarolle than reality again presented itself. Nicholas got up without saying a word and went downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later Count Rostov came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him drive up, went to meet him.
“Well—had a good time?” said Count Rostov, smiling gaily and proudly at his son.
Nicholas tried to say “Yes,” but could not: and he nearly burst into sobs. Count Rostov was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s condition.
“Ah, it can’t be avoided!” thought Nicholas, for the first and last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him have the carriage to drive to town:
“Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting. I need some money.”
“Dear me!” said his father, who was in especially good humor. “I told you it would not be enough. How much?”
“Very much,” said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless smile, for which he was long unable to forgive himself, “I have lost a little, I mean a good deal, a great deal—forty-three thousand.”
“What! To whom?... Nonsense!” cried Count Rostov, suddenly reddening with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do.
“I promised to pay tomorrow,” said Nicholas.
“Well!...” said Count Rostov, spreading out his arms and sinking helplessly on the sofa.
“It can’t be helped! It happens to everyone!” said Nicholas, with a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he regarded himself as a worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime. He longed to kiss his father’s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness, but said, in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to everyone!
Count Rostov cast down his eyes on hearing his son’s words and began bustlingly searching for something.
“Yes, yes,” Count Rostov muttered, “it will be difficult, I fear, difficult to raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?”
And with a furtive glance at his son’s face, Count Rostov went out of the room... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance but had not at all expected this.
“Papa! Pa-pa!” Nicholas ran after him, sobbing, “forgive me!” And seizing his father’s hand, Nicholas pressed it to his lips and burst into tears.
While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and daughter were having one not less important. Natasha came running to Countess Rostov, quite excited.
“Mamma!... Mamma!... Denisov has made me...”
“Made what?”
“Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed.
Countess Rostov did not believe her ears. Denisov had proposed. To whom? To this chit of a girl, Natasha, who not so long ago was playing with dolls and who was still having lessons.
“Don’t, Natasha! What nonsense!” Countess Rostov said, hoping it was a joke.
“Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,” said Natasha indignantly. “I come to ask you what to do, and you call it ‘nonsense!’”
Countess Rostov shrugged her shoulders.
“If it is true that Monsieur Denisov has made you a proposal, tell him he is a fool, that’s all!”
“No, he’s not a fool!” replied Natasha indignantly and seriously.
“Well then, what do you want? You’re all in love nowadays. Well, if you are in love, marry him!” said Countess Rostov, with a laugh of annoyance. “Good luck to you!”
“No, Mamma, I’m not in love with him, I suppose I’m not in love with him.”
“Well then, tell him so.”
“Mamma, are you cross? Don’t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?”
“No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?” said Countess Rostov smiling.
“No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It’s all very well for you,” said Natasha, with a responsive smile. “You should have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came out accidentally.”
“Well, all the same, you must refuse him.”
“No, I mustn’t. I am so sorry for him! He’s so nice.”
“Well then, accept his offer. It’s high time for you to be married,” answered Countess Rostov sharply and sarcastically.
“No, Mamma, but I’m so sorry for him. I don’t know how I’m to say it.”
“And there’s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,” said Countess Rostov, indignant that they should have dared to treat this little Natasha as a grown-up.
“No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen at the door,” and Natasha ran across the drawing room to the dancing hall, where Denisov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands.
He jumped up at the sound of her light step.
“Nataly,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my fate. It is in your hands.”
“Denisov, I’m so sorry for you!... No, but you are so nice... but it won’t do...not that... but as a friend, I shall always love you.”
Denisov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they heard the quick rustle of Countess Rostov’s dress. She came up to them.
“Denisov, I thank you for the honor,” she said, with an embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denisov—“but my daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case, you would not have obliged me to give this refusal.”
“Countess...” said Denisov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face. He tried to say more but faltered.
Natasha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began to sob aloud.
“Countess Rostov, I have done w’ong,” Denisov went on in an unsteady voice, “but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family that I would give my life twice over...” He looked at Countess Rostov and seeing her severe face said: “Well, goodbye, Countess,” and kissing her hand, Denisov left the room with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natasha.
The next day Nicholas saw Denisov off. Denisov did not wish to stay another day in Moscow. All Denisov’s Moscow friends gave him a farewell entertainment at the Romas’, with the result that he had no recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three stages of his journey.
After Denisov’s departure, Nicholas spent another fortnight in Moscow, without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could not at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls’ room.
Sonya was more tender and devoted to Nicholas than ever. It was as if she wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of her.
Nicholas filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having, at last, sent Dolokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland.
BOOK 5: 1806 – 07
***
CHAPTER 1
After Pierre’s meeting with his wife, he left for St. Petersburg. At the Torzhók post station, either there were no horses or perhaps the truth was that the postmaster would not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing, he lay down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his big feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect.
“Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and tea?” asked Pierre's valet.
Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had begun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same question—one so important that he took no notice of what went on around him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got to St. Petersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation at this station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him it was a matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hours or for the rest of his life.
The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling Torzhók embroidery came into Pierre’s room offering their services. Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the day he returned from Sokólniki after the duel and had spent that first agonizing, sleepless night. But now, in the solitude of the journey, they seized him with special force. No matter what he thought about, he always returned to these same questions that he could not solve and yet could not cease to ask himself. It was as if the thread of the chief screw which held his life together was stripped, so that the screw could not get in or out, but went on turning uselessly in the same place.
The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg Pierre to wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted to get more money from the traveler.
“Is this good or bad?” Pierre asked himself. “It is good for me, bad for another traveler, and for himself, it’s unavoidable because he needs money for food; this postmaster said that he didn’t want to give me the horses immediately because an officer had once given him a thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses. But the officer thrashed the postmaster because he had to get on as quickly as possible. And I,” continued Pierre, “shot Dolokhov because I considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who executed him—also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? What should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I? What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?”
There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that was not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was: “You’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease asking.” But dying was also dreadful.
The Torzhók peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers.
“I have hundreds of rubles I don’t know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered cloak looking timidly at me,” Pierre thought. “And what does she want the money for? As if that money could add a hair’s breadth to happiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or me less a prey to evil and death?—death which ends all and must come today or tomorrow—at any rate, in an instant as compared with eternity.” And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread, and again it turned uselessly in the same place.
Pierre’s servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by Madame de Souza. He began reading about the sufferings and virtuous struggles of a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. “And why did she resist her seducer when she loved him?” he thought. “God could not have put into her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife—as she once was—did not struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been found out, nothing discovered,” Pierre again said to himself. “All we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human wisdom.”
Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction.
“I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for this gentleman,” said the postmaster, entering the room followed by another traveler, also detained for lack of horses.
The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled old man, with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinite grayish color.
Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on a bed that had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who, with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking off his wraps with the aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. With a pair of felt boots on his thin bony legs, and keeping on a worn, nankeen-covered, sheepskin coat, the traveler sat down on the sofa, leaned back his big head with its broad temples and close-cropped hair, and looked at Pierre. The stern, shrewd, and penetrating expression of that look struck Pierre. He felt the wish to speak to the stranger, but by the time he had made up his mind to ask him a question about the roads, the traveler had closed his eyes. His shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of them, Pierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a death’s head. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as it seemed to Pierre, sinking in profound and calm meditation. His servant was also a yellow, wrinkled old man, without a beard or mustache, evidently not because he was shaven but because they had never grown. This active old servant was unpacking the traveler’s canteen and preparing tea. He brought in a boiling samovar. When everything was ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, and filled a tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man to whom he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and the need, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation with this stranger.
The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down to indicate that he did not want more tea, with an unfinished bit of nibbled sugar. The servant asked if anything more would be wanted.
“No. Give me the book,” said the stranger.
The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotional work, and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him. All at once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, and again, leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in his former position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had not time to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and severe gaze straight on Pierre’s face.
Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old eyes attracted him irresistibly.
***
CHAPTER 2
“I have the pleasure of addressing Pierre if I am not mistaken,” said the stranger in a deliberate and loud voice.
Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles.
“I have heard of you, my dear sir,” continued the stranger, “and of your misfortune.” He seemed to emphasize the last word as if to say—“Yes, misfortune! Call it what you please, I know that what happened to you in Moscow was a misfortune.”—“I regret it very much, my dear sir.”
Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile.
“I have not referred to this out of curiosity, my dear sir, but for greater reasons.”
He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way of inviting the other to take a seat beside him. Pierre felt reluctant to enter into conversation with this old man, but, submitting to him involuntarily, came up and sat down beside him.
“You are unhappy, my dear sir,” the stranger continued. “You are young and I am old. I should like to help you as far as lies in my power.”
