1869

WAR AND PEACE

by Leo Tolstoy

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BOOK ONE: 1805

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CHAPTER I

"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the

Buonapartes. 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- I really believe he is Antichrist- 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 Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Marya

Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasili Kuragin, a man

of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her

reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as

she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in

St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.

All her invitations without exception, written in French, and

delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:

"If you have nothing better to do, Count [or Prince], 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-

Annette Scherer."

"Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, 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. He 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, presenting to her his bald,

scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the

sofa.

"First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend's

mind at rest," said he 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 feeling?" 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 the prince. "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 the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by

force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.

"Don't tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosiltsev's

dispatch? You know everything."

"What can one say about it?" replied the prince in a cold,

listless tone. "What has been decided? They have decided that

Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to

burn ours."

Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a

stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer 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. The subdued smile

which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played

round her lips 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.

In the midst of 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 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 blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely

on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot

understand the Emperor Alexander's loftiness of soul. She has

refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some

secret motive in our actions. What answer did Novosiltsev get? None.

The English have not understood and cannot understand the

self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only

desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And

what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has

always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe

is powerless before him.... And I don't believe a word that Hardenburg

says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a

trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored

monarch. He will save Europe!"

She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.

"I think," said the prince with a smile, "that if you had been

sent instead of our dear 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. A propos," she added, becoming calm again, "I am

expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart,

who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of

the best French families. He is one of the genuine emigres, the good

ones. And also the Abbe Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He

has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?"

"I shall be delighted to meet them," said the prince. "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 Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke

to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts

is a poor creature."

Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but others

were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fedorovna to secure it

for the baron.

Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she

nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or

was pleased with.

"Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her

sister," was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.

As she named the Empress, 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 Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron

Funke beaucoup d'estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness.

The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the

womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna

Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak he had done of

a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him,

so she said:

"Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came

out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly

beautiful."

The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.

"I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer

to the prince 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. 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."

And she smiled her ecstatic smile.

"I can't help it," said the prince. "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 your younger son? Between ourselves" (and her

face assumed its melancholy expression), "he was mentioned at Her

Majesty's and you were pitied...."

The prince 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 for their education, and they have both turned out

fools. 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

round 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!"

He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a

gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.

"Have you never thought of marrying 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 little

person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of

yours, Princess Mary Bolkonskaya."

Prince 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," he 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 princess of yours rich?"

"Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He

is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from the army

under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.' He is

very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very

unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise

Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutuzov's and will be here

tonight."

"Listen, dear Annette," said the prince, suddenly taking Anna

Pavlovna's hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. "Arrange

that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-

slafe wigh an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She

is rich and of good family and that's all I want."

And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised

the maid of honor's hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and

fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.

"Attendez," said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, "I'll speak to Lise,

young Bolkonski's wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can

be arranged. It shall be on your family's behalf that I'll start my

apprenticeship as old maid."

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CHAPTER II

Anna Pavlovna's drawing room was gradually filling. The highest

Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age

and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged.

Prince Vasili's daughter, the beautiful Helene, came to take her

father to the ambassador's entertainment; she wore a ball dress and

her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess

Bolkonskaya, known as la femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg, was

The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.

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

Pavlovna mentioned each one's name 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 aunt spoke to each of

them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health

of Her Majesty, "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 Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work 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 her 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 her, 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.

The little princess 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 to all around her. "I have brought

my work," said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all

present. "Mind, Annette, 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.

"Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone

else," replied Anna Pavlovna.

"You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in

French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting me? He is going

to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?" she

added, addressing Prince Vasili, and without waiting for an answer she

turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Helene.

"What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said Prince

Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.

One of the next arrivals was 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. This stout

young man was an illegitimate son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known

grandee of Catherine's time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man

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 in spite of 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 her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he 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 which distinguished him from everyone else

in that drawing room.

"It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor

invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her

aunt as she conducted him to her.

Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look

round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to

the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate

acquaintance.

Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the

aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty's health.

Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him with the words: "Do you know

the Abbe Morio? He is a most interesting man."

"Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very

interesting but 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 reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady

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, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the

abbe's plan chimerical.

"We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.

And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave,

she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch,

ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to

flag. As 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. She kept an

anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to

listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to

another group whose center was the abbe.

Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna

Pavlovna's was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all

the intellectual lights of 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 he

was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he

came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he

stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young

people are fond of doing.

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CHAPTER III

Anna Pavlovna's reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed

steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of 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

round the abbe. Another, of young people, was grouped round the

beautiful Princess Helene, Prince Vasili's daughter, and the little

Princess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump

for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna

Pavlovna.

The vicomte 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 maitre d'hotel 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 vicomte and then the abbe, as peculiarly

choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing

the murder of the Duc d'Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc

d'Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were

particular reasons for Buonaparte's hatred of him.

"Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte," said Anna Pavlovna,

with a pleasant feeling that there was something a la Louis XV in

the sound of that sentence: "Contez nous cela, Vicomte."

The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness

to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone

to listen to his tale.

"The vicomte knew the duc personally," whispered Anna Pavlovna to of

the guests. "The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur," said she to

another. "How evidently he belongs to the best society," said she to a

third; and the vicomte 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 vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.

"Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the

beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of

another group.

The princess 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 her; and the vicomte 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.

"Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said he,

smilingly inclining his head.

The princess 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 she 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.

The little princess had also left the tea table and followed Helene.

"Wait a moment, I'll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking

of?" she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. "Fetch me my workbag."

There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking

merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in

her seat.

"Now I am all right," she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she

took up her work.

Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle

and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her.

Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary

resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that

in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features

were like his sister'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?" said he, sitting down beside

the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this

instrument he could not begin to speak.

"Why no, my dear fellow," said the astonished narrator, shrugging

his shoulders.

"Because I hate ghost stories," said Prince Hippolyte in a tone

which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he

had uttered them.

He 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

cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.

The vicomte 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 Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon

Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress' 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's mercy. The latter

spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte 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 the

little princess.

"Charming!" whispered the little princess, 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 vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully

prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna, who had kept a

watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he

was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbe, so she hurried to

the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbe

about the balance of power, and the latter, 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 abbe 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 it 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 Italian how he stood Russian climate. The

Italian'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 he.

Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the more

conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the

larger circle.

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CHAPTER IV

Just them another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew

Bolkonski, the little princess' husband. He 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. It was evident that he 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.

He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome

face, kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned

the whole company.

"You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna.

"General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, 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?"

"Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same

coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the vicomte has

been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!"

Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who

from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with

glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he

looked round Prince Andrew 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 he 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

vicomte who was continuing his story.

"No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, 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 Prince Vasili and his

daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass.

"You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to the

Frenchman, 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 he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.

His daughter, Princess 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 Prince Andrew.

"Very," said Pierre.

In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to Anna

Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me 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

his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's. The elderly lady who

had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook

Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had

assumed had left her kindly and tearworn face and it now expressed

only anxiety and fear.

"How about my son Boris, Prince?" said she, hurrying after him

into the anteroom. "I can't remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me

what news I may take back to my poor boy."

Although Prince Vasili listened reluctantly and not very politely to

the elderly lady, 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 Emperor, and then he

would be transferred to the Guards at once?" said she.

"Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can," answered

Prince Vasili, "but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I

should advise you to appeal to Rumyantsev through Prince Golitsyn.

That would be the best way."

The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging 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 Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her

only son. It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasili that she had

obtained an invitation to Anna Pavlovna's reception and had sat

listening to the vicomte's story. Prince Vasili's words frightened

her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a

moment; then she smiled again and dutched Prince Vasili's arm more

tightly.

"Listen to me, Prince," said she. "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- and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,"

she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry, but promise! I have asked

Golitsyn 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 Princess 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 which has to be

economized if it is to last. Prince 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 Princess Drubetskaya's case he felt, after her

second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded

him of what was quite true; he 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 Anna Mikhaylovna," said he 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 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!" He turned to go.

"Wait- just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards..."

she faltered. "You are on good terms with Michael Ilarionovich

Kutuzov... recommend Boris to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at

rest, and then..."

Prince Vasili smiled.

"No, I won't promise that. You don't know how Kutuzov is pestered

since his appointment as Commander in Chief. 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 in the same tone as before,

"we shall be late."

"Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?"

"Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?"

"Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise."

"Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna 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 she had forgotten her age and by force of habit

employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone

her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She

returned to the group where the vicomte was still talking, and again

pretended to listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her

task was accomplished.

BK1|CH5

CHAPTER V

"And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at

Milan?" asked Anna Pavlovna, "and of the comedy of the people of Genoa

and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and

Monsieur Buonaparte 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."

Prince Andrew looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face with a

sarcastic smile.

"'Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!' They say he was very

God has given it 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 will not be able to

endure this man who is a menace to everything."

"The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia," said the vicomte, polite

but hopeless: "The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis

XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!" and he

became more animated. "And believe me, they are reaping the reward

of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they

are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper."

And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position.

Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time

through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the

little princess, 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.

"Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d' azur- maison Conde," said

he.

The princess listened, smiling.

"If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer," the

vicomte 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..."

He 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 Emperor Alexander," said she, 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, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the

arms of its rightful king," she concluded, trying to be amiable to the

royalist emigrant.

"That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew. "Monsieur le Vicomte quite

rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it

will be difficult to return to the old regime."

"From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and breaking into

the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to

Bonaparte's side."

"It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte

without looking at Pierre. "At the present time it is difficult to

know the real state of French public opinion.

"Bonaparte has said so," remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic

smile.

It was evident that he did not like the vicomte 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,'"

Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting

Napoleon's words. "'I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.' I

do not know how far he was justified in saying so."

"Not in the least," replied the vicomte. "After the murder of the

duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some

people," he went on, turning to Anna Pavlovna, "he ever was a hero,

after the murder of the duc 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 vicomte'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.

"The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur 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."

"Dieu! Mon Dieu!" muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified whisper.

"What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows

greatness of soul?" said the little princess, smiling and drawing

her work nearer to her.

"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed several voices.

"Capital!" said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping

his knee with the palm of his hand.

The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at

his audience over his spectacles and continued.

"I say so," he continued desperately, "because the Bourbons fled

from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon

alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general

good, he 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 superior 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 he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have

called him a great man," remarked the vicomte.

"He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he

might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a

great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!" continued Monsieur

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 Contrat social," said the vicomte 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 vicomte contemptuously, as if at

last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words

were, "high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who

does not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached

liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier?

On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it."

Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the

vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. 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 vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was

impossible to stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the

vicomte in a vigorous attack on the orator.

"But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you explain the

fact of a great man executing a duc- or even an ordinary man who- is

innocent and untried?"

"I should like," said the vicomte, "to ask how monsieur explains the

18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at

all like the conduct of a great man!"

"And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!" said the

little princess, shrugging her shoulders.

"He's a low fellow, say what you will," remarked Prince Hippolyte.

Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled.

His smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he 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 vicomte who was meeting him 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 Prince

Andrew. "Besides, in the actions of a statesman one has to distinguish

between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as an emperor.

So it seems to me."

"Yes, yes, of course!" Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of

this reinforcement.

"One must admit," continued Prince Andrew, "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."

Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness

of Pierre's remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time

to go.

Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to

attend, and asking them all to be seated began:

"I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to

it. Excuse me, Vicomte- I must tell it in Russian or the point will be

lost...." And Prince 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, une dame, 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. She said..."

Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with

difficulty.

"She said... Oh yes! She said, 'Girl,' to the maid, 'put on a

livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some

calls.'"

Here Prince 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.

"She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat

and her long hair came down...." Here he 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 he had

told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pavlovna

and the others appreciated Prince Hippolyte's social tact in so

agreeably ending Pierre's unpleasant and unamiable 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.

BK1|CH6

CHAPTER VI

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; he did not know, as the saying is, 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, the general's three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the

plume, till the general asked him to restore it. All his

absent-mindedness and inability to enter a room and converse in it

was, 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 Monsieur Pierre."

When she said this, he 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.

Prince Andrew had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders

to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened

indifferently to his wife's chatter with Prince Hippolyte who had also

come into the hall. Prince Hippolyte stood close to the pretty,

pregnant princess, and stared fixedly at her through his eyeglass.

"Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold," said the little

princess, taking leave of Anna Pavlovna. "It is settled," she added in

a low voice.

Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match

she contemplated between Anatole and the little princess'

sister-in-law.

"I rely on you, my dear," said Anna Pavlovna, also in a low tone.

"Write to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Au

revoir!"- and she left the hall.

Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his

face close to her, began to whisper something.

Two footmen, the princess' and his own, stood holding a shawl and

a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. They listened to

the French sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of

understanding but not wishing to appear to do so. The princess as

usual spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh.

"I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador's," said Prince

Hippolyte "-so dull-. It has been a delightful evening, has it not?

Delightful!"

"They say the ball will be very good," replied the princess, 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 Prince Hippolyte

smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom he

even pushed aside, he began wrapping it round the princess. Either

from awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after

the shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long

time, as though embracing her.

Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at

her husband. Prince Andrew's eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did

he seem.

"Are you ready?" he asked his wife, looking past her.

Prince 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 the princess, whom a footman was helping into

the carriage.

"Princesse, au revoir," cried he, stumbling with his tongue as

well as with his feet.

The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the

dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince

Hippolyte, under pretense of helping, was in everyone's way.

"Allow me, sir," said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold,

disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path.

"I am expecting you, Pierre," said the same voice, but gently and

affectionately.

The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte

laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte

whom he had promised to take home.

"Well, mon cher," said the vicomte, having seated himself beside

Hippolyte in the carriage, "your little princess 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 vicomte. "I pity the poor husband, 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 Prince Andrew's study like

one 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 Mlle Scherer? She will be quite ill now,"

said Prince Andrew, 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 Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand.

"That abbe 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 Prince Andrew was not interested in such

abstract conversation.

"One can't everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have you

at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a

diplomatist?" asked Prince Andrew 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 or the

other."

"But you must decide on something! Your father expects it."

Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbe as tutor,

and had remained away till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow

his father dismissed the abbe and said to the young man, "Now go to

Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to

anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasili, and here is money.

Write to me all about it, and I will help you in everything." Pierre

had already been choosing a career for three months, and had not

decided on anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was

speaking. Pierre rubbed his forehead.

"But he must be a Freemason," said he, referring to the abbe whom he

had met that evening.

"That is all nonsense." Prince Andrew 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 were a war for

freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the

army; but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in

the world is not right."

Prince Andrew 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 in fact have been difficult to give any

other answer than the one Prince Andrew gave to this naive question.

"If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no

wars," he said.

"And that would be splendid," said Pierre.

Prince Andrew 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..." He

paused. "I am going because the life I am leading here does not suit

me!"

BK1|CH7

CHAPTER VII

The rustle of a woman's dress was heard in the next room. Prince

Andrew 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. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a

house dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose

and politely placed a chair for her.

"How is it," she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly

and fussily in the easy chair, "how is it Annette never got married?

How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for

saying so, but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative

fellow you are, Monsieur Pierre!"

"And I am still arguing with your husband. I can't understand why he

wants to go to the war," replied Pierre, addressing the princess

with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their

intercourse with young women.

The princess started. Evidently Pierre's words touched her to the

quick.

"Ah, that is just what I tell him!" said she. "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 he is

Uncle's aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well

known, so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the

Apraksins' I heard a lady asking, 'Is that the famous Prince

Andrew?' I did indeed." She laughed. "He is so well received

everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You

know the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were

speaking of how to arrange it. What do you think?"

Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the

conversation, gave no reply.

"When are you starting?" he asked.

"Oh, don't speak of his going, don't! I won't hear it spoken of,"

said the princess 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, Andre..." (she looked

significantly at her husband) "I'm afraid, I'm afraid!" she whispered,

and a shudder ran down her back.

Her husband 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, he leaves me and locks me up

alone in the country."

"With my father and sister, remember," said Prince Andrew gently.

"Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to

be afraid."

Her 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 Prince

Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.

The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair.

"No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have..."

"Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier," said Prince Andrew.

"You had better go."

The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip

quivered. Prince Andrew 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 Monsieur Pierre being here?" exclaimed the little

princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a

tearful grimace. "I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you

have changed so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the

war and have no pity for me. Why is it?"

"Lise!" was all Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew still more

emphatically.

Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened

to all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to

bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.

"Calm yourself, Princess! 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...

Good-by!"

Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.

"No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of

the pleasure of spending the evening with you."

"No, he thinks only of himself," muttered the princess without

restraining her angry tears.

"Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch

which indicates that patience is exhausted.

Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess' pretty

face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful

eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and her own assumed the

timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags

its drooping tail.

"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and lifting her dress with one

hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.

"Good night, Lise," said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand

as he would have done to a stranger.

BK1|CH8

CHAPTER VIII

The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre

continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his

forehead with his small hand.

"Let us go and have supper," he 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 Prince Andrew 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 determines to speak

out.

"Never, never marry, my dear fellow! 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?..." and 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 Prince Andrew, "is an excellent woman, one of

those rare women with whom a man's honor is safe; but, O 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 Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkonski

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," he continued, "but it is

the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career," said

he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), "but Bonaparte 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 Prince Andrew, "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 Prince Andrew.

"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..."

He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he

thought of his friend and how much he expected of him in the future.

"How can he talk like that?" thought Pierre. He considered his

friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the

highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which

might be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always

astonished at Prince Andrew'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 Andrew'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 that they may run smoothly.

"My part is played out," said Prince Andrew. "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."

Prince Andrew 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 you will; it's all

the same. You'll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up

visiting those Kuragins 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 Prince Andrew. "Women who are comme

il faut, that's a different matter; but the Kuragins' set of women,

'women and wine' I don't understand!"

Pierre was staying at Prince Vasili Kuragin's and sharing the

dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to

reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew's sister.

"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. He asked me for tonight,

but I won't go."

"You give me your word of honor not to go?"

"On my honor!"

BK1|CH9

CHAPTER IX

It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a

cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending

to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the 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 Kuragin was expecting the usual set for

cards that evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout,

finishing with visits of a kind Pierre was very fond of.

"I should like to go to Kuragin's," thought he.

But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew was of no account,

because before he gave it he had already promised Prince Anatole to

come to his gathering; "besides," thought he, "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 Kuragin'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 round an open window. Three others

were romping with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and

trying to set him at the others.

"I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.

"Mind, no holding on!" cried another.

"I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our hands."

"There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."

"At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.

"Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, 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 Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing Pierre.

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 of the Semenov regiment, 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,

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 round the window, and

listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre's glass

while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with Stevens, an English

naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum 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 round 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 clearheadedness. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were at

that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of 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 flurried 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. He smashed a pane.

"You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre.

Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame

out with a crash.

"Take it 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!" cried he, standing there and addressing those

in the room. All were silent.

"I bet fifty imperials"- he spoke French 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 latter.

"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" (he 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, Kuragin. 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, an 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'll 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 he, emitting the words

separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will throw him down

there. Now then!"

Saying this he 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 he 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 never them again. Suddenly he

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."

He 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. Pierre jumped upon

the window sill.

"Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same thing!" he

suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a

bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"

"Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.

"What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why,

you go giddy 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 him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone

who touched him was sent flying.

"No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole. "Wait a bit

and I'll get round him.... Listen! 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 Bruin with

us."

And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the

ground, and began dancing round the room with it.

BK1|CH10

CHAPTER X

Prince Vasili kept the promise he had given to Princess

Drubetskaya 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

Emperor, an exception made, and Boris transferred into the regiment of

Semenov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no

appointment to Kutuzov's staff despite all Anna Mikhaylovna's

endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's reception Anna

Mikhaylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich

relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the town and

where and where her darling Bory, 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 Guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August,

and her son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join

them on the march to Radzivilov.

It was St. Natalia's day and the name day of two of the Rostovs- the

mother and the youngest daughter- both named Nataly. Ever since the

morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going

continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostova's big house

on the Povarskaya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself

and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing-room with the

visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one

another in relays.

The countess 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 which inspired respect. Princess Anna

Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya, 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. The

count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.

"I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher," or "ma chere"- he

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, ma chere! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come,

mon cher!" These words he 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 spreading out his legs and putting 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, he would

call Dmitri Vasilevich, a man of good family and the manager of all

his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table

would say: "Well, Dmitri, 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.

"Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!" announced the countess'

gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing room. The

countess 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 her and no

more. She is so affected. Ask her 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, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child...

at the Razumovski's ball... and Countess Apraksina... 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

last 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 Apraksina... 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'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 the poor count," said the visitor. "He is in such

bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill

him!"

"What is that?" asked the countess 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 he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as

he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible

things that he has been expelled by the police."

"You don't say so!" replied the countess.

"He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Prince

Vasili's son, 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 Bezukhov's son sent back

to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's father managed somehow to get his son's

affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg."

"But what have they been up to?" asked the countess.

"They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov," replied the

visitor. "He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such 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

the count, dying with laughter.

"Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?"

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 Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's son who

amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he 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 is so rich?" asked the countess,

turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of

inattention. "His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also

is illegitimate."

The visitor made a gesture with her hand.

"I should think he has a score of them."

Princess Anna Mikhaylovna 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 she significantly, and also in a

half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation.... He has lost

count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite."

"How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!" remarked the

countess. "I have never seen a handsomer man."

"He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "Well, as I

was saying, Prince Vasili is the next heir through his wife, but the

count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to

the Emperor 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

Petersburg- no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune,

Pierre or Prince Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of

rubles! I know it all very well for Prince Vasili told me himself.

Besides, Cyril Vladimirovich is my mother's second cousin. He's also

my Bory's godfather," she added, as if she attached no importance at

all to the fact.

"Prince Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on

some inspection business," remarked the visitor.

"Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, that is a

pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladimirovich,

hearing how ill he is."

"But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said the count;

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 he 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.

BK1|CH11

CHAPTER XI

Silence ensued. The countess 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, 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 she 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.

The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his

arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in.

"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose name day it

is. My dear pet!"

"Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess with

feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," 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 the mother.

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. She laughed,

and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which 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 the

mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and

turning to the visitor she added: "She is my youngest girl."

Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother's mantilla,

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 she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation of

yours? A daughter, I suppose?"

Natasha did not like the visitor's tone of condescension to childish

things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.

Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna

Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's eldest

son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old 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 Countess Apraksina. Now and then

they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.

The two young men, the student and the officer, 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 know that

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. Having said this he

glanced at Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her

younger brother, 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?" he asked his mother with a smile.

"Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready," she answered,

returning his smile.

Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha. The plump

boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been

disturbed.

BK1|CH12

CHAPTER XII

The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting

the young lady visitor and the countess' eldest daughter (who was four

years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up

person), were Nicholas and Sonya, the 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 round 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 which promises to become a beautiful

little cat. She 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 as soon as they too could, like Natasha

and Boris, escape from the drawing room.

"Ah yes, my dear," said the count, addressing the visitor and

pointing to Nicholas, "his friend Boris has become an officer, and

so for friendship's sake he is leaving the university and me, his

old father, and entering the military service, my dear. And there

was a place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department!

Isn't that friendship?" remarked the count in an inquiring tone.

"But they say that war has been declared," replied the visitor.

"They've been saying so a long while," said the count, "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. "He's joining the

hussars."

The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.

"It's not at all from friendship," 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."

He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were

both regarding him with a smile of approbation.

"Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd 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 the count, shrugging his shoulders and

speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him.

"I have already told you, Papa," said his son, "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 he spoke he kept glancing with the

flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at Sonya and the young lady

visitor.

The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any

moment to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature.

"All right, all right!" said the old count. "He always flares up!

This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think of how he

rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,"

he added, not noticing his visitor's sarcastic smile.

The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karagina turned to

young Rostov.

"What a pity you weren't at the Arkharovs' on Thursday. It was so

dull without you," said she, giving him a tender smile.

The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish

smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation

without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the

heart of Sonya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of

his talk he glanced round at her. 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

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 Anna Mikhaylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went

out. "Cousinage- dangereux voisinage;" she added.

Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.

"Yes," said the countess 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 the countess. "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 Petersburg young men."

"Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters," chimed in the

count, who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by

deciding that everything was splendid. "Just fancy: wants to be an

hussar. What's one to do, my dear?"

"What a charming creature your younger girl is," said the visitor;

"a little volcano!"

"Yes, a regular volcano," said the count. "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 the count. "Why, our

mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen."

"And she's in love with Boris already. Just fancy!" said the

countess with a gentle smile, looking at Boris' and 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. She 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 her

elder sister I was stricter."

"Yes, I was brought up quite differently," remarked the handsome

elder daughter, Countess 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? Our dear countess was too

clever with Vera," said the count. "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 the countess,

when she had seen her guests out.

BK1|CH13

CHAPTER XIII

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 round, 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 round toward the drawing-room door. It opened

and Nicholas came in.

"Sonya, what is the matter with you? How can you?" said he,

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 her!"

"So-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 left off 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 she followed and called Boris to her.

"Boris, come here," said she 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 he.

She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had

thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up.

"Kiss the doll," said she.

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 officer 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 she 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," he 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 do 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?"

She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the

adjoining sitting room.

BK1|CH14

CHAPTER XIV

After receiving her visitors, the countess 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." The countess wished

to have a tete-a-tete talk with the friend of her childhood,

Princess Anna Mikhaylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she

returned from Petersburg. Anna Mikhaylovna, with her tear-worn but

pleasant face, drew her chair nearer to that of the countess.

"With you I will be quite frank," said Anna Mikhaylovna. "There

are not many left of us old friends! That's why I so value your

friendship."

Anna Mikhaylovna looked at Vera and paused. The countess pressed her

friend's hand.

"Vera," she 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," she replied

as she rose to go to her own room.

But as she 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?" she said. "You

have a room of your own," and she took the inkstand from Nicholas.

"In a minute, in a minute," he 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 she said was quite just, 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.

She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affectionate to

everyone.

"Very silly," said Vera. "I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!"

"All have 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."

"Natalya Ilynichna 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 she 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," she 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- "said

unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. Let's go to the

nursery."

All four, 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 the countess, "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 his 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, Annette- how at your age you can

rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to 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 Anna Mikhaylovna, "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: 'Princess 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 apply about Bory?" asked the countess.

"You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my

Nicholas is going as a cadet. There's no one to interest himself for

him. To whom did you apply?"

"To Prince Vasili. He was so kind. He at once agreed to

everything, and put the matter before the Emperor," said Princess Anna

Mikhaylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she

had endured to gain her end.

"Has Prince Vasili aged much?" asked the countess. "I have not

seen him since we acted together at the Rumyantsovs' theatricals. I

expect he has forgotten me. He paid me attentions in those days," said

the countess, with a smile.

"He is just the same as ever," replied Anna Mikhaylovna,

"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, dear

Princess. I am at your command.' Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very

kind relation. But, Nataly, 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 Anna Mikhaylovna,

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 Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov. If he will not assist

his godson- you know he is Bory'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."

The countess' eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence.

"I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess,

"that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich, all

alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It's a

burden to him, and Bory's life is only just beginning...."

"Surely he will leave something to Boris," said the countess.

"Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish.