“Oh, yes!” said Pierre, with a forced smile. “I am very grateful to you. Where are you traveling from?”
The stranger’s face was not genial, it was even cold and severe, but in spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were irresistibly attractive to Pierre.
“But if for any reason you don’t feel inclined to talk to me,” said the old man, “say so, my dear sir.” And he suddenly smiled, in an unexpected and tenderly paternal way.
“Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your acquaintance,” said Pierre. And again, glancing at the stranger’s hands, he looked more closely at the ring, with its skull—a Masonic sign.
“Allow me to ask,” he said, “are you a Mason?”
“Yes, I belong to the Brotherhood of the Freemasons,” said the stranger, looking deeper and deeper into Pierre’s eyes. “And in their name and my own, I hold out a brotherly hand to you.”
“I am afraid,” said Pierre, smiling, and wavering between the confidence the personality of the Freemason inspired in him and his own habit of ridiculing the Masonic beliefs—“I am afraid I am very far from understanding—how am I to put it?—I am afraid my way of looking at the world is so opposed to yours that we shall not understand one another.”
“I know your outlook,” said the Mason, “and the view of life you mention, and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts, is the one held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit of pride, indolence, and ignorance. Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I had not known it I should not have addressed you. Your view of life is a regrettable delusion.”
“Just as I may suppose you to be deluded,” said Pierre, with a faint smile.
“I should never dare to say that I know the truth,” said the Mason, whose words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness. “No one can attain the truth by himself. Only by laying stone on stone with the cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our forefather Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be a worthy dwelling place of the Great God,” he added and closed his eyes.
“I ought to tell you that I do not believe... do not believe in God,” said Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it essential to speak the whole truth.
The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with millions in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy.
“Yes, you do not know God, my dear sir,” said the Mason. “You cannot know God. You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy.”
“Yes, yes, I am unhappy,” assented Pierre. “But what am I to do?”
“You know God not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy. You do not know God, but He is here, He is in me, He is in my words, He is in thee, and even in those blasphemous words thou hast just uttered!” pronounced the Mason in a stern and tremulous voice.
He paused and sighed, evidently trying to calm himself.
“If God were not,” the Mason said quietly, “you and I would not be speaking of Him, my dear sir. Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom hast thou denied?” he suddenly asked with exulting austerity and authority in his voice. “Who invented God, if He did not exist? Whence came to thy conception of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being? Didst thou, and why did the whole world, conceive the idea of the existence of such an incomprehensible God, a God all-powerful, eternal, and infinite in all His attributes?...”
The Mason stopped and remained silent for a long time.
Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence.
“God exists, but to understand Him is hard,” the Mason began again, looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep still. “If it were a man whose existence thou didst doubt I could bring him to thee, could take him by the hand and show him to thee. But how can I, an insignificant mortal, show God’s omnipotence, His infinity, and all His mercy to one who is blind, or who shuts his eyes that he may not see or understand Him and may not see or understand his own vileness and sinfulness?” He paused again. “Who art thou? Thou dreamest that thou art wise because thou couldst utter those blasphemous words,” he went on, with a somber and scornful smile. “And thou art more foolish and unreasonable than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a skillfully made watch, dares to say that, as he does not understand its use, he does not believe in the master who made it. To know God is hard... For ages, from our forefather Adam to our own day, we labor to attain that knowledge and are still infinitely far from our aim; but in our lack of understanding we see only our weakness and His greatness...”
Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason’s face with shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with his whole soul what the stranger said. Whether Pierre accepted the wise reasoning contained in the Mason’s words or believed as a child believes, in the speaker’s tone of conviction and earnestness, or the tremor of the speaker’s voice—which sometimes almost broke—or those brilliant aged eyes grown old in this conviction, or the calm firmness and certainty of his vocation, which radiated from his whole being (and which struck Pierre, especially by contrast with his own dejection and hopelessness)—at any rate, Pierre longed with his whole soul to believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort, regeneration, and return to life.
“God is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life,” said the Mason.
“I do not understand,” said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts reawakening. He was afraid of any want of clearness, any weakness, in the Mason’s arguments; he dreaded not being able to believe in him. “I don’t understand,” he said, “how it is that the mind of man cannot attain the knowledge of which you speak.”
The Mason smiled with his gentle fatherly smile.
“The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest liquid we may wish to imbibe,” the Mason said. “Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure vessel and judge its purity? Only by the inner purification of myself can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive.”
“Yes, yes, that is so,” said Pierre joyfully.
“The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those worldly sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into which intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom is one. The highest wisdom has but one science—the science of the whole—the science explaining the whole creation and man’s place in it. To receive that science it is necessary to purify and renew one’s inner self, and so before one can know, it is necessary to believe and to perfect one’s self. And to attain this end, we have the light called conscience that God has implanted in our souls.”
“Yes, yes,” assented Pierre.
“Look then at thy inner self with the eyes of the spirit, and ask thyself whether thou art content with thyself. What hast thou attained relying on reason only? What art thou? You are young, you are rich, you are clever, and you are well-educated. And what have you done with all these good gifts? Are you content with yourself and with your life?”
“No, I hate my life,” Pierre muttered, wincing.
“Thou hatest it. Then change it, purify thyself; and as thou art purified, thou wilt gain wisdom. Look at your life, my dear sir. How have you spent it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving everything from society and giving nothing in return. You have become the possessor of wealth. How have you used it? What have you done for your neighbor? Have you ever thought of your tens of thousands of slaves? Have you helped them physically and morally? No! You have profited by their toil to lead a profligate life. That is what you have done. Have you chosen a post in which you might be of service to your neighbor? No! You have spent your life in idleness. Then you married, my dear sir—took on yourself responsibility for the guidance of a young woman; and what have you done? You have not helped her to find the way of truth, my dear sir, but have thrust her into an abyss of deceit and misery. A man offended you and you shot him, and you say you do not know God and hate your life. There is nothing strange in that, my dear sir!”
After these words, the Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre looked at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved his lips without uttering a sound. He wished to say, “Yes, a vile, idle, vicious life!” but dared not break the silence.
The Mason cleared his throat huskily, as old men do, and called his servant.
“How about the horses?” the Mason asked, without looking at Pierre.
“The exchange horses have just come,” answered the servant. “Will you not rest here?”
“No, tell them to harness.”
“Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me all, and without promising to help me?” thought Pierre, rising with a downcast head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at the Mason. “Yes, I never thought of it, but I have led a contemptible and profligate life, though I did not like it and did not want to,” thought Pierre. “But this man knows the truth and, if he wished to, could disclose it to me.”
Pierre wished to say this to the Mason but did not dare to. The traveler, having packed his things with his practiced hands, began fastening his coat. When he had finished, he turned to Pierre, and said in a tone of indifferent politeness:
“Where are you going to now, my dear sir?”
“I?... I’m going to St. Petersburg,” answered Pierre, in a childlike, hesitating voice. “I thank you. I agree with all you have said. But do not suppose me to be so bad. With my whole soul, I wish to be what you would have me be, but I have never had help from anyone... But it is I, above all, who am to blame for everything. Help me, teach me, and perhaps I may...”
Pierre could not go on. He gulped and turned away.
The Mason remained silent for a long time, evidently considering.
“Help comes from God alone,” he said, “but such measure of help as our Order can bestow it will render you, my dear sir. You are going to St. Petersburg. Hand this to Willarski” (he took out his notebook and wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four). “Allow me to give you a piece of advice. When you reach the capital, first of all, devote some time to solitude and self-examination, and do not resume your former way of life. And now I wish you a good journey, my dear sir,” he added, seeing that his servant had entered... “and success.”
The traveler was the Mason Bazdéev, as Pierre saw from the postmaster’s book. The Mason Bazdéev had been one of the best-known Freemasons. For a long while after he had gone, Pierre did not go to bed or order horses but paced up and down the room, pondering over his vicious past, and with a rapturous sense of beginning anew pictured to himself the blissful, irreproachable, virtuous future that seemed to him so easy. It seemed to him that he had been vicious only because he had somehow forgotten how good it is to be virtuous. Not a trace of his former doubts remained in his soul. Pierre firmly believed in the possibility of the brotherhood of men united with the aim of supporting one another in the path of virtue, and that is how Freemasonry presented itself to him.
***
CHAPTER 3
On reaching St. Petersburg Pierre did not let anyone know of his arrival, he went nowhere and spent whole days reading Thomas à Kempis, whose book had been sent to him by someone unknown. One thing he continually realized as he read that book: the joy, hitherto unknown to him, of believing in the possibility of attaining perfection, and in the possibility of active brotherly love among men, which the Mason Bazdéev had revealed to him.