Still, I will take Boris and go to see him 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 my son's fate is at stake." The

princess rose. "It's now two o'clock and you dine at four. There

will just be time."

And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the

most of time, Anna Mikhaylovna sent someone to call her son, and

went into the anteroom with him.

"Good-by, my dear," said she to the countess 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 Cyril Vladimirovich, my dear?" said the

count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added:

"If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the

house, you know, and danced with the children. Be sure to invite

him, my dear. We will see how Taras distinguishes himself today. He

says Count Orlov never gave such a dinner as ours will be!"

BK1|CH15

CHAPTER XV

"My dear Boris," said Princess Anna Mikhaylovna to her son as

Countess Rostova's carriage in which they were seated drove over the

straw covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Cyril

Vladimirovich Bezukhov'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 Cyril Vladimirovich is your godfather after all, 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 her son 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 the mother and son (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 lady's old

cloak, he asked whether they wanted the count or the princesses,

and, hearing that they wished to see the count, said his excellency

was worse today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone.

"We may as well go back," said the son 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 Anna Mikhaylovna in gentle tones, addressing the

hall porter, I know Count Cyril Vladimirovich is very ill... that's

why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my

friend... I only need see Prince Vasili Sergeevich: he is staying

here, is he not? Please announce me."

The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and

turned away.

"Princess Drubetskaya to see Prince Vasili Sergeevich," 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.

The mother 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," she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a

touch, "you promised me!"

The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.

They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to

the apartments assigned to Prince Vasili.

Just as the mother and son, 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

Prince 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 Petersburg

doctor, Lorrain.

"Then it is certain?" said the prince.

"Prince, humanum est errare, but..." replied the doctor, swallowing

To err is human.

"Very well, very well..."

Seeing Anna Mikhaylovna and her son, Prince Vasili dismissed the

doctor with a bow and approached them silently and with a look of

inquiry. The son noticed that an expression of profound sorrow

suddenly clouded his mother's face, and he smiled slightly.

"Ah, Prince! In what sad circumstances we meet again! And how is our

dear invalid?" said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive

look fixed on her.

Prince Vasili stared at her and at Boris questioningly and

perplexed. Boris bowed politely. Prince Vasili without acknowledging

the bow turned to Anna Mikhaylovna, answering her query by a

movement of the head and lips indicating very little hope for the

patient.

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Anna Mikhaylovna. "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, Prince, 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 Anna

Mikhaylovna," said Prince Vasili, arranging his lace frill, and in

tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna Mikhaylovna whom he had placed

under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than

he had done in Petersburg at Anna Scherer's reception.

"Try to serve well and show yourself worthy," added he, addressing

Boris with severity. "I am glad.... Are you here on leave?" he 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 the prince's brusque

manner nor a desire to enter into conversation, but speaking so

quietly and respectfully that the prince gave him a searching glance.

"Are you living with your mother?"

"I am living at Countess Rostova's," replied Boris, again adding,

"your excellency."

"That is, with Ilya Rostov who married Nataly Shinshina," said

Anna Mikhaylovna.

"I know, I know," answered Prince Vasili in his monotonous voice. "I

never could understand how Nataly made up her mind to marry that

unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler

too, I am told."

"But a very kind man, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna 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?" asked the princess after a pause, her worn face again

expressing deep sorrow.

"They give little hope," replied the prince.

"And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kindness to me

and Boris. He is his godson," she added, her tone suggesting that this

fact ought to give Prince Vasili much satisfaction.

Prince Vasili became thoughtful and frowned. Anna Mikhaylovna saw

that he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count Bezukhov's

fortune, and hastened to reassure him.

"If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,"

said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern,

"I know his character: noble, upright... but you see he has no one

with him except the young princesses.... They are still young...." She

bent her head and continued in a whisper: "Has he performed his

final duty, Prince? 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, Prince," 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 the prince understood her, and also understood, as he

had done at Anna Pavlovna's, that it would be difficult to get rid

of Anna Mikhaylovna.

"Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna

Mikhaylovna?" said he. "Let us wait until evening. The doctors are

expecting a crisis."

"But one cannot delay, Prince, 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 one of the princesses,

the count's niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The length of

her body was strikingly out of proportion to her short legs. Prince

Vasili turned to her.

"Well, how is he?"

"Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise..." said the

princess, looking at Anna Mikhaylovna as at a stranger.

"Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you," said Anna Mikhaylovna with a happy

smile, ambling lightly up to the count's niece. "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.

The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room

at Anna Mikhaylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position

she had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasili

to take a seat beside her.

"Boris," she said to her son with a smile, "I shall go in to see the

count, my uncle; 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 he won't go?" she continued, turning to the

prince.

"On the contrary," replied the prince, who had plainly become

depressed, "I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of that young

man.... Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him."

He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Boris down one flight

of stairs and up another, to Pierre's rooms.

BK1|CH16

CHAPTER XVI

Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in

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-

who were never favorably disposed toward him- would have used it to

turn the count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his

arrival went to his father's part of the house. Entering the drawing

room, where the princesses 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 who was reading- the one who had met

Anna Mikhaylovna. 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. The eldest princess paused in her reading

and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the second assumed

precisely the same expression; while the youngest, 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 down through the canvas and, scarcely

able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the

pattern.

"How do you do, cousin?" said Pierre. "You don't recognize me?"

"I recognize you only too well, too well."

"How is the count? Can I see him?" asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual,

but unabashed.

"The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently

you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings."

"Can I see the count?" Pierre again asked.

"Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see

him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is ready- it is

almost time," she 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 he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of

the sister with the mole.

Next day Prince Vasili had arrived and settled in the count's house.

He sent for Pierre and said to him: "My dear fellow, if you are

going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very

badly; that is all I have to say to you. The count 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 he, scowling and pointing his finger

at someone unseen. "Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the

rights of man, 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 the count, but it seems he is not

well."

"Yes, it seems he 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 looked Pierre straight in the face.

"Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today," said he, after a

considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.

"Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully. "Then you are his

son, Ilya? 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 Princess Anna

Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya. Rostov, the father, is Ilya, 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 Boulogne

expedition? The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon

gets across the Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible.

If only 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 he 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."

Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his

companion's sake that the latter might say something he would

afterwards 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 the count 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 this officer 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 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 it? You

must excuse me," said he, 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," he 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 the count. 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- the princess was going. Pierre,

in order to make Boris' better acquaintance, promised to come to

dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his

spectacles into Boris' eyes. After he 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, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man

and made up his mind that they would be friends.

Prince Vasili saw the princess 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. He 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!... Adieu, Prince! May God support you..."

"Adieu, ma bonne," answered Prince Vasili turning away from her.

"Oh, he is in a dreadful state," said the mother to her son when

they were in the carriage. "He hardly recognizes anybody."

"I don't understand, Mamma- what is his attitude to Pierre?" asked

the son.

"The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it."

"But why do you expect that he 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, Heaven! How ill he is!" exclaimed the mother.

BK1|CH17

CHAPTER XVII

After Anna Mikhaylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count

Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov, Countess Rostova 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?" she 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."

The countess was upset by her friend'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 the count to come to me."

The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look

as usual.

"Well, little countess? What a saute of game au madere we are to

have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Taras

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, little countess?"

"You see, my dear... What's that mess?" she said, pointing to his

waistcoat. "It's, the saute, most likely," she added with a smile.

"Well, you see, Count, I want some money."

Her face became sad.

"Oh, little countess!"... and the count began bustling to get out

his pocketbook.

"I want a great deal, Count! 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?" he called out

in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call

will rush to obey the summons. "Send Dmitri to me!"

Dmitri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the

count's house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the

room.

"This is what I want, my dear fellow," said the count 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 the countess."

"Yes, Dmitri, clean ones, please," said the countess, sighing

deeply.

"When would you like them, your excellency?" asked Dmitri. "Allow me

to inform you... But, don't be uneasy," he added, noticing that the

count 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 the countess."

"What a treasure that Dmitri is," added the count 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, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,"

said the countess. "But I am in great need of this sum."

"You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift," said the

count, and having kissed his wife's hand he went back to his study.

When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from Count Bezukhov's the money,

all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the

countess' little table, and Anna Mikhaylovna noticed that something

was agitating her.

"Well, my dear?" asked the countess.

"Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is

so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word..."

"Annette, for heaven's sake don't refuse me," the countess began,

with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified,

elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief.

Anna Mikhaylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be

ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.

"This is for Boris from me, for his outfit."

Anna Mikhaylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess

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.

BK1|CH18

CHAPTER XVIII

Countess Rostova, with her daughters and a large number of guests,

was already seated in the drawing room. The count 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 Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova, known in society as le

terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but

for common sense and frank plainness of speech. Marya Dmitrievna was

known to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and

Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her, laughed privately at

her rudenesses, and told good stories about her, while none the less

all without exception respected and feared her.

In the count's room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked of

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. The count 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 them 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, Shinshin, a cousin of the countess', 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 Lieutenant Berg, an officer in the Semenov regiment with whom

Boris was to travel to join the army, and about whom Natasha had,

teased her elder sister Vera, speaking of Berg as her "intended."

The count sat between them and listened attentively. His favorite

occupation when not playing boston, a card game he was very fond of,

was that of listener, especially when he succeeded in setting two

loquacious talkers at one another.

"Well, then, old chap, mon tres honorable Alphonse Karlovich,"

said Shinshin, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary

Russian expressions with the choicest French phrases- which was a

peculiarity of his speech. "Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur

l'etat; you want to make something out of your company?"

You expect to make an income out of the government.

"No, Peter Nikolaevich; I only want to show that in the cavalry

the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own

position now, Peter Nikolaevich..."

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, Peter Nikolaevich. 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 Shinshin and the count 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, Peter Nikolaevich, 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 to send something to my father," he went on, emitting

a smoke ring.

"La balance y est... A German knows how to skin a flint, as the

So that squares matters.

The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that

Shinshin 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, my boy, you'll get along wherever you go- foot or horse- that

I'll warrant," said Shinshin, patting him on the shoulder and taking

his feet off the sofa.

Berg smiled joyously. The count, 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 zakuska, avoid engaging in any

Hors d'oeuvres.

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. The countess 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. He 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?" the countess asked him.

"Oui, madame," replied he, looking around him.

"You have not yet seen my husband?"

"Non, madame." He smiled quite inappropriately.

"You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it's very

interesting."

"Very interesting."

The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhaylovna. The latter

understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and

sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he

answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other

guests were all conversing with one another. "The Razumovskis... It

was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apraksina..." was

heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom.

"Marya Dmitrievna?" came her voice from there.

"Herself," came the answer in a rough voice, and Marya Dmitrievna

entered the room.

All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very

oldest rose. Marya 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. Marya Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian.

"Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to

her children," she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned

all others. "Well, you old sinner," she went on, turning to the

count 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 she, "how's my Cossack?" (Marya 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."

She 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 she, assuming a soft high

tone of voice. "Come here, my friend..." 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 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 dearly only a prelude.

"A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his deathbed

and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame,

sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war."

She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly

keep from laughing.

"Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?" said Marya

Dmitrievna.

The count went in first with Marya Dmitrievna, the countess 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 Anna

Mikhaylovna with Shinshin. Berg gave his arm to Vera. The smiling

Julie Karagina 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 the count'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 the countess with Marya Dmitrievna on her right and Anna

Mikhaylovna on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down. At

the other end sat the count, with the hussar colonel on his left and

Shinshin and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the

long table on one side sat the grownup young people: Vera beside Berg,

and Pierre beside Boris; and on the other side, the children,

tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal decanters and fruit

vases the count kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with its

light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his neighbors' glasses, not

neglecting his own. The countess 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 the count 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 the count'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 Sonya, beside Julie Karagina,

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 round 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.

BK1|CH19

CHAPTER XIX

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 Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself

seen, had that day been forwarded by courier to the commander in

chief.

"And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?" remarked

Shinshin. "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 Shinshin's

remark.

"It is for the reasson, my goot sir," said he, speaking with a

German accent, "for the reasson zat ze Emperor 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 he

repeated from the opening words of the manifesto:

... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor's sole and

absolute aim- to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations- has

now decided him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a

new condition for the attainment of that purpose.

"Zat, my dear sir, is vy..." he concluded, drinking a tumbler of

wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval.

"Connaissez-vous le Proverbe: 'Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but

smiling. "Cela nous convient a merveille.[2] Suvorov now- he knew

what he was about; yet they beat him a plate couture,[3] and where

are we to find Suvorovs now? Je vous demande un peu,"[4] said he,

continually changing from French to Russian.

Do you know the proverb?

[2] That suits us down to the ground.

[3] Hollow.

[4] I just ask you that.

"Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!" said the

colonel, thumping the table; "and ve must tie for our Emperor, 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 the count. "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 round and moving his wineglasses 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 partner Julie.

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?" Marya

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 hussar with a smile.

"It's all about the war," the count shouted down the table. "You

know my son's going, Marya Dmitrievna? My son 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 Marya 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. She

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 the countess, startled; but seeing by her

daughter'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?" and Natasha's voice

sounded still more firm and resolute.

The countess tried to frown, but could not. Marya 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 the countess.

"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 Marya Dmitrievna.

Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even

Marya Dmitrievna.

"Marya Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don't like ice

cream."

"Carrot ices."

"No! What kind, Marya Dmitrievna? What kind?" she almost screamed;

"I want to know!"

Marya Dmitrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the

guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Marya Dmitrievna's answer

but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who

had dared to treat Marya Dmitrievna in this fashion.

Natasha only desisted when she had been told that there would be

pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. The band

again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests,

leaving their seats, went up to "congratulate" the countess, and

reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, 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 the

count's study.

BK1|CH20

CHAPTER XX

The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the

count's visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms,

some in the sitting room, some in the library.

The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty

from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at

everything. The young people, at the countess' instigation, gathered

round 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

Rostov 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?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!" 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 she

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 she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul.

"It's all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and

Boris also," she 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 she tells Mamma" (Sonya looked upon the

countess 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 she 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 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," she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true

reason of 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 she found them on my table and said she'd show them to

Mamma, and that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him

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 she 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? There's Uncle Shinshin's brother has

married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know.

And Boris says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all

about it. And 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?" she 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 she 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 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 a song he 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 music the lea,

It is for thee thus swells her heart,

Sighing its message out to thee...

A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,

But oh! till then I cannot live!...

He 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 Shinshin 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 the countess 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 ecossaise there was a clatter of chairs

being pushed back in the sitting room where the count and Marya

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 Marya Dmitrievna and the count,

both with merry countenances. The count, with playful ceremony

somewhat in ballet style, offered his bent arm to Marya Dmitrievna. He

drew himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and

as soon as the last figure of the ecossaise was ended, he clapped

his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery, addressing

the first violin:

"Semen! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?"

This was the count'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, who standing beside his tall and stout

partner, Marya 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.

The count danced well and knew it. But his partner 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 the

countess), and only her stern but handsome face really joined in the

dance. What was expressed by the whole of the count's plump figure, in

Marya Dmitrievna found expression only in her more and more beaming

face and quivering nose. But if the count, 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, Marya 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 the count and Marya 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 the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the

musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more

lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round Marya

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 backwards, 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, ma chere," said the count.

"That was a Daniel Cooper!" exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna, tucking up

her sleeves and puffing heavily.

BK1|CH21

CHAPTER XXI

While in the Rostovs' ballroom the sixth anglaise 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 the

count's health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to

the celebrated grandee of Catherine'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 from the glances fixed

on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince

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, Prince 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 the

eldest princess.

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 o'erpassed,"

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 the count no longer recognizes

anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction."

"I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times."

The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes

red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a

graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a

table.

"Beautiful," said the doctor in answer to a remark about the

weather. "The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow

one feels as if one were in the country."

"Yes, indeed," replied the princess with a sigh. "So he may have

something to drink?"

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 he 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 he 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 the second

princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to

Lorrain's instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain.

"Do you think he can last till morning?" asked the German,

addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.

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 Prince Vasili had opened the door into the princess' 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, cousin?"

She 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, Catiche," muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on

Catherine.

"I thought perhaps something had happened," she said with her

unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the

prince, she prepared to listen.

"I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can't."

"Well, my dear?" said Prince 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.

The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for

her legs, looked directly at Prince 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. Prince 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, Catiche, a

very serious talk."

Prince 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 which 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 round in alarm.

The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony

hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasili's eyes evidently resolved

not to be the first to break silence, if she had to wait till morning.

"Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine Semenovna,"

continued Prince 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."

The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the

same dull expression.

"And then of course my family has also to be considered," Prince

Vasili went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at

her. "You know, Catiche, that we- you three sisters, Mamontov, and

my wife- are the count'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 I have sent for Pierre? The count," pointing

to his portrait, "definitely demanded that he should be called."

Prince Vasili looked questioningly at the princess, 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, mon cousin," she

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 Prince 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 the count made a will by which he

left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre."

"He has made wills enough!" quietly remarked the princess. "But he

cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate."

"But, my dear," said Prince Vasili suddenly, clutching the little

table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: "what if

a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for

Pierre's legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of

the count's services, his request would be granted?..."

The princess 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 Prince Vasili, seizing her hand,

"that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew

of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not,

then as soon as all is over," and Prince Vasili sighed to intimate

what he meant by the words all is over, "and the count's papers are

opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and

the petition will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything

as the legitimate son."

"And our share?" asked the princess smiling ironically, as if

anything might happen, only not that.

"But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He 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?" the princess 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... un batard!" she added, as if supposing that this

A bastard.

"Well, really, Catiche! Can't you understand! You are so

intelligent, how is it you don't see that if the count has written a

letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate,

it follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become Count

Bezukhov, and 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 et tout ce qui s'ensuit!

And all that follows therefrom.

"I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and

you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool," said the

princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are

saying something witty and stinging.

"My dear Princess Catherine Semenovna," began Prince 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 Emperor and

the will in Pierre's favor are among the count'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 Dmitri Onufrich"

(the family solicitor) "and he says the same."

At this a sudden change evidently took place in the princess' 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 she. "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!" she cried. "It's splendid!

Fine! I don't want anything, Prince."

"Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters..."

replied Prince Vasili.

But the princess 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 Prince

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!"

The princees wished to rise, but the prince 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, Catiche, that it

was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was

afterwards 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 the princess, who

would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, "though

he never could appreciate it. No, mon 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 the prince. "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

the count. 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

the princess.

"That's not the point, my dear."

"It's that protege of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskaya, that

Anna Mikhaylovna 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 she wheedled herself in here

and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us,

especially about Sophie- I can't repeat them- that it made the count

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 the princess, ignoring his question. "Now I know! Yes; if I

have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!" almost

shrieked the princess, 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!"

BK1|CH22

CHAPTER XXII

While these conversations were going on in the reception room and

the princess' room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent

for) and Anna Mikhaylovna (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, Anna Mikhaylovna,

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 Anna Mikhaylovna 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 Anna Mikhaylovna 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

Anna Mikhaylovna. 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 the

count at all, still less why he had to go by the back stairs, yet

judging by Anna Mikhaylovna'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 Anna Mikhaylovna pass

and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there.

"Is this the way to the princesses' apartments?" asked Anna

Mikhaylovna 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 the count did not ask for me," said Pierre when he

reached the landing. "I'd better go to my own room."

Anna Mikhaylovna paused and waited for him to come up.

"Ah, my friend!" 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?" he asked, looking kindly at

her over his spectacles.

"Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done

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 grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikhaylovna who

was already opening a door.

This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the

princesses, 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. Anna Mikhaylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past

with a decanter on a tray as "my dear" and "my sweet," asked about the

princess' health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The

first door on the left led into the princesses' 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 Anna

Mikhaylovna in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where

Prince Vasili and the eldest princess were sitting close together

talking. Seeing them pass, Prince Vasili drew back with obvious

impatience, while the princess 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 Prince Vasili's face so out of keeping with his dignity

that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his

guide. Anna Mikhaylovna 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. 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 the count'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 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

Anna Mikhaylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre

who, hanging his head, meekly followed her.

Anna Mikhaylovna's face expressed a consciousness that the

decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical 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 the

count'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 she to one of the

priests; "all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man

is the count'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 is the count's son. Is

there any hope?"

The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his

shoulders. Anna Mikhaylovna 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 him to sit

and wait for her, she 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 Anna Mikhaylovna

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 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 round 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 Prince 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 round 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!" and he 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 "the

count," yet ashamed to call him "father."

"He 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 Prince Vasili

in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of

illness. Prince Vasili said something to 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. The eldest princess 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 Anna Mikhaylovna, 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.

BK1|CH23

CHAPTER XXIII

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 the two younger princesses holding handkerchiefs to their

eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister, Catiche, 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. Anna Mikhaylovna, with a meek, sorrowful, and

all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door near the

strange lady. Prince 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. His 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 him 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. Anna

Mikhaylovna, 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.

Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the

mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and

remained with it hidden for awhile; 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 the

count's hand got up and said something to the ladies. Anna Mikhaylovna

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 the sick man with the noiseless

step of one in 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. The sick man 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 Prince Vasili left the chair on which he had

been leaning, and- with 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

the eldest princess, and moved with her to the side of the room

where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving the

bed both Prince Vasili and the princess 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 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 man lay as lifeless and immovable as

before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and

whispers, among which Anna Mikhaylovna's was the most distinct.

Pierre heard her say:

"Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be

impossible..."

The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, 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 round the

invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and were moving him.

"Catch hold of my arm or you'll drop him!" he 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 Anna Mikhaylovna, passed the young

man 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 the count had

sent him to 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' bustle beside the high bedstead, those who

had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikhaylovna 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 the count 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. Anna Mikhaylovna 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

the count's face stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at

Anna Mikhaylovna to see what he was to do next. Anna Mikhaylovna

with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre

obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna

Mikhaylovna 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 the count, who still gazed

at the spot where Pierre's face had been before he sat down. Anna

Mikhaylovna 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 the count'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. Anna Mikhaylovna looked attentively at the sick man's

eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre,

then to some drink, then named Prince 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 the count's heavy body toward the wall.

Pierre rose to help him.

While the count 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 sight of this

smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in his breast and a tickling

in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. The sick man was turned on

to his side with his face to the wall. He sighed.

"He is dozing," said Anna Mikhaylovna, observing that one of the

princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. "Let us go."

Pierre went out.

BK1|CH24

CHAPTER XXIV

There was now no one in the reception room except Prince Vasili

and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of

Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre

and his companion they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the

princess hide something as she whispered:

"I can't bear the sight of that woman."

"Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room," said

Prince Vasili to Anna Mikhaylovna. "Go and take something, my poor

Anna Mikhaylovna, or you will not hold out."

To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic

squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikhaylovna into the

small drawing room.

"There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup

of this delicious Russian tea," Lorrain was saying with an air of

restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese

handleless 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 Pierre, 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 lighted 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 they 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 Prince Vasili and the eldest

princess. Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and after a

short interval followed her. Anna Mikhaylovna was standing beside

the princess, and they were both speaking in excited whispers.

"Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not

necessary," said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the

same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.

"But, my dear princess," answered Anna Mikhaylovna blandly but

impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other

from passing, "won't this be too much for poor Uncle at a moment

when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul

is already prepared..."

Prince 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 Anna Mikhaylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases.

You know how fond the count is of her."

"I don't even know what is in this paper," said the younger of the

two ladies, addressing Prince 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 Anna Mikhaylovna, but the latter sprang so as to

bar her path.

"I know, my dear, kind princess," said Anna Mikhaylovna, seizing the

portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily.

"Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! Je

vous en conjure..."

The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the

portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if the

princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna

Mikhaylovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost

none of its honeyed firmness and softness.

"Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place

in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?"

"Why don't you speak, cousin?" suddenly shrieked the princess 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 Anna Mikhaylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold

on the portfolio, and changed her grip.

Prince Vasili rose. "Oh!" said he with reproach and surprise,

"this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you."

The princess let go.

"And you too!"

But Anna Mikhaylovna did not obey him.

"Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will

go and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?"

"But, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna, "after such a solemn

sacrament, allow him a moment's peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your

opinion," said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite

close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the

princess which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of

Prince Vasili.

"Remember that you will answer for the consequences," said Prince

Vasili severely. "You don't know what you are doing."

"Vile woman!" shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna

Mikhaylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.

Prince 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!"

Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna, stooping,

quickly caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom.

The eldest princess and Prince Vasili, recovering themselves, followed

her. A few minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard

face, again biting her underlip. At 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.

Prince 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 an ague.

"Ah, my friend!" said he, 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.

Anna Mikhaylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow,

quiet steps.

"Pierre!" she said.

Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his

forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said:

"He 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."

She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one

could see his face. Anna Mikhaylovna left him, and when she returned

he was fast asleep with his head on his arm.

In the morning Anna Mikhaylovna 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, Uncle

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 Princess Anna Mikhaylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna

Mikhaylovna returned to the Rostovs' 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 the count had died as she would

herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but

edifying. As to the last meeting between father and son, 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- the father

who so remembered everything and everybody at last and 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 the old count

and his worthy son," said she. Of the behavior of the eldest

princess and Prince Vasili she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers

and as a great secret.

BK1|CH25

CHAPTER XXV

At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andreevich Bolkonski's estate, the

arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but

this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the

old prince's household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andreevich

(nicknamed in society, "the King of Prussia") ever since the Emperor

Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously

with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle

Bourienne. Though in the new reign he 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.

He himself undertook his daughter'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 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,

the prince 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 the prince's estate lay considered it his duty to

visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber ante chamber just as the

architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince 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 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 the young couple were to arrive,

Princess Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed

for the morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and

repeating a silent prayer. Every morning she 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. The princess

timidly opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused

at the entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after

glancing round 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 the prince

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. He 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." He took the exercise book

containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a

chair with his foot.

"For tomorrow!" said he, quickly finding the page and making a

scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.

The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.

"Wait a bit, here's a letter for you," said the old man 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 the

princess' face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.

"From Heloise?" asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his

still sound, yellowish teeth.

"Yes, it's from Julie," replied the princess with a timid glance and

a timid smile.

"I'll let two more letters pass, but the third I'll read," said

the prince sternly; "I'm afraid you write much nonsense. I'll read the

third!"

"Read this if you like, Father," said the princess, blushing still

more and holding out the letter.

"The third, I said the third!" cried the prince abruptly, pushing

the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward

him the exercise book containing geometrical figures.

"Well, madam," he 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 herself 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..."

The princess 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 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: the princess' 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. The old man 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.

The princess gave a wrong answer.

"Well now, isn't she a fool!" shouted the prince, 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.

He drew up his chair. and continued to explain.

"This won't do, Princess; it won't do," said he, when Princess Mary,

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."

She 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 Heloise has

sent you. Religious! I don't interfere with anyone's belief... I

have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go."

He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her.

Princess Mary 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.

The princess 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 Karagina

who had been at the Rostovs' name-day party.