A week after his arrival, the young Polish count, Willarski, whom Pierre had known slightly in St. Petersburg society, came into his room one evening in the official and ceremonious manner in which Dolokhov’s second had called on him, and, having closed the door behind him and satisfied himself that there was nobody else in the room, addressed Pierre.
“I have come to you with a message and an offer, Pierre,” Willarski said without sitting down. “A person of very high standing in our Brotherhood has made an application for you to be received into our Order before the usual term and has proposed to me to be your sponsor. I consider it a sacred duty to fulfill that person’s wishes. Do you wish to enter the Brotherhood of Freemasons under my sponsorship?”
The cold, austere tone of Willarski, whom he had almost always before met at balls, amiably smiling in the society of the most brilliant women, surprised Pierre.
“Yes, I do wish it,” said Pierre.
Willarski bowed his head.
“One more question, Pierre,” he said, “which I beg you to answer in all sincerity—not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you renounced your former convictions—do you believe in God?”
Pierre considered.
“Yes... yes, I believe in God,” Pierre said.
“In that case...” began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him.
“Yes, I do believe in God,” he repeated.
“In that case, we can go,” said Willarski. “My carriage is at your service.”
Willarski was silent throughout the drive. To Pierre’s inquiries as to what he must do and how he should answer, Willarski only replied that brothers are more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to tell the truth.
Having entered the courtyard of a large house where the Lodge had its headquarters, and having ascended a dark staircase, they entered a small well-lit anteroom where they took off their cloaks without the aid of a servant. From there they passed into another room. A man in strange attire appeared at the door. Willarski, stepping toward him, said something to him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small wardrobe in which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen before. Having taken a kerchief from the cupboard, Willarski bound Pierre’s eyes with it and tied it in a knot behind, catching some hairs painfully in the knot. Then he drew his face down, kissed him, and taking him by the hand led him forward. The hairs tied in the knot hurt Pierre and there were lines of pain on his face and a shamefaced smile. His huge figure, with arms hanging down and with a puckered, though smiling face, moved after Willarski with uncertain, timid steps.
Having led him about ten paces, Willarski stopped.
“Whatever happens to you,” Willarski said, “you must bear it all manfully if you have firmly resolved to join our Brotherhood.” (Pierre nodded affirmatively.) “When you hear a knock at the door, you will uncover your eyes,” added Willarski. “I wish you courage and success,” and, pressing Pierre’s hand, he went out.
Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way. Once or twice he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to the kerchief as if wishing to take it off but let it drop again. The five minutes spent with his eyes bandaged seemed to him an hour. His arms felt numb, his legs almost gave way, and it seemed to him that he was tired out. He experienced a variety of the most complex sensations. He felt afraid of what would happen to him and still more afraid of showing his fear. He felt curious to know what was going to happen and what would be revealed to him; but most of all, he felt joyful that the moment had come when he would at last start on that path of regeneration and on the actively virtuous life of which he had been dreaming since he met the Mason Bazdéev. Loud knocks were heard at the door. Pierre took the bandage off his eyes and glanced around him. The room was in black darkness, only a small lamp was burning inside something white. Pierre went nearer and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on which lay an open book. The book was the Gospel, and the white thing with the lamp inside was a human skull with cavities and teeth. After reading the first words of the Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God,” Pierre went round the table and saw a large open box filled with something. It was a coffin with bones inside. He was not at all surprised by what he saw. Hoping to enter an entirely new life quite unlike the old one, he expected everything to be unusual, even more unusual than what he was seeing. A skull, a coffin, the Gospel—it seemed to him that he had expected all this and even more. Trying to stimulate his emotions he looked around. “God, death, love, the brotherhood of man,” he kept saying to himself, associating these words with vague yet joyful ideas. The door opened and someone came in.
By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he saw a rather short man. Having evidently come from the light into the darkness, the man paused, then moved with cautious steps toward the table and placed on it his small leather-gloved hands.
This short man had on a white leather apron that covered his chest and part of his legs; he had on a kind of necklace above which rose a high white ruffle, outlining his rather long face which was lit up from below.
“For what have you come hither?” asked the newcomer, turning in Pierre’s direction at a slight rustle made by the latter. “Why have you, who do not believe in the truth of the light and who have not seen the light, come here? What do you seek from us? Wisdom, virtue, enlightenment?”
At the moment the door opened and the stranger came in, Pierre felt a sense of awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at confession; he felt in the presence of one socially a complete stranger, yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man. With bated breath and beating heart, he moved toward the Rhetor (by which name the brother who prepared a seeker for entrance into the Brotherhood was known). Drawing nearer, he recognized in the Rhetor a man he knew, Smolyanínov, and it mortified him to think that the newcomer was an acquaintance—he wished him simply a brother and a virtuous instructor. For a long time, he could not utter a word, so the Rhetor had to repeat his question.
“Yes... I... I... desire regeneration,” Pierre uttered with difficulty.
“Very well,” said the Rhetor, and went on at once: “Have you any idea of the means by which our holy Order will help you to reach your aim?” said he quietly and quickly.
“I... hope... for guidance... help... in regeneration,” said Pierre, with a trembling voice and some difficulty in utterance due to his excitement and being unaccustomed to speaking of abstract matters in Russian.
“What is your conception of Freemasonry?”
“I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who have virtuous aims,” said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy of his words for the solemnity of the moment, as he spoke. “I imagine...”
“Good!” said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Have you sought for means of attaining your aim in religion?”
“No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it,” said Pierre, so softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was saying. “I have been an atheist,” answered Pierre.
“You are seeking truth in order to follow its laws in your life, therefore you seek wisdom and virtue. Is that not so?” said the Rhetor, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes, yes,” assented Pierre.
The Rhetor cleared his throat, crossed his gloved hands on his breast, and began to speak.
“Now I must disclose to you the chief aim of our Order,” the Rhetor said, “and if this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood with profit. The first and chief object of our Order, the foundation on which it rests and which no human power can destroy, is the preservation and handing on to posterity of a certain important mystery... which has come down to us from the remotest ages, even from the first man—a mystery on which perhaps the fate of mankind depends. But since this mystery is of such a nature that nobody can know or use it unless he is prepared by long and diligent self-purification, not everyone can hope to attain it quickly. Hence we have a secondary aim, that of preparing our members as much as possible to reform their hearts, to purify and enlighten their minds, by means handed on to us by tradition from those who have striven to attain this mystery, and thereby to render them capable of receiving it.
“By purifying and regenerating our members we try, thirdly, to improve the whole human race, offering it in our members an example of piety and virtue, and thereby try with all our might to combat the evil which sways the world. Think this over and I will come to you again.”
“To combat the evil which sways the world...” Pierre repeated, and a mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind. He imagined men such as he had himself been a fortnight ago, and he addressed an edifying exhortation to them. He imagined to himself vicious and unfortunate people whom he would assist by word and deed, imagined oppressors whose victims he would rescue. Of the three objects mentioned by the Rhetor, this last, that of improving mankind, especially appealed to Pierre. The important mystery mentioned by the Rhetor, though it aroused his curiosity, did not seem to him essential, and the second aim, that of purifying and regenerating himself, did not much interest him because at that moment he felt with delight that he was already perfectly cured of his former faults and was ready for all that was good.
Half an hour later, the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the seven virtues, corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon’s temple, which every Freemason should cultivate in himself. These virtues were: 1. Discretion, the keeping of the secrets of the Order. 2. Obedience to those of higher ranks in the Order. 3. Morality. 4. Love of mankind. 5. Courage. 6. Generosity. 7. The love of death.
“In the seventh place, try, by the frequent thought of death,” the Rhetor said, “to bring yourself to regard it not as a dreaded foe, but as a friend that frees the soul grown weary in the labors of virtue from this distressful life, and leads it to its place of recompense and peace.”
“Yes, that must be so,” thought Pierre, when after these words the Rhetor went away, leaving him to solitary meditation. “It must be so, but I am still so weak that I love my life, the meaning of which is only now gradually opening before me.” But five of the other virtues which Pierre recalled, counting them on his fingers, he felt already in his soul: courage, generosity, morality, love of mankind, and especially obedience—which did not even seem to him a virtue, but a joy. (Pierre now felt so glad to be free from his own lawlessness and to submit his will to those who knew the indubitable truth.) He forgot what the seventh virtue was and could not recall it.
The third time the Rhetor came back more quickly and asked Pierre whether he was still firm in his intention and determined to submit to all that would be required of him.
“I am ready for everything,” said Pierre.