Julie wrote in French:

Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is

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, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the

mirror which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful

figure and thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular

hopelessness at her reflection in the glass. "She flatters me,"

thought the princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie

did not flatter her friend, the princess' 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 the princess 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 in 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 Emperor has left Petersburg

and it is thought intends to expose his precious person to the chances

of war. God grant that the Corsican monster 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 Rostov, 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 Mary, 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 Count Nicholas is too young ever

to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship, this poetic

and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed. But enough of this!

The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of old

Count Bezukhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses

have received very little, Prince Vasili nothing, and it is Monsieur

Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been

recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count Bezukhov and

possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince

Vasili played a very despicable part in this affair and that he

returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen.

I confess I understand very little about all these matters of

wills and inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom

we all used to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count

Bezukhov 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 Bezukhova. But you will understand that I have

no desire for the post. A propos of marriages: do you know that a

while ago that universal auntie Anna Mikhaylovna told me, under the

seal of strict secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you. It is neither

more nor less than with Prince Vasili's son Anatole, whom they wish to

reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguee, 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 of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper,

and Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apraksins'. 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 which calms and elevates the soul.

Adieu! Give my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments

to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.

JULIE

P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife.

The princess 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 Friend, 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 of 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

my father was much affected by it. He says the count 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. He

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 Prince Vasili, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear

friend, our divine Saviour'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 Prince 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 which 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 Saviour 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.

My father 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 Prince

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 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, who announces his speedy

arrival at Bald Hills with his wife. 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 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 Saviour, 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 Saviour and His most

Holy Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!

MARY

"Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already

dispatched mine. I have written to my poor mother," said the smiling

Mademoiselle Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and

with guttural r's. She brought into Princess Mary's strenuous,

mournful, and gloomy world a quite different atmosphere, careless,

lighthearted, and self-satisfied.

"Princess, I must warn you," she added, lowering her voice and

evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with

exaggerated grasseyement, "the prince has been scolding Michael

Ivanovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared."

"Ah, dear friend," replied Princess Mary, "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."

The princess 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, the prince rested and the princess played

the clavichord.

BK1|CH26

CHAPTER XXVI

The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the

snoring of the prince, 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. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little

wife to alight, and let her pass into the house before him. Old

Tikhon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the

antechamber, reported in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and

hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that neither the son's arrival

nor any other unusual event must be allowed to disturb the appointed

order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this as well as

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.

"He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary's room,"

he said.

The little princess 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 her husband, 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

Tikhon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them.

"Is that Mary practicing? Let's go quietly and take her by

surprise."

Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression.

"You've grown older, Tikhon," he 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, Mademoiselle Bourienne,

rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.

"Ah! what joy for the princess!" exclaimed she: "At last! I must let

her know."

"No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne," said the

little princess, kissing her. "I know you already through my

sister-in-law's friendship for 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. Prince Andrew stopped

and made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant.

The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the

middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary's heavy tread and the

sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in the two princesses, 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. Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her

hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready

to cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and

frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two

women 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 Prince

Andrew's surprise both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle

Bourienne also began to cry. Prince Andrew 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! Mary!" they suddenly exclaimed, and then

laughed. "I dreamed last night..."- "You were not expecting us?..."-

"Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?..." "And you have grown stouter!..."

"I knew the princess at once," put in Mademoiselle Bourienne.

"And I had no idea!..." exclaimed Princess Mary. "Ah, Andrew, I

did not see you."

Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another,

and he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess

Mary had turned toward her brother, and through her tears the

loving, warm, gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful

at that moment, rested on Prince Andrew's face.

The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip

continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary

and drawing up again 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 Spasski 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 Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would

have to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that

Kitty Odyntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor

for Mary, a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Princess

Mary 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 Petersburg fete she

addressed her brother:

"So you are really going to the war, Andrew?" she said sighing.

Lise sighed too.

"Yes, and even tomorrow," replied her brother.

"He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had

promotion..."

Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of

thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her

figure.

"Is it certain?" she said.

The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said:

"Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful..."

Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law's

and unexpectedly again began to cry.

"She needs rest," said Prince Andrew 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 the princess joyfully.

"And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the

lathe?" asked Prince Andrew 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 Princess Mary 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 the

old prince to get up, Tikhon came to call the young prince to his

father. The old man 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. The old prince always dressed in

old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and

when Prince Andrew 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 Pierre), the old man was sitting

on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle,

entrusting his head to Tikhon.

"Ah! here's the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?" said the old

man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which 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 he

held out his cheek.

The old man 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. Prince Andrew 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 Bonaparte.

"Yes, Father, I have come come to you and brought my wife who is

pregnant," said Prince Andrew, 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 his son smiling.

"God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on," he continued,

returning to his hobby; "tell me how the Germans have taught you to

fight Bonaparte by this new science you call 'strategy.'"

Prince Andrew 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 the old man, shaking his pigtail to

see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand.

"The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary 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

Mikhelson's army I understand- Tolstoy'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 Tikhon, who

ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing. "What of

Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?"

Prince Andrew, 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 Stralsund; 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, and

how a total force of five hundred thousand men was to attack the

French from different sides. The old prince 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 Tikhon was not handing him the waistcoat he

wanted. Another time he 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 Prince Andrew was finishing his

description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old

age: "Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra."

"Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he'll return."

His son only smiled.

"I don't say it's a plan I approve of," said the son; "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," and the old man repeated,

meditatively and rapidly:

"Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room."

BK1|CH27

CHAPTER XXVII

At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the

dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle

Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, who

by a strange caprice of his employer's was admitted to table though

the position of that insignificant individual was such as could

certainly not have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who

generally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely

admitted even important government officials to his table, had

unexpectedly selected 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 his

daughter that Michael Ivanovich was "not a whit worse than you or

I." At dinner the prince 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 prince 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 prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at

a large gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of

the Princes 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 prince, in a crown- an alleged

descendant of Rurik and ancestor of the Bolkonskis. Prince Andrew,

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 him that is!" he said to Princess Mary, who had

come up to him.

Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not

understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired

her with reverence and was beyond question.

"Everyone has his Achilles' heel," continued Prince Andrew.

"Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!"

Princess Mary 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. The prince 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 prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes

from under their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and

rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar

enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired

in all around him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly

on the back of her neck.

"I'm glad, glad, to see you," he said, looking attentively into

her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. "Sit

down, sit down! Sit down, Michael Ianovich!"

He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman

moved the chair for her.

"Ho, ho!" said the old man, 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.

The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She

was silent and seemed confused. The prince 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 retailing the town

gossip.

"Countess Apraksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has

cried her eyes out," she said, growing more and more lively.

As she became animated the prince 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 Michael

Ivanovich.

"Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of

it. Prince Andrew" (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 Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a

peg on which to hang the prince's favorite topic, he looked

inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.

"He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing to

the architect.

And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and

the generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince 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 Bonaparte was an

insignificant little Frenchy, successful only because there were no

longer any Potemkins or Suvorovs 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. Prince Andrew gaily

bore with his father's ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and

listened to him with evident pleasure.

"The past always seems good," said he, "but did not Suvorov

himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not

know how to escape?"

"Who told you that? Who?" cried the prince. "Suvorov!" And he jerked

away his plate, which Tikhon briskly caught. "Suvorov!... Consider,

Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvorov; Moreau!... Moreau would

have been a prisoner if Suvorov had had a free hand; but he had the

Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have puzzled

the devil himself! When you get there you'll find out what those

Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvorov couldn't manage them so what

chance has Michael Kutuzov? No, my dear boy," he continued, "you and

your generals won't get on against Buonaparte; 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

Potemkins, Suvorovs, and Orlovs Germans? No, lad, either you fellows

have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help you,

but we'll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great

commander among them! Hm!..."

"I don't at all say that all the plans are good," said Prince

Andrew, "I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You may

laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great

generall"

"Michael Ivanovich!" cried the old prince to the architect who, busy

with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: "Didn't I tell you

Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says same thing."

"To be sure, your excellency." replied the architect.

The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.

"Buonaparte 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 the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to

him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His son

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 his father. "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 the son.

"Well, then go to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, here's

another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours," he

exclaimed in excellent French.

"You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!"

"Dieu sait quand reviendra"... hummed the prince out of tune and,

with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.

The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of

the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her

father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she

took her sister-in-law's arm and drew her into another room.

"What a clever man your father is," said she; "perhaps that is why I

am afraid of him."

"Oh, he is so kind!" answered Princess Mary.

BK1|CH28

CHAPTER XXVIII

Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not

altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little

princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew in a traveling

coat without epaulettes 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 Ochakov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew'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. Prince

Andrew'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 Princess Mary that he heard.

"I hear you have given orders to harness," she 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, Andrusha,"

she added, as if to explain such a question.

She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was obviously

strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be

Andrusha- the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in

childhood.

"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only by a

smile.

"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room.

Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have," said she, sitting

down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is quite a child: such a

dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her."

Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical

and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.

"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from

them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and been educated

in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter

into everyone's situation. Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.

To understand all is to forgive all.

Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at

those we think we thoroughly understand.

"You live in the country and don't think the life 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, Andrew: 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 Mademoiselle Bourienne...."

"I don't like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all," said Prince

Andrew.

"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 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, Mary, I expect Father's character sometimes

makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince Andrew asked

suddenly.

Princess Mary 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 Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their

father in order to puzzle or test his sister.

"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of

intellectual pride," said the princess, 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."

Her brother shook his head incredulously.

"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth,

Andrew... 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 Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.

"Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.

Andrew..." 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,

Andrusha!..." 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.

She looked timidly at her brother.

"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince Andrew,

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?"

"Andrew, 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 hundredweight and won't break my neck...

To please you..." said Prince Andrew. 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 He will save and have mercy on you and bring

you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace," said she in a

voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before

her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour

in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.

She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.

"Please, Andrew, 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. Her

brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew

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." She kissed him on the forehead and sat down

again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.

"As I was saying to you, Andrew, 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, Masha, or

blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"

Red patches appeared on Princess Mary'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," he 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: the

little princess 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. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.

"Know this, Masha: 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 he 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 good-by. Or- go and wake and I'll come

in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet: "Come here, take

these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right."

Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said:

"Andrew, 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, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I'll come

immediately."

On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which connected

one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle 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," she said, for some reason

blushing and dropping her eyes.

Prince Andrew 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 lost time.

"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls and her

mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old

age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"

This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same laugh

Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of

others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little

princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work

in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg

reminiscences and even phrases. Prince Andrew 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 in 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 prince. The members of the household were all gathered in

the reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne,

Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew entered the study the old man 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 round.

"Going?" And he went on writing.

"I've come to say good-by."

"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 he 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 my wife... 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 an accoucheur....

Let him be here...."

The old prince 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

Prince Andrew, 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 the old prince 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 the old prince, briefly and significantly.

"I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.

"No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince. "They're all like

that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anyone, but you

know it yourself."

He 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.

The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him.

The old man 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.

Andrew 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 he; "don't worry about your wife: what can be done

shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilarionovich. I

Kutuzov.

He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his

son was accustomed to understand 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 Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond

and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of

Suvorov's wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you

to read when I am gone. You will find them useful."

Andrew did not tell his father 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!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced

him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, 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 Nicholas Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"

"You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son with a

smile.

The old man was silent.

"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "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 the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.

They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp eyes were

fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in the lower part of

the old prince's face.

"We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry

voice, opening his door.

"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw for a moment

at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white

dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.

Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.

"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.

And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying,:

"Now go through your performance."

"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and

looking with dismay at her husband.

He 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, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the

hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.

The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne

chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law,

still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through

which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his

direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent

sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince

Andrew 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 he; and looking angrily at the

unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed

the door.

BK2

BOOK TWO: 1805

BK2|CH1

CHAPTER I

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 the commander-in-chief, 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 the commander in chief. 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 the commander in chief 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 strap in place, and shone with cleanliness.

And not only externally was all in order, but had it pleased the

commander in chief 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

epaulettes 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, Michael Mitrich, sir?" 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 battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed.

"It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsaritsin Meadow."

"What?" asked the commander.

At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had

been posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an

aide-decamp 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 the commander in chief

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.

A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutuzov the

day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army

of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and 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 the

commander in chief 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 the commander in chief 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!" he remarked.

"There now! Didn't I tell you, Michael Mitrich, 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, General...."

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 sergeants major 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 straps over their heads, unstrapping 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 general!...

commander to the general... third company to the 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 toward the general. 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

general 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? The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place?

Eh? I'll teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade....

Eh...?"

The commander of the company, 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 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 he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier?

If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the

others."

"Your excellency, you gave him 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 commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his

jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at 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, 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 commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there

were still five men between him and Dolokhov with his bluish-gray

uniform.

Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with

his clear, insolent eyes in the general's face.

"Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his

coat... the ras..." he did not finish.

"General, 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 general and the soldier met. The general became

silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf.

"I request you to have the goodness to change your coat," he said as

he turned away.

BK2|CH2

CHAPTER II

"He's 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.

"Att-ention!" 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 caleche, slightly creaking on its springs

and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the caleche galloped

the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutuzov sat an Austrian

general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian

black ones. The caleche stopped in front of the regiment. 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 the commander in chief was heard. The regiment

roared, "Health to your ex... len... len... lency!" and again all

became silent. At first Kutuzov stood still while the regiment

moved; then he and the general in white, accompanied by the suite,

walked between the ranks.

From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief

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 the

commander in chief, 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 at the

same time, was in splendid condition. There were only 217 sick and

stragglers. Everything was in good order except the boots.

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 which 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 the commander in chief's regarding the regiment.

Behind 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 the

commander in chief walked a handsome adjutant. This was Prince

Bolkonski. Beside him was his comrade Nesvitski, a tall staff officer,

extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes.

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. Nesvitski laughed

and nudged the others to make them look at the wag.

Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which

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, 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 Timokhin had done when he was reprimanded by the

regimental commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed

him he drew himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not

have sustained it had the commander in chief 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 he. "A brave officer! Are you

satisfied with him?" 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 Kutuzov smiling and walking

away from him. "He 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 and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his

expression and pose with such exactitude that Nesvitski could not help

laughing. Kutuzov turned round. The officer evidently had complete

control of his face, and while 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 Kutuzov pondered, apparently

trying to recollect something. Prince Andrew 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 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 the commander in chief, and presented arms.

"Have you a complaint to make?" Kutuzov asked with a slight frown.

"This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.

"Ah!" said Kutuzov. "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your

duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if you

deserve well."

The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief 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 commander in chief 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 Emperor and to Russia!"

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, Prokhor Ignatych?" 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 Emperor's

service... it can't be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on

parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very

pleased!" And he held out his hand to the captain.

"Don't mention it, General, as if I'd be so bold!" replied the

captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where

two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end

of a gun at Ismail.

"And tell Mr. Dolokhov that I won't forget him- he may be quite

easy. And tell me, please- I've been meaning to ask- how is to ask-

how is he behaving himself, and in general..."

"As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your

excellency; but his character..." said Timokhin.

"And what about his character?" asked the regimental commander.

"It's different on different days," answered the captain. "One day

he 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 he has important

connections... Well, then, you just..."

"I will, your excellency," said 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... epaulettes."

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

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 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, 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, Fedeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You

were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau."

"Buonaparte 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 Buonaparte

will begin. And he says Buonaparte 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

Kamenski." This song had been composed in the Turkish campaign and now

being sung in Austria, the only change being that the words "Father

Kamenski" were replaced by "Father 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, he 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 backwards 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.

Kutuzov and his suite were returning to the town. The commander in

chief 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 Kutuzov's suite who had mimicked the regimental commander,

fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.

Hussar cornet Zherkov had at one time, in 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 Kutuzov

had spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the

cordiality of an old friend.

"My dear fellow, how are you?" said he 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 Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of

Dolokhov's reply.

"And how do you get on with the officers?" inquired 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

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..."

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.

BK2|CH3

CHAPTER III

On returning from the review, Kutuzov took the Austrian general into

his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers

relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the

letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in

command of the advanced army. Prince Andrew Bolkonski came into the

room with the required papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of

the Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread

out.

"Ah!..." said Kutuzov glancing at Bolkonski as if by this

exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with

the conversation in French.

"All I can say, General," said he with a pleasant elegance of

expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each

deliberately spoken word. It was evident that 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 His Majesty the

Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long

ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour 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 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," he said, in a querulous and angry tone that

contrasted with his flattering words, "on the contrary, your

excellency's participation in the common action is highly valued by

His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the

splendid Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have

been accustomed to win in their battles," he concluded his evidently

prearranged sentence.

Kutuzov bowed with the same smile.

"But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with

which His Highness the 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 Kutuzov.

The 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 Kutuzov's suggestion of an

Austrian victory sounded much like irony. But 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 Mack's army informed him of a victory and stated

strategically the position of the army was very favorable.

"Give me that letter," said Kutuzov turning to Prince Andrew.

"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 the 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.

Kutuzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at

the member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively.

"But you know the wise maxim your excellency, 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 the aide-de-camp.

"Excuse me, General," interrupted Kutuzov, also turning to Prince

Andrew. "Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlovski all the reports

from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is

one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he

said, handing him 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 his excellency."

Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from

the first not only what had been said but also what Kutuzov would have

liked to tell him. He 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 Prince Andrew 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. He 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.

Kutuzov, whom he 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 Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade,

Prince Andrew's father.

Your son 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 Kutuzov's staff, among his fellow officers and in the army

generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in 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 Prince Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority,

disliked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But

among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that

they respected and even feared him.

Coming out of Kutuzov's room into the waiting room with the papers

in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp

on duty, Kozlovski, who was sitting at the window with a book.

"Well, Prince?" asked Kozlovski.

"I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not

advancing."

"And why is it?"

Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.

"Any news from Mack?"

"No."

"If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come."

"Probably," said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door.

But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the

order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head,

who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door.

Prince Andrew stopped short.

"Commander in Chief Kutuzov?" said the newly arrived general

speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and

advancing straight toward the inner door.

"The commander in chief is engaged," said 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.

"The commander in chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski calmly.

The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He

took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out

the leaf, gave it to 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, stretched

his neck as if he intended to say something, but immediately, with

affected indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer

sound which immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened

and 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 Kutuzov.

"Vous voyez le malheureux Mack," he uttered in a broken voice.

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 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.

Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief

interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw 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 he 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 Suvorov met them. He feared that

Bonaparte's genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian

troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero

being disgraced.

Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward

his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the

corridor he met Nesvitski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag

Zherkov; they were as usual laughing.

"Why are you so glum?" asked Nesvitski noticing Prince Andrew's pale

face and glittering eyes.

"There's nothing to be gay about," answered Bolkonski.

Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvitski and Zherkov, there came toward

them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian

general who on Kutuzov's staff in charge of the provisioning of the

Russian army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath 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 Zherkov,

pushing Nesvitski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,

"They're coming!... they're coming!... Stand aside, make way, please

make way!"

The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid

embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkov there suddenly

appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.

"Your excellency," said he in German, stepping forward and

addressing the Austrian general, "I have the honor to congratulate

you."

He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with

the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.

The member of the Hofkriegsrath 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," he added, pointing

with a beaming smile to his head.

The general frowned, turned away, and went on.

"Gott, wie naiv!" said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps.

"Good God, what simplicity!"

Nesvitski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but

Bolkonski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and

turned to Zherkov. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance of

Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the

Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkov's untimely jest.

"If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself," he 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."

Nesvitski and Zherkov were so surprised by this outburst that they

gazed at Bolkonski silently with wide-open eyes.

"What's the matter? I only congratulated them," said Zherkov.

"I am not jesting with you; please be silent!" cried Bolkonski,

and taking Nesvitski's arm he left Zherkov, who did not know what to

say.

"Come, what's the matter, old fellow?" said Nesvitski trying to

soothe him.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his

excitement. "Don't you understand that either we are officers

serving our Tsar 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. Quarante mille

hommes massacres et l'armee de nos allies detruite, et vous trouvez la

le mot pour rire," he said, as if strengthening his views by this

vous.[2] Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way," he

added in Russian- but pronouncing the word with a French accent-

having noticed that Zherkov could still hear him.

"Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed,

[2] "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."

He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he

turned and went out of the corridor.

BK2|CH4

CHAPTER IV

The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The

squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a cadet was quartered in

the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were

assigned to cavalry-captain Denisov, the squadron commander, known

throughout the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov. Cadet

Rostov, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had

lived with the squadron commander.

On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the

news of 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 Rostov rode back early

in the morning from a foraging expedition. Rostov 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 he 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 which goodhearted

young people show to everyone when they are happy.

"Yes, your excellency," answered the Ukrainian 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 the cadet was liberal with his tips and that

it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the horse's neck and then his

flank, and lingered for a moment.

"Splendid! What a horse he will be!" he thought with a smile, and

holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the

porch. His 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 Rostov. "Schon gut Morgen! Schon

gut Morgen!" he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to

"A very good morning! A very good morning!"

"Schon fleissig?" said Rostov with the same gay brotherly smile

Kaiser Alexander hoch!"[2] said he, quoting words often repeated by

the German landlord.

"Busy already?"

[2] "Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah

for Emperor Alexander!"

The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and

waving it above his head cried:

"Und die ganze Welt hoch!"

"And hurrah for the whole world!"

Rostov waved his cap above his head like the German and ctied

laughing, "Und vivat die ganze Welt!" Though neither the German

cleaning his cowshed nor Rostov 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 returning to

his cowshed and Rostov going to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.

"What about your master?" he asked Lavrushka, Denisov's orderly,

whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.

"Hasn't been in since the evening. Must have been losing,"

answered Lavrushka. "I know by now, 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 Lavrushka brought the coffee. "He's coming!"

said he. "Now for trouble!" Rostov looked out of the window and saw

Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man with a red face,

sparkling black eyes, and 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.

"Lavwuska!" he shouted loudly and angrily, "take it off, blockhead!"

"Well, I am taking it off," replied Lavrushka's voice.

"Ah, you're up already," said Denisov, entering the room.

"Long ago," answered Rostov, "I have already been for the hay, and

have seen Fraulein Mathilde."

"Weally! And I've been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a

damned fool!" cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r's. "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, he 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."

He 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!"

He 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 Rostov.

"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 Lavrushka.

Denisov's face puckered still more.

"Wetched!" he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in

it. "Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove

the purse undah the pillow," he said, and went out to the

quartermaster.

Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new

coins in separate piles, began counting them.

"Ah! Telyanin! 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 Telyanin, a small officer of the same

squadron, entered the room.

Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little

hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some reason had been

transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very

well in the regiment but was not liked; Rostov especially detested him

and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to

the man.

"Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?" he asked. (Rook

was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)

The lieutenant 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..." he added.

"Oh, he's all right, a good horse," answered Rostov, 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 Rostov.

"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 round," said Rostov wishing to avoid

Telyanin, 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

Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder

with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, he frowned

and gave a shudder of disgust.

"Ugh! I don't like that fellow"' he said, regardless of the

quartermaster's presence.

Rostov 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

Telyanin.

Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had

left him, rubbing his small white hands.

"Well there certainly are disgusting people," thought Rostov as he

entered.

"Have you told them to bring the horse?" asked Telyanin, 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 Telyanin.

They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant

explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.

When Rostov 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 in Rostov'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 Rostov 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 first day of cweation... Who's that now? Send

him to the devil, I'm busy!" he shouted to Lavrushka, 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 Rostov.

"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 Lavrushka.

"Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know," said

Rostov, 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," Rostov repeated.

"No, I tell you."

And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.

"Where have you put it, Wostov?"

"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 Rostov, picking up the

pillows one at a time and shaking them.

He 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 Rostov. "I put it

just here. Where is it?" he asked, turning to Lavrushka.

"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 Rostov,

"but I remember putting it there."

Lavrushka 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 Lavrushka's movements, and when the

latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found

Denisov glanced at Rostov.

"Wostov, you've not been playing schoolboy twicks..."

Rostov 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 the lieutenant

and yourselves. It must be here somewhere," said Lavrushka.

"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."

Rostov, 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 Rostov,

going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denisov paused,

thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostov hinted

at, seized his arm.

"Nonsense!" he 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 Rostov 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 Rostov 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?" he said in a trembling

voice. "There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it

is not so, then..."

He could not finish, and ran out of the room.

"Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody," were the last words

Rostov heard.

Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters.

"The master is not in, he's gone to headquarters," said Telyanin'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

Rostov, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was

an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostov rode up to

it and saw Telyanin's horse at the porch.

In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish

of sausages and a bottle of wine.

"Ah, you've come here too, young man!" he said, smiling and

raising his eyebrows.

"Yes," said Rostov 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 Telyanin 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. Rostov rose and went up to Telyanin.

"Allow me to look at your purse," he said in a low, almost

inaudible, voice.

With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin handed him

the purse.

"Yes, it's a nice purse. Yes, yes," he said, growing suddenly

pale, and added, "Look at it, young man."

Rostov took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in

it, and looked at Telyanin. 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, young man, I'm going."

Rostov did not speak.

"And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite

decently here," continued Telyanin. "Now then, let me have it."

He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostov let go

of it. Telyanin 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 else's business."

"Well, young man?" he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted

brows he glanced into Rostov's eyes.

Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyanin's eyes to

Rostov's and back, and back again and again in an instant.

"Come here," said Rostov, catching hold of Telyanin's arm and almost

dragging him to the window. "That money is Denisov's; you took

it..." he whispered just above Telyanin's ear.

"What? What? How dare you? What?" said Telyanin.

But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an

entreaty for pardon. As soon as Rostov heard them, an enormous load of

doubt fell from him. He 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

Telyanin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room.

"We must have an explanation..."

"I know it and shall prove it," said Rostov.

"I..."

Every muscle of Telyanin's pale, terrified face began to quiver, his

eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not

rising to Rostov's face, and his sobs were audible.

"Count!... Don't ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money,

take it..." He threw it on the table. "I have an old father and

mother!..."

Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin's eyes, and went out of the

room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced

his steps. "O God," he said with tears in his eyes, "how could you

do it?"

"Count..." said Telyanin drawing nearer to him.

"Don't touch me," said Rostov, drawing back. "If you need it, take

the money," and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.

BK2|CH5

CHAPTER V

That same evening there was an animated discussion among the

squadron's officers in Denisov's quarters.

"And I tell you, Rostov, 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 Rostov who was crimson with

excitement.

The staff captain, Kirsten, 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 Rostov. "He told me I

lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He 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 an

officer 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; and he tells me that I am lying- so

let him give me satisfaction..."

"That's all right. No one thinks you 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 by a disapproving shake of his head.

"You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other

officers," continued the staff captain, "and Bogdanich" (the colonel

was called Bogdanich) "shuts you up."

"He 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 Rostov.

"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 round. 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? Have the officer 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 Bogdanich 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

Bogdanich 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, my lad, 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 Pavlograd

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 Rostov.

"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 Bogdanich 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 Rostov.

"That's twue, devil take it" shouted Denisov, jumping up. "Now then,

Wostov, now then!"

Rostov, 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 round. Well, what else do you want?..."

"Come, that's right, Count!" cried the staff captain, turning

round and clapping Rostov on the shoulder with his big hand.