“I must also inform you,” said the Rhetor, “that our Order delivers its teaching not in words only but also by other means, which may perhaps have a stronger effect on the sincere seeker after wisdom and virtue than mere words. This chamber with what you see therein should already have suggested to your heart, if it is sincere, more than words could do. You will perhaps also see in your further initiation a like method of enlightenment. Our Order imitates the ancient societies that explained their teaching by hieroglyphics. A hieroglyph,” said the Rhetor, “is an emblem of something not cognizable by the senses but which possesses qualities resembling those of the symbol.”
Pierre knew very well what a hieroglyph was, but dared not speak. He listened to the Rhetor in silence, feeling from all he said that his ordeal was about to begin.
“If you are resolved, I must begin your initiation,” said the Rhetor coming closer to Pierre. “In token of generosity, I ask you to give me all your valuables.”
“But I have nothing here,” replied Pierre, supposing that he was asked to give up all he possessed.
“What you have with you: watch, money, rings...”
Pierre quickly took out his purse and watch, but could not manage for some time to get the wedding ring off his fat finger. When that had been done, the Rhetor said:
“In token of obedience, I ask you to undress.”
Pierre took off his coat, waistcoat, and left boot according to the Rhetor’s instructions. The Rhetor drew the shirt back from Pierre’s left breast and stooping down pulled up the left leg of his trousers to above the knee. Pierre hurriedly began taking off his right boot also and was going to tuck up the other trouser leg to save him the trouble, but the Rhetor told him that was not necessary and gave him a slipper for his left foot. With a childlike smile of embarrassment, doubt, and self-derision, which appeared on his face against his will, Pierre stood with his arms hanging down and legs apart, before his brother Rhetor, and awaited his further commands.
“And now, in token of candor, I ask you to reveal to me your chief passion,” said the Rhetor.
“My passion! I have had so many,” replied Pierre.
“That passion which more than all others caused you to waver on the path of virtue,” said the Rhetor.
Pierre paused, seeking a reply.
“Wine? Gluttony? Idleness? Laziness? Irritability? Anger? Women?” He went over his vices in his mind, not knowing to which of them to give the pre-eminence.
“Women,” Pierre said in a low, scarcely audible voice.
The Rhetor did not move and for a long time said nothing after this answer. At last, he moved up to Pierre and, taking the kerchief that lay on the table, again bound his eyes.
“For the last time I say to you—turn all your attention upon yourself, put a bridle on your senses, and seek blessedness, not in passion but in your own heart. The source of blessedness is not without us but within...”
Pierre had already long been feeling in himself that refreshing source of blessedness which now flooded his heart with glad emotion.
***
CHAPTER 4
Soon after this, there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not the Rhetor but Pierre’s sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his voice. To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre replied: “Yes, yes, I agree,” and with a beaming, childlike smile, his fat chest uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered and one booted foot, he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his bare chest. He was conducted from that room along passages that turned backward and forwards and was at last brought to the doors of the Lodge. Willarski coughed, he was answered by the Masonic knock with mallets, and the doors opened before them. A bass voice (Pierre was still blindfolded) questioned him as to who he was, when and where he was born, and so on. Then he was again led somewhere still blindfolded, and as they went along he was told allegories of the toils of his pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal Architect of the universe, and of the courage with which he should endure toils and dangers. During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken of now as the “Seeker,” now as the “Sufferer,” and now as the “Postulant,” to the accompaniment of various knockings with mallets and swords. As he was being led up to some object he noticed a hesitation and uncertainty among his conductors. He heard those around him disputing in whispers and one of them insisting that he should be led along a certain carpet. After that, they took his right hand, placed it on something, and told him to hold a pair of compasses to his left breast with the other hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud an oath of fidelity to the laws of the Order. The candles were then extinguished and some spirit lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and he was told that he would now see the lesser light. The bandage was taken off his eyes and, by the faint light of the burning spirit, Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men standing before him, wearing aprons like the Rhetor’s and holding swords in their hands pointed at his breast. Among them stood a man whose white shirt was stained with blood. On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with his breast toward the swords, meaning them to pierce it. But the swords were drawn back from him and he was at once blindfolded again.
“Now thou hast seen the lesser light,” uttered a voice. Then the candles were relit and he was told that he would see the full light; the bandage was again removed and more than ten voices said together: “Thus passes the glory of the world.”
Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room and at the people in it. Round a long table covered with black sat some twelve men in garments like those he had already seen. Some of them Pierre had met in St. Petersburg society. In the President’s chair sat a young man he did not know, with a peculiar cross hanging from his neck. On his right sat the Italian abbot whom Pierre had met at Anna Pavlovna’s two years before. There were also present a very distinguished dignitary and a Swiss who had formerly been a tutor at Baron Vasili’s. All maintained a solemn silence, listening to the words of the President, who held a mallet in his hand. Let into the wall was a star-shaped light. At one side of the table was a small carpet with various figures worked upon it, at the other was something resembling an altar on which lay a Testament and a skull. Round it stood seven large candlesticks like those used in churches. Two of the brothers led Pierre up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles, and bade him lie down, saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of the Temple.
“He must first receive the trowel,” whispered one of the brothers.
“Oh, hush, please!” said another.
Pierre, perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without obeying, and suddenly doubts arose in his mind. “Where am I? What am I doing? Aren’t they laughing at me? Shan’t I be ashamed to remember this?” But these doubts only lasted a moment. Pierre glanced at the serious faces of those around, remembered all he had already gone through, and realized that he could not stop halfway. He was aghast at his hesitation and, trying to arouse his former devotional feeling, prostrated himself before the Gates of the Temple. And really, the feeling of devotion returned to him even more strongly than before. When he had lain there some time, he was told to get up, and a white leather apron, such as the others wore, was put on him: he was given a trowel and three pairs of gloves, and then the Grand Master addressed him. He told Pierre that he should try to do nothing to stain the whiteness of that apron, which symbolized strength and purity; then of the unexplained trowel, he told him to toil with it to cleanse his own heart from vice, and indulgently to smooth with it the heart of his neighbor. As to the first pair of gloves, a man’s, he said that Pierre could not know their meaning but must keep them. The second pair of man’s gloves he was to wear at the meetings, and finally of the third, a pair of women’s gloves, he said: “Dear brother, these woman’s gloves are intended for you too. Give them to the woman whom you shall honor most of all. This gift will be a pledge of your purity of heart to her whom you select to be your worthy helpmeet in Masonry.” And after a pause, he added: “But beware, dear brother, that these gloves do not deck hands that are unclean.” While the Grand Master said these last words it seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed. Pierre himself grew still more confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began looking about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed.
This silence was broken by one of the brethren, who led Pierre up to the rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of all the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a trowel, a rough stone, and a squared stone, a pillar, three windows, and so on. Then a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of the Lodge, told the password, and at last, was permitted to sit down. The Grand Master began reading the statutes. They were very long, and Pierre, from joy, agitation, and embarrassment, was not in a state to understand what was being read. He managed to follow only the last words of the statutes and these remained in his mind.
“In our temples, we recognize no other distinctions,” read the Grand Master, “but those between virtue and vice. Beware of making any distinctions that may infringe on equality. Fly to a brother’s aid whoever he may be, exhort him who goeth astray, raise him that falleth, never bear malice or enmity toward thy brother. Be kind and courteous. Kindle in all hearts the flame of virtue. Share thy happiness with thy neighbor, and may envy never dim the purity of that bliss. Forgive thy enemy, do not avenge thyself except by doing him good. Thus fulfilling the highest law thou shalt regain traces of the ancient dignity which thou hast lost.”
The Grand Master finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears of joy in his eyes, looked around him, not knowing how to answer the congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all sides. He acknowledged no acquaintances but saw in all these men only brothers, and burned with impatience to set to work with them.
The Grand Master rapped with his mallet. All the Masons sat down in their places, and one of them read an exhortation on the necessity of humility.
The Grand Master proposed that the last duty should be performed, and the distinguished dignitary who bore the title of “Collector of Alms” went round to all the brothers. Pierre would have liked to subscribe all he had, but fearing that it might look like pride subscribed the same amount as the others.
The meeting was at an end, and on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits and way of life.
***
CHAPTER 5
The day after Pierre had been received into the Lodge, he was sitting at home reading a book and trying to fathom the significance of the Square, one side of which symbolized God, another moral things, a third physical things, and the fourth a combination of these. Now and then his attention wandered from the book and the Square and he formed in imagination a new plan of life. On the previous evening at the Lodge, he had heard that a rumor of his duel had reached the Tzar and that it would be wiser for him to leave St. Petersburg. Pierre proposed going to his estates in the south and there attending to the welfare of his serfs.
He was joyfully planning this new life when Baron Vasili suddenly entered the room.
“My dear Pierre, what have you been up to in Moscow? Why have you quarreled with Helene, my dear? You are under a delusion,” said Baron Vasili, as he entered. “I know all about it, and I can tell you positively that Helene is as innocent before you as Christ was before the Jews.”
Pierre was about to reply, but Baron Vasili interrupted him.
“And why didn’t you simply come straight to me as to a friend? I know all about it and understand it all,” Baron Vasili said. “You behaved as becomes a man who values his honor, perhaps too hastily, but we won’t go into that. But consider the position in which you are placing her and me in the eyes of society, and even of the court,” he added, lowering his voice. “She is living in Moscow and you are here. Remember, dear boy,” and he drew Pierre’s arm downwards, “it is simply a misunderstanding. I expect you feel it so yourself. Let us write her a letter at once, and she’ll come here and all will be explained, or else, my dear boy, let me tell you it’s quite likely you’ll have to suffer for it.”
Baron Vasili gave Pierre a significant look.
“I know from reliable sources that the Mother of the Tzar is taking a keen interest in the whole affair. You know she is very gracious to Helene.”
Pierre tried several times to speak, but, on one hand, Baron Vasili did not let him and, on the other, Pierre himself feared to begin to speak in the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had firmly resolved to answer his father-in-law. Moreover, the words of the Masonic statutes, “be kindly and courteous,” recurred to him. Pierre blinked, went red, got up, and sat down again, struggling with himself to do what was for him the most difficult thing in life—to say an unpleasant thing to a man’s face, to say what the other, whoever he might be, did not expect. He was so used to submitting to Baron Vasili’s tone of careless self-assurance that he felt he would be unable to withstand it now, but he also felt that on what he said now his future depended—whether he would follow the same old road, or that new path so attractively shown him by the Masons, on which he firmly believed he would be reborn to a new life.
“Now, dear Pierre,” said Baron Vasili playfully, “say ‘yes,’ and I’ll write to her myself, and we will kill the fatted calf.”
But before Baron Vasili had finished his playful speech, Pierre, without looking at him, and with a kind of fury that made him like his father, muttered in a whisper:
“Baron Vasili, I did not ask you here. Go, please go!” And Pierre jumped up and opened the door for him.
“Go!” Pierre repeated, amazed at himself and glad to see the look of confusion and fear that showed itself on Baron Vasili’s face.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?”
“Go!” Pierre repeated in a quivering voice. And Baron Vasili had to go without receiving any explanation.
A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons, and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his estates. Pierre’s new brethren gave him letters to the Kiev and Odessa Masons and promised to write to him and guide him in his new activity.
***
CHAPTER 6
The duel between Pierre and Dolokhov was hushed up and, in spite of the Tzar’s severity regarding duels at that time, neither the principals nor their seconds suffered for it. But the story of the duel, confirmed by Pierre’s rupture with Helene, was the talk of society. Pierre who had been regarded with patronizing condescension when he was an illegitimate son, and petted and extolled when he was the best match in Russia, had sunk greatly in the esteem of society after his marriage—when the marriageable daughters and their mothers had nothing to hope from him—especially as he did not know how, and did not wish, to court society’s favor. Now Pierre alone was blamed for what had happened, he was said to be insanely jealous and subject like his father to fits of bloodthirsty rage. And when, after Pierre’s departure, Helene returned to St. Petersburg, she was received by all her acquaintances not only cordially, but even with a shade of deference due to her misfortune. When the conversation turned on her husband Helene assumed a dignified expression, which with characteristic tact she had acquired though she did not understand its significance. This expression suggested that she had resolved to endure her troubles uncomplainingly and that her husband was a cross laid upon her by God.
Baron Vasili expressed his opinion more openly. He shrugged his shoulders when Pierre was mentioned and, pointing to his forehead, remarked:
“A bit touched—I always said so.”
“I said from the first,” declared Anna Pavlovna referring to Pierre, “I said at the time and before anyone else” (she insisted on her priority) “that that senseless young man was spoiled by the depraved ideas of these days. I said so even at the time when everybody was in raptures about him, when he had just returned from abroad, and when, if you remember, he posed as a sort of Marat at one of my soirees. And how has it ended? I was against this marriage even then and foretold all that has happened.”
Anna Pavlovna continued to give on free evenings the same kind of soirees as before—such as she alone had the gift of arranging—at which was to be found “the cream of really good society, the bloom of the intellectual essence of St. Petersburg,” as she herself put it. Besides this refined selection of society, Anna Pavlovna’s receptions were also distinguished by the fact that she always presented some new and interesting person to the visitors and that nowhere else was the state of the political thermometer of legitimate St. Petersburg court society so dearly and distinctly indicated.
Toward the end of 1806, when all the sad details of Napoleon’s destruction of the Prussian army at Jena and Auerstädt and the surrender of most of the Prussian fortresses had been received, when our troops had already entered Prussia and our second war with Napoleon was beginning, Anna Pavlovna gave one of her soirees. The “cream of really good society” consisted of the fascinating Helene, forsaken by Pierre, Mortemart, the delightful Hippolyte who had just returned from Vienna, two diplomatists, the old aunt, a young man referred to in that drawing room as “a man of great merit” (un homme de beaucoup de mérite), a newly appointed maid of honor and her mother, and several other less noteworthy persons.
The novelty Anna Pavlovna was setting before her guests that evening was Boris, who had just arrived as a special messenger from the Prussian army and was aide-de-camp to a very important personage.
The temperature shown by the political thermometer to the company that evening was this:
“Whatever the European sovereigns and commanders may do to countenance Napoleon and to cause me, and us in general, annoyance and mortification, our opinion of Napoleon cannot alter. We shall not cease to express our sincere views on that subject and can only say to the King of Prussia and others: ‘So much the worse for you. Tis your own fault, George Dandin,’ that’s all we have to say about it!”
When Boris, who was to be served up to the guests, entered the drawing room, almost all the company had assembled, and the conversation, guided by Anna Pavlovna, was about our diplomatic relations with Austria and the hope of an alliance with her.
Boris, grown more manly and looking fresh, rosy, and self-possessed, entered the drawing room elegantly dressed in the uniform of an aide-de-camp and was duly conducted to pay his respects to the aunt and then brought back to the general circle.
Anna Pavlovna gave Boris her shriveled hand to kiss and introduced him to several persons whom he did not know, giving him a whispered description of each.
“Hippolyte—charming young fellow; M. Kronq,—chargé d’affaires from Copenhagen—a profound intellect,” and simply, “Mr. Shítov—a man of great merit”—this of the man usually so described.
Thanks to Widow Drubetskoy’s efforts, his own tastes, and the peculiarities of his reserved nature, Boris had managed during his service to place himself very advantageously. Boris was aide-de-camp to a very important personage, had been sent on a very important mission to Prussia, and had just returned from there as a special messenger. He had become thoroughly conversant with that unwritten code with which he had been so pleased at Olmütz and according to which an ensign might rank incomparably higher than a general, and according to which what was needed for success in the service was not effort or work, or courage, or perseverance, but only the knowledge of how to get on with those who can grant rewards, and he was himself often surprised at the rapidity of his success and at the inability of others to understand these things. As a consequence of this discovery his whole manner of life, all of Boris’s relations with old friends, and all his plans for his future, were completely altered. He was not rich, but would spend his last groat to be better dressed than others, and would rather deprive himself of many pleasures than allow himself to be seen in a shabby equipage or appear in the streets of St. Petersburg in an old uniform. Boris made friends with and sought the acquaintance of only those above him in position and who could therefore be of use to him. He liked St. Petersburg and despised Moscow. The remembrance of the Rostovs’ house and of his childish love for Natasha was unpleasant to him and he had not once been to see the Rostovs since the day of his departure for the army. To be in Anna Pavlovna’s drawing room he considered an important step up in the service, and he at once understood his role, letting his hostess make use of whatever interest he had to offer. Boris himself carefully scanned each face, appraising the possibilities of establishing intimacy with each of those present, and the advantages that might accrue. He took the seat indicated to him beside the fair Helene and listened to the general conversation.
“Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable that not even a continuity of most brilliant successes would secure them, and she doubts the means we have of gaining them. That is the actual phrase used by the Vienna cabinet,” said the Danish chargé d’affaires.
“The doubt is flattering,” said “the man of profound intellect,” with a subtle smile.
“We must distinguish between the Vienna cabinet and the Emperor of Austria,” said Mortemart. “The Emperor of Austria can never have thought of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it.”
“Ah, my dear viscount,” put in Anna Pavlovna, “L’Urope” (for some reason she called it Urope as if that were a specially refined French pronunciation which she could allow herself when conversing with a Frenchman), “L’Urope will never be our sincere ally.”
After that Anna Pavlovna led up to the courage and firmness of the King of Prussia, in order to draw Boris into the conversation.
Boris listened attentively to each of the speakers, awaiting his turn, but managed meanwhile to look round repeatedly at his neighbor, the beautiful Helene, whose eyes several times met those of the handsome young aide-de-camp with a smile.
Speaking of the position of Prussia, Anna Pavlovna very naturally asked Boris to tell them about his journey to Glogau and in what state he found the Prussian army. Boris, speaking with deliberation, told them in pure, correct French many interesting details about the armies and the court, carefully abstaining from expressing an opinion of his own about the facts he was recounting. For some time he engrossed the general attention, and Anna Pavlovna felt that the novelty she had served up was received with pleasure by all her visitors.
The greatest attention of all to Boris’ narrative was shown by Helene. She asked him several questions about his journey and seemed greatly interested in the state of the Prussian army. As soon as Boris had finished she turned to him with her usual smile.
“You absolutely must come and see me,” Helene said in a tone that implied that, for certain considerations he could not know of, this was absolutely necessary.
“On Tuesday between eight and nine. It will give me great pleasure.”
Boris promised to fulfill her wish and was about to begin a conversation with her when Anna Pavlovna called him away on the pretext that her aunt wished to hear him.
“You know Helene’s husband, of course?” said Anna Pavlovna, closing her eyes and indicating Helene with a sorrowful gesture. “Ah, Helene is such an unfortunate and charming woman! Don’t mention Pierre before her—please don’t! It is too painful for her!”
***
CHAPTER 7
When Boris and Anna Pavlovna returned to the others Hippolyte had the ear of the company.
Bending forward in his armchair he said: “Le Roi de Prusse!” and having said this laughed. Everyone turned toward him.
“Le Roi de Prusse?” Hippolyte said interrogatively, again laughing, and then calmly and seriously sat back in his chair. Anna Pavlovna waited for him to go on, but as he seemed quite decided to say no more she began to tell of how at Potsdam the impious Napoleon had stolen the sword of Frederick the Great.
“It is the sword of Frederick the Great which I...” she began, but Hippolyte interrupted her with the words: “Le Roi de Prusse...” and again, as soon as all turned toward him, excused himself and said no more.
Anna Pavlovna frowned. Mortemart, Hippolyte’s friend, addressed him firmly.
“Come now, what about your Roi de Prusse?”
Hippolyte laughed as if ashamed of laughing.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I only wished to say...” (he wanted to repeat a joke he had heard in Vienna and which he had been trying all that evening to get in) “I only wished to say that we are wrong to fight pour le Roi de Prusse!”
Boris smiled circumspectly so that it might be taken as ironical or appreciative according to the way the joke was received. Everybody laughed.
“Your joke is too bad, it’s witty but unjust,” said Anna Pavlovna, shaking her little shriveled finger at him.
“We are not fighting pour le Roi de Prusse, but for right principles. Oh, that wicked Hippolyte!” she said.
The conversation did not flag all evening and turned chiefly on the political news. It became particularly animated toward the end of the evening when the rewards bestowed by the Tzar were mentioned.
“You know N— N— received a snuffbox with the portrait last year?” said “the man of profound intellect.” “Why shouldn’t S— S— get the same distinction?”
“Pardon me! A snuffbox with the Tzar’s portrait is a reward but not a distinction,” said the diplomatist—“a gift, rather.”
“There are precedents, I may mention Schwarzenberg.”
“It’s impossible,” replied another.
“Will you bet? The ribbon of the order is a different matter...”
When everybody rose to go, Helene who had spoken very little all the evening again turned to Boris, asking him in a tone of caressing significant command to come to her on Tuesday.
“It is of great importance to me,” Helene said, turning with a smile toward Anna Pavlovna, and Anna Pavlovna, with the same sad smile with which she spoke of her exalted patroness, supported Helene’s wish.
It seemed as if from some words Boris had spoken that evening about the Prussian army, Helene had suddenly found it necessary to see him. She seemed to promise to explain that necessity to him when he came on Tuesday.
But on Tuesday evening, having come to Helene’s splendid salon, Boris received no clear explanation of why it had been necessary for him to come. There were other guests and Helene talked little to him, and only as he kissed her hand on taking leave said unexpectedly and in a whisper, with a strangely unsmiling face: “Come to dinner tomorrow... in the evening. You must come... Come!”
During that stay in St. Petersburg, Boris became an intimate in Helene’s house.
***
CHAPTER 8
The war was flaming up and nearing the Russian frontier. Everywhere one heard curses on Napoleon, “the enemy of mankind.” Militiamen and recruits were being enrolled in the villages, and from the seat of war came contradictory news, false as usual and therefore variously interpreted. The life of Baron Bolkonski, Andrei, and Marya had greatly changed since 1805.
In 1806 Baron Bolkonski was made one of the eight commanders in chief then appointed to supervise the enrollment decreed throughout Russia. Despite the weakness of age, which had become particularly noticeable since the time when he thought his son had been killed, he did not think it right to refuse a duty to which he had been appointed by the Tzar himself, and this fresh opportunity for action gave him new energy and strength. Baron Bolkonski was continually traveling through the three provinces entrusted to him, was pedantic in the fulfillment of his duties, severe to cruel with his subordinates, and went into everything down to the minutest details himself. Marya had ceased taking lessons in mathematics from her father, and when Baron Bolkonski was at home went to his study with the wet nurse and little Baron Nicholas (as his grandfather called him). The baby Nikolenka lived with his wet nurse and nurse Sávishna and Marya spent most of the day in the nursery, taking a mother’s place for her little nephew as best she could. Lady-in-waiting Bourienne, too, seemed passionately fond of the boy, and Marya often deprived herself to give her friend the pleasure of dandling the little angel—as she called her nephew—and playing with him.
Near the altar of the church at Bald Hills there was a chapel over the tomb of Lise, and in this chapel was a marble monument brought from Italy, representing an angel with outspread wings ready to fly upwards. The angel’s upper lip was slightly raised as though about to smile, and once on coming out of the chapel Andrei and Marya admitted to one another that the angel’s face reminded them strangely of Lise. But what was still stranger, though of this Andrei said nothing to his sister, was that in the expression the sculptor had happened to give the angel’s face, Andrei read the same mild reproach he had read on the face of his dead wife: “Ah, why have you done this to me?”
Soon after Andrei’s return Baron Bolkonski gave Andrei a large estate, Boguchárovo, about twenty-five miles from Bald Hills. Partly because of the depressing memories associated with Bald Hills, partly because Andrei did not always feel equal to bearing with his father’s peculiarities, and partly because he needed solitude, Andrei made use of Boguchárovo, began building and spent most of his time there.
After the Austerlitz campaign, Andrei firmly resolved not to continue his military service, and when the war recommenced and everybody had to serve, he took a post under his father in the recruitment so as to avoid active service. Baron Bolkonski and Andrei seemed to have changed roles since the campaign of 1805. Baron Bolkonski, roused by activity, expected the best results from the new campaign, while Andrei on the contrary, taking no part in the war and secretly regretting this, saw only the dark side.
On February 26, 1807, Baron Bolkonski set off on one of his circuits. Andrei remained at Bald Hills as usual during his father’s absence. Andrei’s young soon Nikolenka had been unwell for four days. The coachman who had driven Baron Bolkonski to town returned bringing papers and letters for Andrei.
Not finding Andrei in his study the valet went with the letters to Marya’s apartments but did not find him there. He was told that Andrei had gone to the nursery.
“If you please, your excellency, the coachman has brought some papers,” said one of the nursemaids to Andrei who was sitting on a child’s little chair while, frowning and with trembling hands, he poured drops from a medicine bottle into a wineglass half full of water.
“What is it?” Andrei said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally, he poured too many drops into the glass. He threw the mixture onto the floor and asked for some more water. The maid brought it.
There were in the room a child’s cot, two boxes, two armchairs, a table, a child’s table, and the little chair on which Andrei was sitting. The curtains were drawn, and a single candle was burning on the table, screened by a bound music book so that the light did not fall on the cot.
“My dear,” said Marya, addressing Andrei from beside the cot where she was standing, “better wait a bit... later...”
“Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off—and this is what comes of it!” said Andrei in an exasperated whisper, evidently meaning to wound his sister.
“My dear, really... it’s better not to wake him... he’s asleep,” said Marya in a tone of entreaty.
Andrei got up and went on tiptoe up to the little bed, wineglass in hand.
“Perhaps we’d really better not wake him,” Andrei said hesitating.
“As you please... really... I think so... but as you please,” said Marya, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion had prevailed. She drew her brother’s attention to the maid who was calling him in a whisper.
It was the second night that neither of them had slept, watching Nikolenka who was in a high fever. These last days, mistrusting their household doctor and expecting another for whom they had sent to town, they had been trying first one remedy and then another. Worn out by sleeplessness and anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and reproached and disputed with each other.
“The coachman has come with papers from your father,” whispered the maid.
Andrei went out.
“Devil take them!” he muttered, and after listening to the verbal instructions his father had sent and taking the correspondence and his father’s letter, he returned to the nursery.
“Well?” Andrei asked.
“Still the same. Wait, for heaven’s sake. The doctor always says that sleep is more important than anything,” whispered Marya with a sigh.
Andrei went up to the child and felt him. He was burning hot.
“Confound you and your doctor!” He took the glass with the drops and again went up to the cot.
“Andrei, don’t!” said Marya.
But Andrei scowled at her angrily though also with suffering in his eyes and stooped glass in hand over the infant Nikolenka.
“But I wish it,” Andrei said. “I beg you—give it to him!”
Marya shrugged her shoulders but took the glass submissively and calling the nurse began giving the medicine. The child screamed hoarsely. Andrei winced and, clutching his head, went out and sat down on a sofa in the next room.
Andrei still had all the letters in his hand. Opening them mechanically he began reading. Baron Bolkonski, now and then using abbreviations, wrote in his large elongated hand on blue paper as follows:
Have just this moment received by special messenger very joyful news—if it’s not false. General Bennigsen seems to have obtained a complete victory over Napoleon at Eylau. In St. Petersburg everyone is rejoicing, and the rewards sent to the army are innumerable. Though he is a German—I congratulate him! I can’t make out what the commander at Kórchevo—a certain Khandrikóv—is up to; till now the additional men and provisions have not arrived. Gallop off to him at once and say I’ll have his head off if everything is not here in a week. Have received another letter about the Preussisch-Eylau battle from Pétenka—he took part in it—and it’s all true. When mischief-makers don’t meddle, then even a German beats Napoleon. He is said to be fleeing in great disorder. Mind you gallop off to Kórchevo without delay and carry out instructions!
Andrei sighed and broke the seal of another envelope. It was a closely written letter of two sheets from Adjutant Bilibin. Andrei folded it up without reading it and reread his father’s letter, ending with the words: “Gallop off to Kórchevo and carry out instructions!”
“No, pardon me, I won’t go now till the child is better,” thought Andrei, going to the door and looking into the nursery.
Marya was still standing by the cot, gently rocking the baby.
“Ah yes, and what else did he say that’s unpleasant?” thought Andrei, recalling his father’s letter. “Yes, we have gained a victory over Napoleon, just when I’m not serving. Yes, yes, he’s always poking fun at me... Ah, well! Let him!” And Andrei began reading Adjutant Bilibin’s letter which was written in French. He read without understanding half of it, read only to forget, if but for a moment, what he had too long been thinking of so painfully to the exclusion of all else.
***
CHAPTER 9
Adjutant Bilibin was now at army headquarters in a diplomatic capacity, and though he wrote in French and used French jests and French idioms, he described the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and self-derision genuinely Russian. Bilibin wrote that the obligation of diplomatic discretion tormented him, and he was happy to have in Andrei a reliable correspondent to whom he could pour out the bile he had accumulated at the sight of all that was being done in the army. The letter was old, having been written before the battle at Preussisch-Eylau.
“Since the day of our brilliant success at Austerlitz,” wrote Adjutant Bilibin, “as you know, my dear Andrei, I never leave headquarters. I have certainly acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me; what I have seen during these last three months is incredible.
“I begin at the beginning. Napoleon, ‘the enemy of the human race,’ as you know, attacks the Prussians. The Prussians are our faithful allies who have only betrayed us three times in three years. We take up their cause, but it turns out that ‘the enemy of the human race’ pays no heed to our fine speeches and in his rude and savage way throws himself on the Prussians without giving them time to finish the parade they had begun, and in two twists of the hand he breaks them to smithereens and installs himself in the palace at Potsdam.
“‘I most ardently desire,’ writes the King of Prussia to Napoleon, ‘that you should be received and treated in my palace in a manner agreeable to yourself, and in so far as circumstances allowed, I have hastened to take all steps to that end. May I have succeeded!’ The Prussian generals pride themselves on being polite to the French and lay down their arms at the first demand.
“The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the King of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender... All this is absolutely true.
“In short, hoping to settle matters by taking up a warlike attitude, it turns out that we have landed ourselves in war, and what is more, in war on our own frontiers, with and for the King of Prussia. We have everything in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely, a Marshal. As it was considered that the Austerlitz success might have been more decisive had General Kutuzov not been so young, all our octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski and Kámenski the latter was preferred. So General Kamenski comes to us, Suvórov-like, in a covered sleigh, and is received with acclamations of joy and triumph.
“On the 4th, the first courier arrives from St. Petersburg. The mails are taken to the general’s room, for General Kamenski likes to do everything himself. I am called in to help sort the letters and take those meant for us. General Kamenski looks on and waits for letters addressed to him. We search, but none are to be found. General Kamenski grows impatient and sets to work himself and finds letters from the Tzar to Count T., Baron V., and others. Then he bursts into one of his wild furies and rages at everyone and everything, seizes the letters, opens them, and reads those from the Tzar addressed to others. ‘Ah! So that’s the way they treat me! No confidence in me! Ah, ordered to keep an eye on me! Very well then! Get along with you!’ So General Kamenski writes the famous order of the day to General Bennigsen:
“‘I am wounded and cannot ride and consequently cannot command the army. You have brought your army corps to Pultúsk, routed: here it is exposed, and without fuel or forage, so something must be done, and, as you yourself reported to Count Buxhöwden yesterday, you must think of retreating to our frontier.’
“‘From all my riding,’ General Kamenski writes to the Tzar, ‘I have got a saddle sore which, coming after all my previous journeys, quite prevents my riding and commanding so vast an army, so I have passed on the command to the general next in seniority, Count Buxhöwden, having sent him my whole staff and all that belongs to it, advising him if there is a lack of bread, to move farther into the interior of Prussia, for only one day’s ration of bread remains, and in some regiments none at all, as reported by the division commanders, General Ostermann and Sedmorétzki, and all that the peasants had has been eaten up. I myself will remain in hospital at Ostrolenka till I recover. In regard to which I humbly submit my report, with the information that if the army remains in its present bivouac another fortnight there will not be a healthy man left in it by spring.
“‘Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is already in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and glorious task for which he was chosen. I shall await your most gracious permission here in hospital, that I may not have to play the part of a secretary rather than commander in the army. My removal from the army does not produce the slightest stir—a blind man has left it. There are thousands such as I in Russia.’
“General Kamenski is angry with the Tzar and he punishes us all, isn’t it logical?
“This is the first act. Those that follow are naturally increasingly interesting and entertaining. After General Kamenski’s departure it appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle. Buxhöwden is Marshal by seniority, but General Bennigsen does not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who are within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity to fight a battle ‘on his own hand’ as the Germans say. General Bennigsen does so. This is the battle of Pultúsk, which is considered a great victory but in my opinion was nothing of the kind. We civilians, as you know, have a very bad way of deciding whether a battle was won or lost. Those who retreat after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to that it is we who lost the battle of Pultúsk. In short, we retreat after the battle but send a courier to St. Petersburg with news of a victory, and General Bennigsen, hoping to receive from St. Petersburg the post of Marshal as a reward for his victory, does not give up the command of the army to General Buxhöwden. During this interregnum we begin a very original and interesting series of maneuvers. General Bennigsen’s aim is no longer, as it should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to avoid Buxhöwden who by right of seniority should be our chief. So energetically do we pursue this aim that after crossing an unfordable river we burn the bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy, who at the moment is not Napoleon, but instead, Buxhöwden. Buxhöwden was all but attacked and captured by a superior enemy force as a result of one of these maneuvers that enabled us to escape him. Buxhöwden pursues us—we scuttle. Buxhöwden hardly crosses the river to our side before we recross to the other. At last our enemy, Buxhöwden, catches us and attacks. Both generals are angry, and the result is a challenge on Buxhöwden’s part and an epileptic fit on General Bennigsen’s. But at the critical moment the courier who carried the news of our victory at Pultúsk to St. Petersburg returns bringing General Bennigsen’s appointment as Marshal, and our first foe, Buxhöwden, is vanquished; we can now turn our thoughts to the second, Napoleon. But as it turns out, just at that moment a third enemy rises before us—namely the Russian soldiers, loudly demanding bread, meat, biscuits, fodder, and whatnot! The stores are empty, the roads impassable. The Russian soldiers begin looting, and in a way of which our last campaign can give you no idea. Half the Russian regiments form bands and scour the countryside and put everything to fire and sword. The countryside inhabitants are totally ruined, the hospitals overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere. Twice the marauders (our Russian soldiers) even attack our headquarters, and General Kutuzov has to ask for a battalion to disperse them. During one of these attacks they carried off my empty portmanteau and my dressing gown. The Tzar proposes to give all commanders of divisions the right to shoot marauders, but I much fear this will oblige one half the army to shoot the other.”
At first Andrei read with his eyes only, but after a while, in spite of himself (although he knew how far it was safe to trust Adjutant Bilibin), what Andrei had read began to interest him more and more. When he had read thus far, he crumpled the letter up and threw it away. It was not what Andrei had read that vexed him, but the fact that the life out there in which he had now no part could perturb him. He shut his eyes, rubbed his forehead as if to rid himself of all interest in what he had read, and listened to what was passing in the nursery. Suddenly he thought he heard a strange noise through the door. He was seized with alarm lest something should have happened to the child while he was reading the letter. He went on tiptoe to the nursery door and opened it.
Just as Andrei went in he saw that the nurse was hiding something from him with a scared look and that Marya was no longer by the cot.
“My dear,” Andrei heard what seemed to him the nurse’s despairing whisper behind him.
As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, Andrei was seized by an unreasoning panic—it occurred to him that the child was dead. All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.
“All is over,” he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Andrei went to the cot in confusion, sure that he would find it empty and that the nurse had been hiding the dead baby Nikolenka. He drew the curtain aside and for some time his frightened, restless eyes could not find the baby. At last he saw him: the rosy boy Nikolenka had tossed about till he lay across the bed with his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking his lips in his sleep and breathing evenly.
Andrei was as glad to find Nikolenka like that, as if he had already lost him. He bent over him and, as his sister had taught him, tried with his lips whether the child was still feverish. Nikolenka’s soft forehead was moist. Andrei touched the baby’s head with his hand; even the hair was wet, so profusely had the child perspired. He was not dead, but evidently the crisis was over and he was convalescent. Andrei longed to snatch up, to squeeze, to hold to his heart, this helpless little creature, but dared not do so. He stood over him, gazing at his head and at the little arms and legs which showed under the blanket. He heard a rustle behind him and a shadow appeared under the curtain of the cot. He did not look round, but still gazing at the infant’s face listened to his regular breathing. The dark shadow was Marya, who had come up to the cot with noiseless steps, lifted the curtain, and dropped it again behind her. Andrei recognized her without looking and held out his hand to her. She pressed it.
“He has perspired,” said Andrei.
“I was coming to tell you so.”
Nikolenka moved slightly in his sleep, smiled, and rubbed his forehead against the pillow.
Andrei looked at Marya. In the dim shadow of the curtain her luminous eyes shone more brightly than usual from the tears of joy that were in them. She leaned over to her brother and kissed him, slightly catching the curtain of the cot. Each made the other a warning gesture and stood still in the dim light beneath the curtain as if not wishing to leave that seclusion where they three were shut off from all the world. Andrei was the first to move away, ruffling his hair against the muslin of the curtain.
“Yes, this is the one thing left me now,” Andrei said with a sigh.
***
CHAPTER 10
Soon after his admission to the Masonic Brotherhood, Pierre went to the Kiev province, where he had the greatest number of serfs, taking with him full directions which he had written down for his own guidance as to what he should do on his estates.
When he reached Kiev, Pierre sent for all his stewards to the head office and explained to them his intentions and wishes. He told them that steps would be taken immediately to free his serfs—and that till then they were not to be overburdened with labor, women while nursing their babies were not to be sent to work, assistance was to be given to the serfs, punishments were to be admonitory and not corporal, and hospitals, asylums, and schools were to be established on all the estates. Some of the stewards (there were semiliterate foremen among them) listened with alarm, supposing these words to mean that Pierre was displeased with their management and embezzlement of money, some after their first fright were amused by Pierre’s lisp and the new words they had not heard before, others simply enjoyed hearing how the master talked, while the cleverest among them, including the chief steward, understood from this speech how they could best handle the master for their own ends.
The chief steward expressed great sympathy with Pierre’s intentions, but remarked that besides these changes it would be necessary to go into the general state of affairs which was far from satisfactory.
Despite Pierre’s enormous wealth, since he had come into an income which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year, Pierre felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him an allowance of ten thousand rubles. Pierre had a dim perception of the following budget:
About 80,000 went in payments on all the estates to the Land Bank, about 30,000 went for the upkeep of the estate near Moscow, the town house, and the allowance to Katerina and her sisters; about 15,000 was given in pensions and the same amount for asylums; 150,000 alimony was sent to Countess Rostov; about 70,000 went for interest on debts. The building of a new church, previously begun, had cost about 10,000 in each of the last two years, and he did not know how the rest, about 100,000 rubles, was spent, and almost every year he was obliged to borrow. Besides this, the chief steward wrote every year telling him of fires and bad harvests, or of the necessity of rebuilding factories and workshops. So the first task Pierre had to face was one for which he had very little aptitude or inclination—practical business.
Pierre discussed estate affairs every day with his chief steward. But he felt that this did not forward matters at all. He felt that these consultations were detached from real affairs and did not link up with them or make them move. On the one hand, the chief steward put the state of things to him in the very worst light, pointing out the necessity of paying off the debts and undertaking new activities with serf labor, to which Pierre did not agree. On the other hand, Pierre demanded that steps should be taken to liberate the serfs, which the steward met by showing the necessity of first paying off the loans from the Land Bank, and the consequent impossibility of a speedy emancipation.
The chief steward did not say it was quite impossible, but suggested selling the forests in the province of Kostromá, the land lower down the river, and the Crimean estate, in order to make it possible: all of which operations according to him were connected with such complicated measures—the removal of injunctions, petitions, permits, and so on—that Pierre became quite bewildered and only replied:
“Yes, yes, do so.”
Pierre had none of the practical persistence that would have enabled him to attend to the business himself and so he disliked it and only tried to pretend to the steward that he was attending to it. The chief steward for his part tried to pretend to Pierre that he considered these consultations very valuable for Pierre and troublesome to himself.
In Kiev, Pierre found some people he knew, and strangers hastened to make his acquaintance and joyfully welcomed the rich newcomer, the largest landowner of the province. Temptations to Pierre’s greatest weakness—the one to which he had confessed when admitted to the Lodge—were so strong that he could not resist them. Again whole days, weeks, and months of his life passed in as great a rush and were as much occupied with evening parties, dinners, lunches, and balls, giving him no time for reflection, as in St. Petersburg. Instead of the new life he had hoped to lead, Pierre still lived the old life, only in new surroundings.
Of the three precepts of Freemasonry, Pierre realized that he did not fulfill the one which enjoined every Mason to set an example of moral life, and that of the seven virtues he lacked two—morality and the love of death. He consoled himself with the thought that he fulfilled another of the precepts—that of reforming the human race—and had other virtues—love of his neighbor, and especially generosity.
In the spring of 1807 Pierre decided to return to St. Petersburg. On the way he intended to visit all his estates and see for himself how far his orders had been carried out and in what state were the serfs whom God had entrusted to his care and whom he intended to benefit.
The chief steward, who considered Pierre’s attempts almost insane—unprofitable to himself, to Pierre, and to the serfs—made some concessions. Continuing to insist that the liberation of the serfs as impracticable, the chief steward arranged for the erection of large buildings—schools, hospitals, and asylums—on all the estates before the master arrived. Everywhere preparations were made not for ceremonious welcomes (which he knew Pierre would not like), but for just such gratefully religious ones, with offerings of icons and the bread and salt of hospitality, as, according to his understanding of Pierre, would touch and delude him.
The southern spring, the comfortable rapid traveling in a Vienna carriage, and the solitude of the road, all had a gladdening effect on Pierre. The estates he had not before visited were each more picturesque than the other; the serfs everywhere seemed thriving and touchingly grateful for the benefits conferred on them. Everywhere were receptions, which though they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the depth of his heart. In one place the peasants presented him with bread and salt and an icon of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, asking permission, as a mark of their gratitude for the benefits he had conferred on them, to build a new chantry to the church at their own expense in honor of Peter and Paul, his patron saints. In another place the women with infants in arms met him to thank him for releasing them from hard work. On a third estate the priest, bearing a cross, came to meet him surrounded by children whom, by Pierre’s generosity, he was instructing in reading, writing, and religion. On all his estates Pierre saw with his own eyes brick buildings erected or in course of erection, all on one plan, for hospitals, schools, and almshouses, which were soon to be opened. Everywhere he saw the chief stewards’ accounts, according to which the serfs’ manorial labor had been diminished