"I tell you," shouted Denisov, "he's a fine fellow."

"That's better, Count," said the staff captain, beginning to address

Rostov by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. "Go and

apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!"

"Gentlemen, I'll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,"

said Rostov 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. Bogdanich is vindictive and you'll pay

for your obstinacy," said Kirsten.

"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?" 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, he'd better not cwoss my path. I'd kill him!"

shouted Denisov in a bloodthirsty tone.

Just then Zherkov entered the room.

"What brings you here?" cried the officers turning to the newcomer.

"We're to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his

whole army."

"It's not true!"

"I've seen him myself!"

"What? Saw the real 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,

Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on

Mack's arrival... What's the matter, Rostov? 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

Zherkov. They were under orders to advance next day.

"We're going into action, gentlemen!"

"Well, thank God! We've been sitting here too long!"

BK2|CH6

CHAPTER VI

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 through 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 fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvitski, who

had been sent to the rearguard by the commander in chief, was

sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied

him had handed him a knapsack and a flask, and Nesvitski was

treating some officers to pies and real doppelkummel. The officers

gladly gathered round him, some on their knees, some squatting Turkish

fashion on the wet grass.

"Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It's

a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?" Nesvitski

was saying.

"Thank you very much, Prince," 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, Prince," 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 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.

Nesvitski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.

"Would not your excellency 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 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 Nesvitski.

He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the

knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle.

"I'll really call in on the nuns," he 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, Captain. Just try!" said

the general, turning to an artillery officer. "Have a little fun to

pass the time."

"Crew, to your guns!" commanded the officer.

In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and

began loading.

"One!" came the command.

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.

BK2|CH7

CHAPTER VII

Two of the enemy's shots had already flown across the bridge,

where there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince Nesvitski, who

had alighted from his horse and whose big body was body was jammed

against the railings. He looked back laughing to the Cossack who stood

a few steps behind him holding two horses by their bridles. Each

time Prince 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 Cossack 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?"

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 Prince Nesvitski saw the

rapid, noisy little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying

round the piles of the bridge chased each other along. Looking on

the bridge he saw equally uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder

straps, covered shakos, knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and,

under the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and

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, an 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 Cossack 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 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, Fedotov, 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. 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, 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 near by said sternly,

looking round at the sound.

"Encouraging us to get along quicker," said another uneasily.

The crowd moved on again. Nesvitski realized that it was a cannon

ball.

"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.

"Nesvitski, Nesvitski! you numskull!" came a hoarse voice from

behind him.

Nesvitski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but

separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Vaska 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, Vaska!" joyfully replied Nesvitski. "What's up with you?"

"The squadwon can't pass," shouted Vaska 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 Nesvitski.

"How's it you're not drunk today?" said Nesvitski when the other had

ridden up to him.

"They don't even give one time to dwink!" answered Vaska 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 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 Nesvitski's nose.

"Of course. I'm going into action! I've shaved, bwushed my teeth,

and scented myself."

The imposing figure of Nesvitski followed by his Cossack, 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 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 an 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, Zikin, 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.

BK2|CH8

CHAPTER VIII

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 uniform 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.

"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 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 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 whistle 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 chin and

mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if

threatening to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball

flew past. Rostov 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 Miwonov! 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 Vaska 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

backwards 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 Kirsten. 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,

Wostov," he cried noticing the cadet's bright face, "you've got it

at last."

And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet.

Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the

bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.

"Your excellency! 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 Pavlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up

the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdanich

Schubert, came up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a footpace not far

from Rostov, without taking any notice of him although they were now

meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning

Telyanin. Rostov, 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 Rostov that

Bogdanich 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 Bogdanich 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- Rostov. Then he imagined how, after the attack, Bogdanich would

come up to him as he lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the

hand of reconciliation.

The high-shouldered figure of Zherkov, familiar to the Pavlograds as

he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. After

his dismissal from headquarters 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 Prince

Bagration. He now came to his former chief with an order from the

commander of the rear guard.

"Colonel," he said, addressing Rostov'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 the colonel morosely.

"I don't myself know 'to who,'" replied the cornet in a serious

tone, "but the prince told me to 'go and tell the colonel that the

hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.'"

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

Nesvitski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely

carry his weight.

"How's this, Colonel?" 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."

The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to

Nesvitski.

"You spoke to me of inflammable material," said he, "but you said

nothing about firing it."

"But, my dear sir," said 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

it burn, I could not know by the holy spirit!"

"Ah, that's always the way!" said Nesvitski with a wave of the hand.

"How did you get here?" said he, turning to Zherkov.

"On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out!"

"You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer..." continued the colonel in

an offended tone.

"Colonel," interrupted the officer of the suite, "You must be

quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot."

The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the

stout staff officer, and at Zherkov, and he frowned.

"I will the bridge fire," he 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 Rostov was serving under Denisov, to return to

the bridge.

"There, it's just as I thought," said Rostov to himself. "He

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. Rostov watched his enemy,

the colonel, closely- to find in his face confirmation of his own

conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Rostov, 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. Rostov no longer looked at the

colonel, 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. Rostov saw nothing but the

hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and their

sabers clattering.

"Stretchers!" shouted someone behind him.

Rostov 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 boss zides, Captain," he heard the voice of the colonel, who,

having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a

triumphant, cheerful face.

Rostov 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 Bogdanich, without looking at or recognizing

Rostov, shouted to him:

"Who's that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right!

Come back, Cadet!" he cried angrily; and turning to Denisov, who,

showing off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge:

"Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount," he said.

"Oh, every bullet has its billet," answered Vaska Denisov, turning

in his saddle.

Meanwhile Nesvitski, 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.

"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 Nesvitski; "they are within

grapeshot range now."

"He shouldn't have taken so many men," said the officer of the

suite.

"True enough," answered Nesvitski; "two smart fellows could have

done the job just as well."

"Ah, your excellency," put in 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

Vladimir 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 Bogdanich 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 cannon, 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 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 Tsar I would never go to war," said 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 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.

Rostov, absorbed by his relations with Bogdanich, 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 spilt, and the hussar

nearest to him fell against the rails with a groan. Rostov ran up to

him with the others. Again someone shouted, "Stretchers!" Four men

seized the hussar and began lifting him.

"Oooh! For Christ's sake let me alone!" cried the wounded man, but

still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.

Nicholas Rostov 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 wishing

for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there," thought Rostov.

"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 Rostov. 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.

"O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect

me!" Rostov whispered.

The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their

voices sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from

sight.

"Well, fwiend? So you've smelt powdah!" shouted Vaska Denisov just

above his ear.

"It's all over; but I am a coward- yes, a coward!" thought Rostov,

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 Rostov,

composed of the colonel, Nesvitski, Zherkov, and the officer from

the suite.

"Well, it seems that no one has noticed," thought Rostov. And this

was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation

which the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced.

"Here's something for you to report," said Zherkov. "See if I

don't get promoted to a sublieutenancy."

"Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!" said the colonel

triumphantly and gaily.

"And if he asks about the losses?"

"A trifle," said the colonel 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.

BK2|CH9

CHAPTER IX

Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the

command of Bonaparte, 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 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 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

Kutuzov when he was in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, 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 Mack had done at Ulm.

On the twenty-eighth of October 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 he attacked 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 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

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 Bonaparte.

Prince Andrew 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 the commander in chief'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 Brunn.

Despite his apparently delicate build Prince Andrew 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 Dokhturov to Kutuzov, he was sent immediately

with a special dispatch to Brunn. 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 the commander in chief and his fellow

officers, Prince Andrew was galloping along in a post chaise

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 he 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.

Prince Andrew 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. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the

soldier three gold pieces.

"That's for them all," he said to the officer who came up.

"Get well soon, lads!" he 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!" he shouted to the driver, and they galloped

on.

It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the

paved streets of Brunn 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, Prince Andrew 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 concise form in which he imagined himself stating them to

the Emperor Francis. 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 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, Euer Hochgeboren! There you will

find the adjutant on duty," said the official. "He will conduct you to

the Minister of War."

The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait,

and went in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and

bowing with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along

a corridor to the cabinet where the Minister of War 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.

Prince Andrew'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 which 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. His eyes

narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the Minister of War 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 he to his adjutant, handing him the

papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger.

Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutuzov's army

interested the Minister of War 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,"

he thought. The 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 Prince Andrew 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 Field Marshal Kutuzov?" he asked. "I hope it is good

news? There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was high

time!"

He 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 he laid it on the table and

looked at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something.

"Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is

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. His Majesty 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.

"Au revoir! Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to

see you," he added, bowing his head.

When Prince Andrew 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 Minister of War and the polite adjutant.

The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle

seemed the memory of a remote event long past.

BK2|CH10

CHAPTER X

Prince Andrew stayed at Brunn with Bilibin, a Russian acquaintance

of his in the diplomatic service.

"Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor,"

said Bilibin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. "Franz, put the

prince's things in my bedroom," said he to the servant who was

ushering Bolkonski in. "So you're a messenger of victory, eh?

Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see."

After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat's

luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. 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,

Prince Andrew 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.

Bilibin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle

as Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in

Petersburg, but had become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in

Vienna with Kutuzov. Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave

promise of rising high in the military profession, so to an even

greater extent Bilibin gave promise of rising in his diplomatic

career. He 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. 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.

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, Bilibin's witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing

rooms and often had an influence on matters considered important.

His 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 he.

Bolkonski, very modestly without once mentioning himself,

described the engagement and his reception by the Minister of War.

"They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of

skittles," said he in conclusion.

Bilibin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared.

"Cependant, mon cher," he remarked, examining his nails from a

distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, "malgre la haute

estime que je professe pour the Orthodox Russian army, j'avoue que

votre victoire n'est pas des plus victorieuses."

"But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox Russian

army, I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious."

He 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

Mortier and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your

fingers! Where's the victory?"

"But seriously," said Prince Andrew, "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, marshal 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 Bilibin with a smile.

"You ought to have been there at seven in the morning."

"Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic

methods that he had better leave Genoa alone?" retorted Prince

Andrew in the same tone.

"I know," interrupted Bilibin, "you're thinking it's very easy to

take marshals, 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 Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and

King Francis 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..."

He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his

forehead.

"It is now my turn to ask you 'why?' mon cher," said Bolkonski. "I

confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties

here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can't make it out. Mack

loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl

give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. Kutuzov alone at

last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the invincibility

of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care to hear

the details."

"That's just it, my dear fellow. You see it's hurrah for the Tsar,

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 Bonaparte'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 Bonaparte is at Schonbrunn, and the count,

our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders."

After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception,

and especially after having dined, Bolkonski felt that he could not

take in the full significance of the words he heard.

"Count Lichtenfels was here this morning," Bilibin continued, "and

showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was

fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement... 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 Prince

Andrew, 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 Prince Auersperg? We heard

reports that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna?" he said.

"Prince 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

Prince Andrew.

"Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they

daren't say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign,

it won't be your skirmishing at Durrenstein, or gunpowder at all, that

will decide the matter, but those who devised it," said 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 Emperor Alexander 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!" Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed,

clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, "and what

luck the man has!"

"Buonaparte?" said Bilibin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to

indicate that he was about to say something witty. "Buonaparte?" he

repeated, accentuating the u: "I think, however, now that he lays down

laws for Austria at Schonbrunn, il faut lui faire grace de l'u! I

"We must let him off the u!"

"But joking apart," said Prince Andrew, "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 beaux yeux of His Sardinian Majesty.

Fine eyes.

"Impossible!" cried Prince Andrew. "That would be too base."

"If we live we shall see," replied Bilibin, his face again

becoming smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end.

When Prince Andrew 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,

Bonaparte's new triumph, tomorrow's levee and parade, and the audience

with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts.

He 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.

He woke up...

"Yes, that all happened!" he said, and, smiling happily to himself

like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber.

BK2|CH11

CHAPTER XI

Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first

thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be

presented to the Emperor Francis; he remembered the Minister of War,

the polite Austrian 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

Bilibin's study fresh, animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged.

In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With

Prince Hippolyte Kuragin, who was a secretary to the embassy,

Bolkonski was already acquainted. Bilibin introduced him to the

others.

The gentlemen assembled at Bilibin's were young, wealthy, gay

society men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which

Bilibin, their leader, called les notres. This set, consisting almost

Ours.

"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 Kuragin away to you- is

that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is taking

advantage of it!"

Prince 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, Bolkonski, don't know," said Bilibin turning to Prince Andrew,

"that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the

Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing

among the women!"

"La femme est la compagne de l'homme," announced Prince

"Woman is man's companion."

Bilibin and the rest of "ours" burst out laughing in Hippolyte's

face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom- he had to

admit- he had almost been jealous on his wife's account, was the

butt of this set.

"Oh, I must give you a treat," Bilibin whispered to Bolkonski.

"Kuragin is exquisite when he discusses politics- you should see his

gravity!"

He sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began

talking to him about politics. Prince Andrew 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 Emperor derogates from the principle of our

alliance...

"Wait, I have not finished..." he said to Prince Andrew, seizing him

by the arm, "I believe that intervention will be stronger than

nonintervention. And..." he paused. "Finally one cannot impute the

nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end."

And he released Bolkonski's arm to indicate that he had now quite

finished.

"Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden

mouth!" said 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 Bilibin, "Bolkonski is my guest in

this house and in Brunn 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. Brunn'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 finger tips.

"In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane

interests," said Bilibin.

"I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality,

gentlemen, it is already time for me to go," replied Prince Andrew

looking at his watch.

"Where to?"

"To the Emperor."

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Well, au revoir, Bolkonski! Au revoir, Prince! Come

back early to dinner," cried several voices. "We'll take you in hand."

"When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the

way that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated," said

Bilibin, accompanying him to the hall.

"I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I the facts, I

can't," replied Bolkonski, smiling.

"Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for

giving audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can't do

it, as you will see."

BK2|CH12

CHAPTER XII

At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he

had been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into

his face and just nodded to him with to him with his long head. But

after it was over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day

ceremoniously informed Bolkonski that the Emperor desired to give

him an audience. The Emperor Francis received him standing in the

middle of the room. Before the conversation began Prince Andrew was

struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed confused and blushed as

if not knowing what to say.

"Tell me, when did the battle begin?" he asked hurriedly.

Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple:

"Was Kutuzov well? When had he left Krems?" and so on. The 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 Emperor.

"I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o'clock the battle began at

the front, but at Durrenstein, where I was, our attack began after

five in the afternoon," replied Bolkonski 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

Emperor smiled and interrupted him.

"How many miles?"

"From where to where, Your Majesty?"

"From Durrenstein 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 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 Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew

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 Minister of War came up and

congratulated him on the Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which

the 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 Bilibin's forecast the news he had brought was

joyfully received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutuzov was

awarded the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army

received rewards. Bolkonski 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 Bilibin's house thinking out a letter to his

father about the battle and his visit to Brunn. At the door he found a

vehicle half full of luggage. Franz, Bilibin's man, was dragging a

portmanteau with some difficulty out of the front door.

Before returning to Bilibin's Prince Andrew had gone to bookshop

to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent

some time in the shop.

"What is it?" he 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 Prince Andrew.

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!"

Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew

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 Murat

is now rushing along the road to Brunn 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 Bonaparte, knows why."

Bolkonski 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 Bilibin. "Listen! The French entered

Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday,

those gentlemen, messieurs les marechaux, Murat, Lannes,and Belliard,

The marshalls.

"Stop jesting," said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news

grieved him and yet he was pleased.

As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless

situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead

it out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift

him from the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to

fame! Listening to 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," he said

"I am not jesting," Bilibin went on. "Nothing is truer or sadder.

These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white

handkerchiefs; they assure the officer on duty that they, the

marshals, are on their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets

them enter the tete-de-pont. They spin him a thousand gasconades,

l'ennemi!"[2] In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilibin did

not forget to pause after this mot 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 Lannes stayed his hand. The sergeant,

who was evidently wiser than his general, goes up to Auersperg and

says: 'Prince, you are being deceived, here are the French!' Murat,

seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns

to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a true Gascon) 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. Prince 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...."

Bridgehead.

[2] That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that he ought

to be firing at the enemy.

"It may be treachery," said Prince Andrew, 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

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. "C'est... c'est du Mack. Nous sommes mackes [It is... it

is a bit of Mack. We are 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?" he said suddenly to Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went

to his room.

"Do you know, mon cher," said 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 his face.

Prince Andrew 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. Mon cher,

it is heroism!"

"Not at all," said Prince Andrew.

"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

Olmutz, and Olmutz is a very decent town. You and I will travel

comfortably in my caleche."

"Do stop joking, Bilibin," cried Bolkonski.

"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 Kutuzov's whole army."

And Bilibin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was

insoluble.

"I cannot argue about it," replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he

thought: "I am going to save the army."

"My dear fellow, you are a hero!" said Bilibin.

BK2|CH13

CHAPTER XIII

That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War,

Bolkonski 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 Brunn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the

heavy baggage was already being dispatched to Olmutz. Near Hetzelsdorf

Prince Andrew 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. Prince Andrew took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack

commander, and hungry and weary, making his way past the baggage

wagons, rode in search of the commander in chief 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.

"Cette armee russe que l'or de l'Angleterre a transportee des

extremites de l'univers, nous allons lui faire eprouver le meme

sort- (le sort de l'armee d'Ulm)." He remembered these words in

"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)."

He 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 Bolkonski,

recalling Bilibin's words.

Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was, he 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 caleche. A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in

shawls sat behind the apron under the leather hood of the vehicle.

Prince Andrew 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 Prince Andrew

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 soldier. "Turn back with your slut!"

"Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!... What does it all mean?" screamed

the doctor's wife.

"Kindly let this cart pass. Don't you see it's a woman?" said Prince

Andrew riding up to the officer.

The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the

soldier. "I'll teach you to push on!... Back!"

"Let them pass, I tell you!" repeated Prince Andrew, 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.

Prince Andrew 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 trap might expose him

to what he dreaded more than anything in the world- to ridicule; but

his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence

Prince Andrew, 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," he muttered. "Do as you like."

Prince Andrew 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 that the commander in

chief was.

On reaching the village he 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. Nesvitski's handsome face looked out of the

little window. Nesvitski, moving his moist lips as he chewed

something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter.

"Bolkonski! Bolkonski!... Don't you hear? Eh? Come quick..." he

shouted.

Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw 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 Nesvitski's usually laughing

countenance.

"Where is the commander in chief?" asked Bolkonski.

"Here, in that house," answered the adjutant.

"Well, is it true that it's peace and capitulation?" asked

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 boy! It's terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack,

we're getting it still worse," said Nesvitski. "But sit down and

have something to eat."

"You won't be able to find either your baggage or anything else now,

Prince. 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

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 Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock.

"It's nothing," replied Prince Andrew.

He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor's wife

and the convoy officer.

"What is the commander in chief doing here?" he asked.

"I can't make out at all," said Nesvitski.

"Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable,

abominable, quite abominable!" said Prince Andrew, and he went off

to the house where the commander in chief was.

Passing by Kutuzov's carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his

suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince

Andrew entered the passage. Kutuzov himself, he was told, was in the

house with Prince Bagration and Weyrother. Weyrother was the

Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little

Kozlovski was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk,

with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom

upwards. Kozlovski's face looked worn- he too had evidently not

slept all night. He glanced at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to

him.

"Second line... have you written it?" he 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 Kozlovski.

Through the door came the sounds of Kutuzov's voice, excited and

dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the

sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlovski looked at him,

the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the

clerk and Kozlovski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to

the commander in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks

holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that

something important and disastrous was about to happen.

He turned to Kozlovski with urgent questions.

"Immediately, Prince," said Kozlovski. "Dispositions for Bagration."

"What about capitulation?"

"Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle."

Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard.

Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened,

and Kutuzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the

doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutuzov but the

expression of the commander in chief's 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 adjutant's face without

recognizing him.

"Well, have you finished?" said he to Kozlovski.

"One moment, your excellency."

Bagration, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm,

impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in

chief.

"I have the honor to present myself," repeated Prince Andrew

rather loudly, handing Kutuzov an envelope.

Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!"

Kutuzov went out into the porch with Bagration.

"Well, good-by, Prince," said he to Bagration. "My blessing, and may

Christ be with you in your great endeavor!"

His face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his

left hand he drew Bagration toward him, and with his right, on which

he wore a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him with a

gesture evidently habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Bagration

kissed him on the neck instead.

"Christ be with you!" Kutuzov repeated and went toward his carriage.

"Get in with me," said he to Bolkonski.

"Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to

remain with Prince Bagration's detachment."

"Get in," said Kutuzov, and noticing that Bolkonski 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," he said, as if with an old

man's penetration he understood all that was passing in Bolkonski's

mind. "If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,"

he added as if speaking to himself.

Prince Andrew 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 Bolkonski.

"That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment," he said.

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 Prince

Andrew. There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With

delicate irony he questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his

interview with the Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court

concerning the Krems affair, and about some ladies they both knew.

BK2|CH14

CHAPTER XIV

On November 1 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 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 Mack at Ulm. If

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

Buxhowden. If Kutuzov decided to retreat along the road from Krems

to Olmutz, 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.

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 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, Kutuzov sent Bagration's vanguard,

four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the

Krems-Znaim to the Vienna-Znaim road. 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. 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, Bagration came out on the Vienna-Znaim road

at Hollabrunn a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching

Hollabrunn from Vienna. Kutuzov with his transport had still to

march for some days before he could reach Znaim. Hence Bagration

with his four thousand hungry, exhausted men would have to detain

for days the whole enemy army that came upon him at Hollabrunn,

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 Murat

to try to deceive Kutuzov in a similar way. Meeting Bagration's weak

detachment on the Znaim road he supposed it to be Kutuzov's whole

army. To be able to crush it absolutely he 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. Murat declared that

negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he

therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count

Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed

Murat's emissary and retired, leaving Bagration's division exposed.

Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace

negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days' truce.

Bagration replied that he was not authorized either to accept or

refuse a truce and sent his adjutant to Kutuzov to report the offer he

had received.

A truce was Kutuzov's sole chance of gaining time, giving

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 army. On

receiving the news he immediately dispatched Adjutant General

Wintzingerode, who was in attendance on him, to the enemy camp.

Wintzingerode was not merely to agree to the truce but also to offer

terms of capitulation, and meanwhile 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. 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.

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 Murat's mistake would very soon be discovered,

proved correct. As soon as Bonaparte (who was at Schonbrunn, sixteen

miles from Hollabrunn) received Murat's dispatch with the proposal

of a truce and a capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the

following letter to Murat:

Schonbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805,

at eight o'clock in the morning

To PRINCE 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 Emperor of Russia has that right.

If, however, the Emperor of Russia 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 Russian Emperor'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 Emperor.

NAPOLEON

Bonaparte's adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to

Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all

the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim

escape, and 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.

BK2|CH15

CHAPTER XV

Between three and four o'clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who

had persisted in his request to Kutuzov, arrived at Grunth and

reported himself to Bagration. Bonaparte's adjutant had not yet

reached Murat's detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In

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. Bagration, knowing Bolkonski 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

Bagration as if to reassure Prince Andrew.

"If he 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 Bagration. Prince Andrew, without replying,

asked the prince'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 Prince

Andrew.

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, Prince! 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, Prince, 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 Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything.

"Why didn't you mention it, Prince? 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

prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you,

Captain," 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, 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.

Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery

officer Tushin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged

foot to the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent,

kindly eyes from Prince Andrew to the staff officer.

"The soldiers say it feels easier without boots," said 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.

Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer's small figure.

There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather

comic, but extremely attractive.

The staff officer and Prince Andrew 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. Prince Andrew 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.

"Voila l'agrement des camps, monsieur le Prince," said the staff

"This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince."

They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could

already be seen. Prince Andrew 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. You can see everything from there; let's go there, Prince."

"Thank you very much, I will go on alone," said Prince Andrew,

wishing to rid himself of this staff officer's company, "please

don't trouble yourself further."

The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone.

The farther forward and nearer the enemy he 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 Prince Andrew 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 pock-marked, 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, Prince Andrew 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 major.

A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his

face stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the

adjutant as he rode by.

Prince Andrew, 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. Prince Andrew

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 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, Sidorov!"

"Wait a bit and listen. It's fine!" answered Sidorov, who was

considered an adept at French.

The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dolokhov. Prince

Andrew 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 the officer, bending forward and

trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible

to him. "More, please: more! What's he saying?"

Dolokhov did not answer the 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 Suvorov...," said Dolokhov.

"On vous fera danser."

"Qu' est-ce qu'il chante?" asked a Frenchman.

"What's he singing about?"

"It's ancient history," said another, guessing that it referred to a

former war. "The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the

others..."

"Bonaparte..." began Dolokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.

"Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacre nom...!" cried he angrily.

"The devil skin your Emperor."

And Dolokhov swore at him in coarse soldier's Russian and

shouldering his musket walked away.

"Let us go, Ivan Lukich," he said to the captain.

"Ah, that's the way to talk French," said the picket soldiers. "Now,

Sidorov, you have a try!"

Sidorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber

meaningless sounds very fast: "Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter,

Kaska," he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice.

"Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!" 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, 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.

BK2|CH16

CHAPTER XVI

Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left,

Prince Andrew 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 the officer 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.

It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and

the greater part of the enemy's opened out from this battery. Just

facing it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schon

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, 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 Tushin's battery

stood and from which Prince Andrew was surveying the position, was the

easiest and most direct descent and ascent to the brook separating

us from Schon Grabern. On the left our troops were close to a copse,

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. Prince Andrew 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 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. Prince Andrew,

being always near the commander in chief, 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 Podolsk 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, he 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 Prince Andrew,

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, Tushin," it said.

"Why," thought Prince Andrew, "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 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 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.

BK2|CH17

CHAPTER XVII

Mounting his horse again Prince Andrew 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! Prince Andrew turned his horse and

galloped back to Grunth to find Prince 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.

Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte's stern

letter, and 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

Emperor to crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him.

"It has begun. Here it is!" thought Prince Andrew, feeling the blood

rush to his heart. "But where and how will my Toulon present itself?"

Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and

drinking vodka a quarter of an hour before, he 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 he 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 Prince Bagration. Prince Andrew stopped,

waiting for him to come up; Prince Bagration reined in his horse and

recognizing Prince Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while

Prince Andrew told him what he had seen.

The feeling, "It has begun! Here it is!" was seen even on Prince

Bagration's hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes.

Prince Andrew 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?" Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince

Bagration bent his head in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew

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. Prince Andrew, out of breath with his rapid ride,

spoke quickly. Prince 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 Tushin's battery. Prince Andrew followed with the

suite. Behind Prince Bagration rode an officer of the suite, the

prince's personal adjutant, 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 camlet

coat, as he jolted on his horse with a convoy officer's saddle.

"He wants to see a battle," said Zherkov to Bolkonski, 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

Zherkov's joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really

was.

"It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince," said the staff officer.

(He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing

a prince, but could not get it quite right.)

By this time they were all approaching 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 Zherkov.

"So that's what they hit with?" asked the accountant. "How awful!"

He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished<