“WAR AND PEACE” VOLUME 2 – Author: Graf Leo Tolstoy

“WAR AND PEACE” VOLUME 2 – Author: Graf Leo Tolstoy. Chapter 50. Prince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans. Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage.

He was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted to himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life , were constantly shaping themselves in his mind,

Arising from the circumstances and persons he met . Of these plans he had not merely one or two in his head but dozens , some only beginning to form themselves, some approaching achievement, and some in course of disintegration . He did not,

For instance, say to himself: “This man now has influence, I must gain his confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special grant. ” Nor did he say to himself: “Pierre is a rich man, I must entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles I need.

” But when he came across a man of position his instinct immediately told him that this man could be useful , and without any premeditation Prince Vasíli took the first opportunity to gain his confidence, flatter him, become intimate with him, and finally make his request.

He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to Petersburg and staying at his house.

With apparent absent-mindedness, yet with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing, Prince Vasíli did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter. Had he thought out his plans beforehand he could not have

Been so natural and shown such unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both above and below him in social standing. Something always drew him toward those richer and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in seizing the most opportune moment for making use of people.

Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezúkhov and a rich man, felt himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He had to sign papers, to present himself at government offices,

The purpose of which was not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his estate near Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not even wish to know of his existence but would now have been offended and grieved had he chosen not to see them.

These different people—businessmen, relations , and acquaintances alike—were all disposed to treat the young heir in the most friendly and flattering manner: they were all evidently firmly convinced of Pierre’s noble qualities. He was always hearing such words as: “With your remarkable kindness,” or, “With your excellent heart,” “You are yourself so honorable,

Count,” or, “Were he as clever as you,” and so on , till he began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and extraordinary intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and intelligent.

Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate. The angry eldest princess, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll’s, had come into Pierre’s room after the funeral. With drooping eyes and frequent blushes she told him she was very

Sorry about their past misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him for anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received, to remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where she had sacrificed so much.

She could not refrain from weeping at these words. Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for. From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a striped scarf for him.

“Do this for my sake, mon cher; after all , she had to put up with a great deal from the deceased, ” said Prince Vasíli to him, handing him a deed to sign for the princess’ benefit. Prince Vasíli had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw this bone—a bill for

Thirty thousand rubles—to the poor princess that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the affair of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that the princess grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate to him, especially the youngest,

The pretty one with the mole, who often made him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting him. It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him,

That he could not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful intoxication.

He felt as though he were the center of some important and general movement ; that something was constantly expected of him, that if he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he did this and that, all would be well; and he did what was demanded of him,

But still that happy result always remained in the future. More than anyone else, Prince Vasíli took possession of Pierre’s affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of Count Bezúkhov he did not let go his hold of the lad.

He had the air of a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for pity’s sake , leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice of fate and the designs of rogues.

During the few days he spent in Moscow after the death of Count Bezúkhov , he would call Pierre, or go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of weariness and assurance, as if he were adding every time:

“You know I am overwhelmed with business and it is purely out of charity that I trouble myself about you, and you also know quite well that what I propose is the only thing possible. ” “Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,” said Prince Vasíli one day,

Closing his eyes and fingering Pierre’s elbow, speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been agreed upon and could not now be altered. “We start tomorrow and I’m giving you a place in my carriage . I am very glad.

All our important business here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is something I have received from the chancellor . I asked him for you, and you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber.

The diplomatic career now lies open before you.” Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career, wished to make some suggestion. But Prince Vasíli interrupted him in the special deep cooing tone,

Precluding the possibility of interrupting his speech, which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was needed. “Mais, mon cher, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience, and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of being too much loved;

And besides, you are free, you could throw it up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself when you get to Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from these terrible recollections. ” Prince Vasíli sighed. “Yes, yes, my boy. And my valet can go in your carriage.

Ah! I was nearly forgetting,” he added. “You know, mon cher, your father and I had some accounts to settle, so I have received what was due from the Ryazán estate and will keep it; you won’t require it. We’ll go into the accounts later.

” By “what was due from the Ryazán estate” Prince Vasíli meant several thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre’s peasants, which the prince had retained for himself. In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post,

or rather the rank (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasíli had procured for him, and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle, and continual expectation of some good , always in front of him but never attained.

Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in Petersburg. The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew was abroad;

So Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he used to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with a friend older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time was taken up with dinners

And balls and was spent chiefly at Prince Vasíli’s house in the company of the stout princess, his wife, and his beautiful daughter Hélène. Like the others, Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of attitude toward him that had taken place in society. Formerly in Anna Pávlovna’s presence,

Pierre had always felt that what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte’s stupidest remarks came out clever and apt.

Now everything Pierre said was charmant. Even if Anna Pávlovna did not say so, he could see that she wished to and only refrained out of regard for his modesty. In the beginning of the winter of 1805- 6 Pierre received one of Anna Pávlovna’s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added:

“You will find the beautiful Hélène here, whom it is always delightful to see. ” When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and Hélène, and that thought both alarmed him,

As if some obligation were being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an entertaining supposition. Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” was like the former one, only the novelty she offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but

A diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the Emperor Alexander’s visit to Potsdam, and of how the two august friends had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna Pávlovna received Pierre with a shade of melancholy,

Evidently relating to the young man’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezúkhov ( everyone constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that he was greatly afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known)

, and her melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Pierre felt flattered by this. Anna Pávlovna arranged the different groups in her drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were Prince Vasíli and the generals,

Had the benefit of the diplomat . Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former, but Anna Pávlovna—who was in the excited condition of a commander on a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which there is hardly time to put in action—seeing Pierre,

Touched his sleeve with her finger, saying: “Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening. ” (She glanced at Hélène and smiled at her .) “My dear Hélène, be charitable to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for ten minutes.

And that it will not be too dull, here is the dear count who will not refuse to accompany you. ” The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pávlovna detained Pierre, looking as if she had to give some final necessary instructions. “Isn’t she exquisite?

” she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately beauty as she glided away. “And how she carries herself! For so young a girl, such tact , such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from her heart. Happy the man who wins her!

With her the least worldly of men would occupy a most brilliant position in society. Don’t you think so? I only wanted to know your opinion,” and Anna Pávlovna let Pierre go. Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Hélène’s perfection of manner.

If he ever thought of Hélène, it was just of her beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in society. The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed desirous of hiding her adoration for Hélène and inclined rather to show her fear of Anna Pávlovna.

She looked at her niece, as if inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna Pávlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Hélène.

Hélène smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the possibility of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The aunt coughed , swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see Hélène, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look.

In the middle of a dull and halting conversation, Hélène turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little meaning for him,

That he paid no attention to it. The aunt was just speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre’s father, Count Bezúkhov, and showed them her own box. Princess Hélène asked to see the portrait of the aunt’s husband on the box lid.

“That is probably the work of Vinesse,” said Pierre, mentioning a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table. He half rose , meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox,

Passing it across Hélène’s back. Hélène stooped forward to make room, and looked round with a smile. She was , as always at evening parties, wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at front and back. Her bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre ,

Was so close to him that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive the living charm of her neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that he need only have bent his head a little to have touched them. He was conscious of the warmth of her body, the scent of perfume,

And the creaking of her corset as she moved. He did not see her marble beauty forming a complete whole with her dress, but all the charm of her body only covered by her garments. And having once seen this he could not help being aware of it,

Just as we cannot renew an illusion we have once seen through. “So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Hélène seemed to say. “You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a woman who may belong to anyone—to you too,

” said her glance. And at that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must , be his wife, and that it could not be otherwise. He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the altar with her.

How and when this would be he did not know, he did not even know if it would be a good thing ( he even felt, he knew not why, that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen. Pierre dropped his eyes , lifted them again,

And wished once more to see her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not,

Any more than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the mist and taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has once recognized it to be a tuft of grass. She was terribly close to him. She already had power over him,

And between them there was no longer any barrier except the barrier of his own will. “Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” came Anna Pávlovna’s voice, “I see you are all right there. ” And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything reprehensible,

Looked round with a blush. It seemed to him that everyone knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself. A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pávlovna said to him: “I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?

” This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house done up. “That’s a good thing, but don’t move from Prince Vasíli’s. It is good to have a friend like the prince,

” she said, smiling at Prince Vasíli. “I know something about that. Don’t I? And you are still so young. You need advice. Don’t be angry with me for exercising an old woman’s privilege. ” She paused, as women always do , expecting something after they have mentioned their age.

“If you marry it will be a different thing,” she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at Hélène nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He muttered something and colored.

When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned he had said absent-mindedly:

“Yes, she’s good looking,” he had understood that this woman might belong to him. “But she’s stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,” he thought. “There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites in me.

I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that’s why he was sent away . Hippolyte is her brother. .. Prince Vasíli is her father… It’s bad….” he reflected,

but while he was thinking this (the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while thinking of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be his wife, how she would love him become quite different,

And how all he had thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her not as the daughter of Prince Vasíli, but visualized her whole body only veiled by its gray dress. “But no! Why did this thought never occur to me before?

” and again he told himself that it was impossible , that there would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him dishonorable, in this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks and the words and looks of those who had seen them together.

He recalled Anna Pávlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others , and was seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do.

But at the very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another part of his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty. Chapter 51. In November, 1805, Prince Vasíli had to go on a tour of inspection in four different provinces. He had arranged

This for himself so as to visit his neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole where his regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Prince Nicholas Bolkónski in order to arrange a match for him with the daughter of that rich old man.

But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs, Prince Vasíli had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Prince Vasíli’s house where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited,

And foolish in Hélène’s presence (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed to her. “This is all very fine, but things must be settled,” said Prince Vasíli to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning,

feeling that Pierre who was under such obligations to him (“But never mind that”) was not behaving very well in this matter. “Youth, frivolity. .. well, God be with him,” thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart,

“but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow will be Lëlya’s name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he does not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my affair. I am her father.

” Six weeks after Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” and after the sleepless night when he had decided that to marry Hélène would be a calamity and that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision,

Had not left Prince Vasíli’s and felt with terror that in people’s eyes he was every day more and more connected with her, that it was impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that he could not break away from her,

And that though it would be a terrible thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. He might perhaps have been able to free himself but that Prince Vasíli (who had rarely before given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without having an

Evening party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil the general pleasure and disappoint everyone’s expectation. Prince Vasíli, in the rare moments when he was at home, would take Pierre’s hand in passing and draw it downwards,

Or absent-mindedly hold out his wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to kiss and would say: “Till tomorrow,” or , “Be in to dinner or I shall not see you, ” or, “I am staying in for your sake,” and so on. And though Prince Vasíli, when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre’s sake,

Hardly exchanged a couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him. Every day he said to himself one and the same thing : “It is time I understood her and made up my mind what she really is . Was I mistaken before,

Or am I mistaken now? No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent girl, ” he sometimes said to himself “she never makes a mistake, never says anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is always clear and simple, so she is not stupid.

She never was abashed and is not abashed now , so she cannot be a bad woman! ” He had often begun to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always answered him either by a brief

But appropriate remark—showing that it did not interest her—or by a silent look and smile which more palpably than anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile. She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him alone,

In which there was something more significant than in the general smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that sooner or later he would step across it,

But an incomprehensible terror seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: “What am I doing?

I need resolution. Can it be that I have none?” He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel themselves quite innocent,

And since that day when he was overpowered by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna Pávlovna’s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire paralyzed his will. On Hélène’s name day, a small party of just their own people—as his wife said—met for supper at Prince Vasíli’s.

All these friends and relations had been given to understand that the fate of the young girl would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper. Princess Kurágina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome,

Was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the more important guests—an old general and his wife, and Anna Pávlovna Schérer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and there too sat the members of the family,

And Pierre and Hélène, side by side . Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of the guests. To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark except to Pierre and Hélène,

Whose presence he seemed not to notice. He enlivened the whole party. The wax candles burned brightly , the silver and crystal gleamed, so did the ladies’ toilets and the gold and silver of the men’s epaulets; servants in scarlet liveries moved round the table, the clatter of plates, knives,

And glasses mingled with the animated hum of several conversations. At one end of the table, the old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the story of the misfortunes of some Mary Víktorovna or other.

At the center of the table, Prince Vasíli attracted everybody’s attention. With a facetious smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last Wednesday’s meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích Vyazmítinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg,

Had received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the Emperor said that he was receiving from all sides declarations of the people’s loyalty, that the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular pleasure,

And that he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor to be worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: “Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides reports reach me, ” etc. “Well, and so he never got farther than: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích’?

” asked one of the ladies. “Exactly, not a hair’s breadth farther,” answered Prince Vasíli, laughing, “‘Sergéy Kuzmích… From all sides… From all sides … Sergéy Kuzmích. ..’ Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther! He began the rescript again and again,

But as soon as he uttered ‘Sergéy’ he sobbed, ‘Kuz-mí-ch,’ tears, and ‘From all sides’ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again his handkerchief , and again: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides, ’… and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.” “Kuzmích.

.. From all sides… and then tears,” someone repeated laughing. “Don’t be unkind, ” cried Anna Pávlovna from her end of the table holding up a threatening finger. “He is such a worthy and excellent man, our dear Vyazmítinov….” Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the honored guests sat,

Everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the influence of a variety of exciting sensations . Only Pierre and Hélène sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table,

A suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing to do with Sergéy Kuzmích—a smile of bashfulness at their own feelings. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, and ices, and however they avoided looking at the young couple,

And heedless and unobservant as they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave that the story about Sergéy Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was directed to—Pierre and Hélène. Prince Vasíli mimicked

The sobbing of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said: “Yes… it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Vyazmítinov,

” and in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasíli read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter’s happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter,

And her sigh seemed to say: “Yes, there’s nothing left for you and me but to sip sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to be thus boldly, provocatively happy.” “And what nonsense all this is that I am saying!

” thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces of the lovers. “That’s happiness! ” Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy and handsome young man and woman for one another.

And this human feeling dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter. Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at table seemed to feel this,

And they forgot their duties as they looked at the beautiful Hélène with her radiant face and at the red, broad, and happy though uneasy face of Pierre . It seemed as if the very light of the candles was focused on those two happy faces alone.

Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation . He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and then detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot unexpectedly through his mind.

“So it is all finished!” he thought. “And how has it all happened? How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They are all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot,

I cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it will certainly happen! ” thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling shoulders close to his eyes. Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what .

He felt it awkward to attract everyone’s attention and to be considered a lucky man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris possessed of a Helen. “But no doubt it always is and must be so!” he consoled himself. “And besides,

What have I done to bring it about? How did it begin ? I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasíli. Then there was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I played cards with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with her.

How did it begin, when did it all come about?” And here he was sitting by her side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her nearness, her breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would suddenly seem to him that it was not she but he was so unusually beautiful,

And that that was why they all looked so at him, and flattered by this general admiration he would expand his chest, raise his head, and rejoice at his good fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice repeating something to him a second time.

But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what was said. “I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkónski,” repeated Prince Vasíli a third time. “How absent-minded you are, my dear fellow.” Prince Vasíli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at him and Hélène . “Well,

What of it, if you all know it?” thought Pierre. “What of it? It’s the truth!” and he himself smiled his gentle childlike smile, and Hélène smiled too. “When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz? ” repeated Prince Vasíli, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a dispute.

“How can one talk or think of such trifles?” thought Pierre. “Yes, from Olmütz,” he answered, with a sigh. After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave of Hélène. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important occupation,

Came up to her for a moment and made haste to go away, refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre’s happiness.

The old general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was. “Oh, the old fool,” he thought. “That Princess Hélène will be beautiful still when she’s fifty. ” “I think I may congratulate you,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to the old princess,

Kissing her soundly. “If I hadn’t this headache I’d have stayed longer.” The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her daughter’s happiness. While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time alone with Hélène in the little drawing room where they were sitting.

He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her, but had never spoken to her of love . Now he felt that it was inevitable, but he could not make up his mind to take the final step.

He felt ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone else’s place here beside Hélène. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice whispered to him. “This happiness is for those who have not in them what there is in you.

” But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether she was satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had. Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left.

They were sitting in the large drawing room. Prince Vasíli came up to Pierre with languid footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasíli gave him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was so strange that one could not take it in.

But then the expression of severity changed, and he drew Pierre’s hand downwards, made him sit down, and smiled affectionately. “Well, Lëlya?” he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and addressing her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to parents who have petted their children from babyhood,

But which Prince Vasíli had only acquired by imitating other parents. And he again turned to Pierre. “Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his waistcoat. Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Prince Vasíli just then,

And Prince Vasíli saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered something and went away. It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was disconcerted. The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world touched Pierre: he looked at Hélène and she too seemed disconcerted , and her look seemed to say:

“Well, it is your own fault.” “The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!” thought Pierre, and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy Kuzmích, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly.

Hélène answered with a smile that she too had missed it. When Prince Vasíli returned to the drawing room, the princess, his wife, was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre. “Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear.

..” “Marriages are made in heaven,” replied the elderly lady . Prince Vasíli passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down on a sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself.

“Aline,” he said to his wife, “go and see what they are about. ” The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and Hélène still sat talking just as before.

“Still the same,” she said to her husband. Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking himself, he rose, threw back his head,

And with resolute steps went past the ladies into the little drawing room . With quick steps he went joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre rose in alarm on seeing it. “Thank God!” said Prince Vasíli. “My wife has told me everything!

” (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his daughter.)—“My dear boy. .. Lëlya… I am very pleased.” (His voice trembled.) “I loved your father. .. and she will make you a good wife… God bless you!…” He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre,

And kissed him with his malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks. “Princess, come here!” he shouted. The old princess came in and also wept . The elderly lady was using her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful Hélène’s hand several times.

After a while they were left alone again. “All this had to be and could not be otherwise, ” thought Pierre, “so it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because it’s definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.

” Pierre held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful bosom as it rose and fell. “Hélène!” he said aloud and paused. “Something special is always said in such cases, ” he thought, but could not remember what it was that people say.

He looked at her face. She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed. “Oh, take those off… those…” she said, pointing to his spectacles. Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have from which spectacles have just been removed,

Had also a frightened and inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his lips and met them with her own. Her face struck Pierre, by its altered, unpleasantly excited expression.

“It is too late now, it’s done; besides I love her,” thought Pierre. “Je vous aime!” * he said, remembering what has to be said at such moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself.

* “I love you.” Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezúkhov’s large, newly furnished Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people said , of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money. Chapter 52. Old Prince Nicholas Bolkónski received a letter from Prince Vasíli in November,

1805, announcing that he and his son would be paying him a visit. “I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of course I shall think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see you at the same time,

My honored benefactor,” wrote Prince Vasíli. “My son Anatole is accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you will allow him personally to express the deep respect that, emulating his father, he feels for you.” “It seems that there will be no need to bring Mary out,

Suitors are coming to us of their own accord, ” incautiously remarked the little princess on hearing the news. Prince Nicholas frowned, but said nothing. A fortnight after the letter Prince Vasíli’s servants came one evening in advance of him,

And he and his son arrived next day. Old Bolkónski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasíli’s character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and Alexander Prince Vasíli had risen to high position and honors.

And now, from the hints contained in his letter and given by the little princess, he saw which way the wind was blowing, and his low opinion changed into a feeling of contemptuous ill will. He snorted whenever he mentioned him. On the day of Prince Vasíli’s arrival,

Prince Bolkónski was particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad temper because Prince Vasíli was coming, or whether his being in a bad temper made him specially annoyed at Prince Vasíli’s visit ,

He was in a bad temper, and in the morning Tíkhon had already advised the architect not to go to the prince with his report. “Do you hear how he’s walking?” said Tíkhon, drawing the architect’s attention to the sound of the prince’s footsteps. “Stepping flat on his heels—we know what that means.

…” However, at nine o’clock the prince , in his velvet coat with a sable collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day before and the path to the hothouse, along which the prince was in the habit of walking, had been swept:

The marks of the broom were still visible in the snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of the soft snowbanks that bordered both sides of the path. The prince went through the conservatories, the serfs’ quarters, and the outbuildings, frowning and silent. “Can a sleigh pass?” he asked his overseer,

A venerable man, resembling his master in manners and looks , who was accompanying him back to the house. “The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor. ” The prince bowed his head and went up to the porch. “God be thanked,

” thought the overseer, “the storm has blown over!” “It would have been hard to drive up, your honor,” he added. “I heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor. ” The prince turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him,

Frowning. “What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?” he said in his shrill, harsh voice. “The road is not swept for the princess my daughter , but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!” “Your honor, I thought…” “You thought!” shouted the prince,

His words coming more and more rapidly and indistinctly. “You thought !… Rascals! Blackguards!… I’ll teach you to think!” and lifting his stick he swung it and would have hit Alpátych, the overseer, had not the latter instinctively avoided the blow. “Thought … Blackguards…” shouted the prince rapidly.

But although Alpátych, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the stroke, came up to the prince, bowing his bald head resignedly before him, or perhaps for that very reason, the prince, though he continued to shout: “Blackguards!… Throw the snow back on the road!

” did not lift his stick again but hurried into the house. Before dinner, Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne, who knew that the prince was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Mademoiselle Bourienne with a radiant face that said: “I know nothing, I am the same as usual,

” and Princess Mary pale, frightened, and with downcast eyes. What she found hardest to bear was to know that on such occasions she ought to behave like Mademoiselle Bourienne, but could not. She thought: “If I seem not to notice he will think that I do not sympathize with him;

If I seem sad and out of spirits myself, he will say (as he has done before ) that I’m in the dumps. ” The prince looked at his daughter’s frightened face and snorted . “Fool… or dummy! ” he muttered. “And the other one is not here. They’ve been telling tales,

” he thought—referring to the little princess who was not in the dining room . “Where is the princess? ” he asked. “Hiding?” “She is not very well,” answered Mademoiselle Bourienne with a bright smile, “so she won’t come down. It is natural in her state .” “Hm! Hm!” muttered the prince,

Sitting down. His plate seemed to him not quite clean , and pointing to a spot he flung it away. Tíkhon caught it and handed it to a footman. The little princess was not unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of the prince that,

Hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to appear. “I am afraid for the baby, ” she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne: “Heaven knows what a fright might do. ” In general at Bald Hills the little princess lived in constant fear,

And with a sense of antipathy to the old prince which she did not realize because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. The prince reciprocated this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his contempt for her. When the little princess had grown accustomed to life at Bald Hills,

She took a special fancy to Mademoiselle Bourienne , spent whole days with her, asked her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her about the old prince and criticized him. “So we are to have visitors , mon prince?” remarked Mademoiselle Bourienne,

Unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. “His Excellency Prince Vasíli Kurágin and his son, I understand?” she said inquiringly. “Hm!—his excellency is a puppy…. I got him his appointment in the service, ” said the prince disdainfully. “Why his son is coming I don’t understand.

Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know. I don’t want him. ” (He looked at his blushing daughter.) “Are you unwell today? Eh? Afraid of the ‘minister’ as that idiot Alpátych called him this morning? ” “No, mon père.” Though Mademoiselle Bourienne had been so unsuccessful in her choice of a subject,

She did not stop talking, but chattered about the conservatories and the beauty of a flower that had just opened, and after the soup the prince became more genial. After dinner, he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess was sitting at a small table, chattering with Másha,

Her maid. She grew pale on seeing her father-in-law. She was much altered. She was now plain rather than pretty. Her cheeks had sunk, her lip was drawn up , and her eyes drawn down. “Yes, I feel a kind of oppression,” she said in reply to the prince’s question as to how she felt.

“Do you want anything?” “No , merci, mon père.” “Well, all right, all right.” He left the room and went to the waiting room where Alpátych stood with bowed head. “Has the snow been shoveled back ?” “Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven’s sake.

.. It was only my stupidity.” “All right , all right,” interrupted the prince, and laughing his unnatural way, he stretched out his hand for Alpátych to kiss, and then proceeded to his study. Prince Vasíli arrived that evening . He was met in the avenue by coachmen and footmen, who, with loud shouts,

Dragged his sleighs up to one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow . Prince Vasíli and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them. Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo before a table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-

Mindedly fixed his large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a continual round of amusement which someone for some reason had to provide for him. And he looked on this visit to a churlish old man and a rich and ugly heiress in the same way.

All this might, he thought, turn out very well and amusingly. “And why not marry her if she really has so much money? That never does any harm,” thought Anatole. He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had become habitual to him and,

His handsome head held high, entered his father’s room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to him. Prince Vasíli’s two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked round with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter entered,

As if to say: “Yes, that’s how I want you to look.” “I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?” Anatole asked, as if continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been mentioned during the journey. “Enough ! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious with the old prince.

” “If he starts a row I’ll go away,” said Prince Anatole. “I can’t bear those old men! Eh?” “Remember, for you everything depends on this. ” In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants’ rooms that the minister and his son had arrived,

But the appearance of both had been minutely described. Princess Mary was sitting alone in her room, vainly trying to master her agitation. “Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never happen! ” she said, looking at herself in the glass . “How shall I enter the drawing room?

Even if I like him I can’t now be myself with him. ” The mere thought of her father’s look filled her with terror . The little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne had already received from Másha, the lady’s maid, the necessary report of how handsome the minister’s son was,

With his rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows, and with what difficulty the father had dragged his legs upstairs while the son had followed him like an eagle, three steps at a time. Having received this information , the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne,

Whose chattering voices had reached her from the corridor , went into Princess Mary’s room. “You know they’ve come, Marie?” said the little princess, waddling in, and sinking heavily into an armchair. She was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the morning,

But had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully done and her face was animated, which, however, did not conceal its sunken and faded outlines. Dressed as she used to be in Petersburg society, it was still more noticeable how much plainer she had become.

Some unobtrusive touch had been added to Mademoiselle Bourienne’s toilet which rendered her fresh and pretty face yet more attractive. “What ! Are you going to remain as you are, dear princess? ” she began. “They’ll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing room and we shall have to go down ,

And you have not smartened yourself up at all!” The little princess got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and merrily began to devise and carry out a plan of how Princess Mary should be dressed. Princess Mary’s self-esteem was wounded by the fact that the arrival of a suitor agitated her,

And still more so by both her companions’ not having the least conception that it could be otherwise. To tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them would be to betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to dress her would prolong their banter and insistence.

She flushed , her beautiful eyes grew dim, red blotches came on her face, and it took on the unattractive martyrlike expression it so often wore, as she submitted herself to Mademoiselle Bourienne and Lise. Both these women quite sincerely tried to make her look pretty.

She was so plain that neither of them could think of her as a rival, so they began dressing her with perfect sincerity, and with the naïve and firm conviction women have that dress can make a face pretty.

“No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty,” said Lise, looking sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance. “You have a maroon dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life may be at stake. But this one is too light, it’s not becoming!” It was not the dress,

But the face and whole figure of Princess Mary that was not pretty , but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on the best maroon dress,

And so on, all would be well . They forgot that the frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that however they might change the setting and adornment of that face, it would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three changes to which Princess Mary meekly submitted,

Just as her hair had been arranged on the top of her head ( a style that quite altered and spoiled her looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, the little princess walked twice round her, now adjusting a fold of the dress with her little hand,

Now arranging the scarf and looking at her with her head bent first on one side and then on the other. “No, it will not do,” she said decidedly, clasping her hands. “No, Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little gray everyday dress.

Now please, do it for my sake. Katie,” she said to the maid, “bring the princess her gray dress , and you’ll see, Mademoiselle Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,” she added, smiling with a foretaste of artistic pleasure. But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained sitting motionless before the glass,

Looking at her face, and saw in the mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst into sobs. “Come, dear princess ,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “just one more little effort.” The little princess, taking the dress from the maid,

Came up to Princess Mary. “Well, now we’ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,” she said. The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s, and Katie’s, who was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping of birds. “No, leave me alone ,” said Princess Mary.

Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist.

“At least, change your coiffure,” said the little princess. “Didn’t I tell you, ” she went on, turning reproachfully to Mademoiselle Bourienne, “Mary’s is a face which such a coiffure does not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it.” “Leave me alone,

Please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to me,” answered a voice struggling with tears. Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain ,

Worse than usual, but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This expression in Princess Mary did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), but they knew that when it appeared on her face,

She became mute and was not to be shaken in her determination. “You will change it, won’t you?” said Lise. And as Princess Mary gave no answer, she left the room. Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise’s request,

She not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive being rose in her imagination,

And carried her into a totally different happy world of his own. She fancied a child, her own—such as she had seen the day before in the arms of her nurse’s daughter—at her own breast, the husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the child.

“But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly,” she thought. “Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment,” came the maid’s voice at the door. She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking,

And before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit by a lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments . A painful doubt filled her soul.

Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess Mary dreamed of happiness and of children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from others and even from herself,

The stronger it grew. “O God,” she said, “how am I to stifle in my heart these temptations of the devil? How am I to renounce forever these vile fancies, so as peacefully to fulfill Thy will? ” And scarcely had she put that question than God gave her the answer in her own heart.

“Desire nothing for thyself, seek nothing, be not anxious or envious. Man’s future and thy own fate must remain hidden from thee, but live so that thou mayest be ready for anything. If it be God’s will to prove thee in the duties of marriage, be ready to fulfill His will.

” With this consoling thought (but yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing ) Princess Mary sighed, and having crossed herself went down, thinking neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what she would say.

What could all that matter in comparison with the will of God, without Whose care not a hair of man’s head can fall? Chapter 53. When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasíli and his son were already in the drawing room,

Talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels, the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little princess, indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Voilà Marie!” Princess Mary saw them all and saw them in detail.

She saw Prince Vasíli’s face, serious for an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling again, and the little princess curiously noting the impression “Marie” produced on the visitors. And she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face,

And her unusually animated look which was fixed on him, but him she could not see, she only saw something large, brilliant , and handsome moving toward her as she entered the room. Prince Vasíli approached first, and she kissed the bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his question by saying that,

On the contrary, she remembered him quite well. Then Anatole came up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade.

When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood with his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded and his back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a little bent,

Looked with beaming face at the princess without speaking and evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not quick-witted, nor ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable self-possession.

If a man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of such silence and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect is bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined the princess’ hair .

It was evident that he could be silent in this way for a very long time. “If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him talk, but I don’t want to ,” he seemed to say. Besides this, in his behavior to women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in them curiosity,

Awe, and even love—a supercilious consciousness of his own superiority. It was as if he said to them: “I know you, I know you, but why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of course . ” Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women—even probably he did not,

For in general he thought very little—but his looks and manner gave that impression. The princess felt this, and as if wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him, she turned to his father. The conversation was general and animated,

Thanks to Princess Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful manner often employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the assumption that between the person they so address and themselves there are some semi-

Private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences, though no such reminiscences really exist—just as none existed in this case. Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the little princess also drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections of things that had never occurred.

Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them and even Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to share in these merry reminiscences. “Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to ourselves, dear prince,” said the little princess (of course, in French) to Prince Vasíli.

“It’s not as at Annette’s * receptions where you always ran away; you remember cette chère Annette! ” * Anna Pávlovna. “Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Annette! ” “And our little tea table?” “Oh, yes!” “Why is it you were never at Annette’s?

” the little princess asked Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!” “And didn’t Hippolyte tell you? ” asked Prince Vasíli,

Turning to his son and seizing the little princess’ arm as if she would have run away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t he tell you how he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess,” he added,

Turning to Princess Mary. When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections . She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole had left Paris and how he had liked that city.

Anatole answered the Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either.

“Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad , that little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re married , la petite est gentille. ” * * The little one is charming. The old prince dressed leisurely in his study,

Frowning and considering what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me ? Prince Vasíli is a shallow braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen ,” he grumbled to himself.

What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband.

The prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without Princess Mary , little as he seemed to value her,

Was unthinkable to him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrew—a better husband one would think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her lot? And who would marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll take her for her connections and wealth.

Are there no women living unmarried, and even the happier for it?” So thought Prince Bolkónski while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded an immediate answer. Prince Vasíli had brought his son with the evident intention of proposing,

And today or tomorrow he would probably ask for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad. “Well, I’ve nothing against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see.” “That is what we shall see!

That is what we shall see!” he added aloud. He entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing rapidly round the company. He noticed the change in the little princess’ dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s ribbon, Princess Mary’s unbecoming coiffure, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s and Anatole’s smiles,

And the loneliness of his daughter amid the general conversation. “Got herself up like a fool! ” he thought, looking irritably at her. “She is shameless, and he ignores her! ” He went straight up to Prince Vasíli. “Well! How d’ye do? How d’ye do?

Glad to see you!” “Friendship laughs at distance,” began Prince Vasíli in his usual rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. “Here is my second son; please love and befriend him.” Prince Bolkónski surveyed Anatole. “Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!” he said . “Well, come and kiss me,

” and he offered his cheek. Anatole kissed the old man , and looked at him with curiosity and perfect composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his father had told him to expect. Prince Bolkónski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa and,

Drawing up an armchair for Prince Vasíli , pointed to it and began questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to listen attentively to what Prince Vasíli said, but kept glancing at Princess Mary. “And so they are writing from Potsdam already?

” he said, repeating Prince Vasíli’s last words. Then rising , he suddenly went up to his daughter. “Is it for visitors you’ve got yourself up like that, eh?” said he. “Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for the visitors,

And before the visitors I tell you that in future you are never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent .” “It was my fault, mon père,” interceded the little princess, with a blush. “You must do as you please,

” said Prince Bolkónski, bowing to his daughter-in-law, “but she need not make a fool of herself, she’s plain enough as it is.” And he sat down again, paying no more attention to his daughter, who was reduced to tears. “On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,

” said Prince Vasíli. “Now you, young prince , what’s your name?” said Prince Bolkónski, turning to Anatole, “come here, let us talk and get acquainted.” “Now the fun begins, ” thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile beside the old prince. “Well,

My dear boy, I hear you’ve been educated abroad, not taught to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me, my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards? ” asked the old man, scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently. “No,

I have been transferred to the line,” said Anatole, hardly able to restrain his laughter. “Ah! That’s a good thing. So, my dear boy, you wish to serve the Tsar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve. Well, are you off to the front?

” “No, Prince, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am attached. .. what is it I am attached to, Papa?” said Anatole, turning to his father with a laugh. “A splendid soldier, splendid! ‘What am I attached to!’ Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Prince Bolkónski,

And Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly Prince Bolkónski frowned. “You may go, ” he said to Anatole. Anatole returned smiling to the ladies . “And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Prince Vasíli, haven’t you?” said the old prince to Prince Vasíli.

“I have done my best for him, and I can assure you the education there is much better than ours. ” “Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. The lad’s a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now.” He took Prince Vasíli’s arm and led him to his study.

As soon as they were alone together, Prince Vasíli announced his hopes and wishes to the old prince. “Well, do you think I shall prevent her, that I can’t part from her? ” said the old prince angrily. “What an idea! I’m ready for it tomorrow!

Only let me tell you , I want to know my son-in-law better. You know my principles—everything aboveboard! I will ask her tomorrow in your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on . He can stay and I’ll see.

” The old prince snorted. “Let her marry, it’s all the same to me! ” he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting from his son. “I will tell you frankly,

” said Prince Vasíli in the tone of a crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so keen-sighted a companion. “You know, you see right through people. Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest , goodhearted lad; an excellent son or kinsman.

” “All right, all right, we’ll see!” As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of time without male society, on Anatole’s appearance all the three women of Prince Bolkónski’s household felt that their life had not been real till then.

Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing immediately increased tenfold , and their life, which seemed to have been passed in darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full of significance. Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure.

The handsome open face of the man who might perhaps be her husband absorbed all her attention. He seemed to her kind, brave, determined, manly, and magnanimous. She felt convinced of that. Thousands of dreams of a future family life continually rose in her imagination.

She drove them away and tried to conceal them. “But am I not too cold with him? ” thought the princess. “I try to be reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him already, but then he cannot

Know what I think of him and may imagine that I do not like him .” And Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to her new guest . “Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly! ” thought Anatole. Mademoiselle Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole’s arrival,

Thought in another way. Of course, she, a handsome young woman without any definite position, without relations or even a country, did not intend to devote her life to serving Prince Bolkónski, to reading aloud to him and being friends with Princess Mary . Mademoiselle Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian prince who,

Able to appreciate at a glance her superiority to the plain, badly dressed, ungainly Russian princesses, would fall in love with her and carry her off; and here at last was a Russian prince . Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story,

Heard from her aunt but finished in her own way , which she liked to repeat to herself. It was the story of a girl who had been seduced, and to whom her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) appeared, and reproached her for yielding to a man without being married.

Mademoiselle Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this story to him, her seducer. And now he , a real Russian prince, had appeared. He would carry her away and then sa pauvre mère would appear and he would marry her.

So her future shaped itself in Mademoiselle Bourienne’s head at the very time she was talking to Anatole about Paris. It was not calculation that guided her ( she did not even for a moment consider what she should do), but all this had long been familiar to her, and now that Anatole

Had appeared it just grouped itself around him and she wished and tried to please him as much as possible. The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet, unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the familiar gallop of coquetry , without any ulterior motive or any struggle,

But with naïve and lighthearted gaiety. Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne

That passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him with great suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless actions. After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Princess Mary was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in high spirits, came and leaned on his elbows,

Facing her and beside Mademoiselle Bourienne . Princess Mary felt his look with a painfully joyous emotion. Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world and the look she felt upon her made that world still more poetic.

But Anatole’s expression, though his eyes were fixed on her, referred not to her but to the movements of Mademoiselle Bourienne’s little foot, which he was then touching with his own under the clavichord. Mademoiselle Bourienne was also looking at Princess Mary,

And in her lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and hope that was also new to the princess. “How she loves me!” thought Princess Mary. “How happy I am now, and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Husband?

Can it be possible?” she thought, not daring to look at his face, but still feeling his eyes gazing at her. In the evening, after supper , when all were about to retire, Anatole kissed Princess Mary’s hand. She did not know how she found the courage,

But she looked straight into his handsome face as it came near to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Princess Mary he went up and kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne’s hand. (This was not etiquette, but then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!) Mademoiselle Bourienne flushed,

And gave the princess a frightened look. “What delicacy !” thought the princess. “Is it possible that Amélie” (Mademoiselle Bourienne) “thinks I could be jealous of her, and not value her pure affection and devotion to me? ” She went up to her and kissed her warmly.

Anatole went up to kiss the little princess’ hand . “No! No! No! When your father writes to tell me that you are behaving well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!” she said. And smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room.

Chapter 54. They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as he got into bed, all kept awake a long time that night. “Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind—yes, kind, that is the chief thing,

” thought Princess Mary; and fear, which she had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round, it seemed to her that someone was there standing behind the screen in the dark corner. And this someone was he—the devil—and he was also this man with the white forehead , black eyebrows,

And red lips. She rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room. Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long time that evening,

Vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, now working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her pauvre mère rebuking her for her fall. The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made. She could not lie either on her face or on her side.

Every position was awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her now more than ever because Anatole’s presence had vividly recalled to her the time when she was not like that and when everything was light and gay. She sat in an armchair in her dressing jacket and nightcap and Katie, sleepy and disheveled,

Beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third time, muttering to herself. “I told you it was all lumps and holes!” the little princess repeated. “I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it’s not my fault!” and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.

The old prince did not sleep either. Tíkhon, half asleep, heard him pacing angrily about and snorting. The old prince felt as though he had been insulted through his daughter. The insult was the more pointed because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he loved more than himself .

He kept telling himself that he would consider the whole matter and decide what was right and how he should act, but instead of that he only excited himself more and more. “The first man that turns up—she forgets her father and everything else ,

Runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike herself ! ! Glad to throw her father over! And she knew I should notice it. Fr… fr. .. fr! And don’t I see that that idiot had eyes only for Bourienne—I shall have to get rid of her.

And how is it she has not pride enough to see it? If she has no pride for herself she might at least have some for my sake! She must be shown that the blockhead thinks nothing of her and looks only at Bourienne. No, she has no pride… but I’ll let her see ….

” The old prince knew that if he told his daughter she was making a mistake and that Anatole meant to flirt with Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Mary’s self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to be parted from her)

Would be gained, so pacifying himself with this thought, he called Tíkhon and began to undress. “What devil brought them here ?” thought he, while Tíkhon was putting the nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest. “I never invited them.

They came to disturb my life—and there is not much of it left.” “Devil take ‘em! ” he muttered, while his head was still covered by the shirt. Tíkhon knew his master’s habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and therefore met

With unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive expression of the face that emerged from the shirt . “Gone to bed?” asked the prince. Tíkhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his master’s thoughts.

He guessed that the question referred to Prince Vasíli and his son. “They have gone to bed and put out their lights, your excellency.” “No good … no good…” said the prince rapidly, and thrusting his feet into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing gown,

He went to the couch on which he slept. Though no words had passed between Anatole and Mademoiselle Bourienne, they quite understood one another as to the first part of their romance, up to the appearance of the pauvre mère; they understood that they had much to say to one another in

Private and so they had been seeking an opportunity since morning to meet one another alone. When Princess Mary went to her father’s room at the usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne and Anatole met in the conservatory. Princess Mary went to the door of the study with special trepidation.

It seemed to her that not only did everybody know that her fate would be decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. She read this in Tíkhon’s face and in that of Prince Vasíli’s valet, who

Made her a low bow when she met him in the corridor carrying hot water . The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of his daughter that morning. Princess Mary well knew this painstaking expression of her father’s.

His face wore that expression when his dry hands clenched with vexation at her not understanding a sum in arithmetic, when rising from his chair he would walk away from her, repeating in a low voice the same words several times over.

He came to the point at once , treating her ceremoniously. “I have had a proposition made me concerning you, ” he said with an unnatural smile. “I expect you have guessed that Prince Vasíli has not come and brought his pupil with him” (

For some reason Prince Bolkónski referred to Anatole as a “pupil”) “for the sake of my beautiful eyes. Last night a proposition was made me on your account and, as you know my principles, I refer it to you.” “How am I to understand you,

Mon père?” said the princess, growing pale and then blushing . “How understand me! ” cried her father angrily. “Prince Vasíli finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to you on his pupil’s behalf. That’s how it’s to be understood!

‘How understand it’!… And I ask you!” “I do not know what you think, Father,” whispered the princess. “I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I’m not going to get married. What about you? That’s what I want to know.” The princess saw that her father regarded the matter with disapproval,

But at that moment the thought occurred to her that her fate would be decided now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not to see the gaze under which she felt that she could not think, but would only be able to submit from habit , and she said:

“I wish only to do your will, but if I had to express my own desire. ..” She had no time to finish. The old prince interrupted her . “That’s admirable! ” he shouted. “He will take you with your dowry and take Mademoiselle Bourienne into the bargain.

She’ll be the wife, while you…” The prince stopped. He saw the effect these words had produced on his daughter. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears. “Now then, now then, I’m only joking!” he said. “Remember this , Princess,

I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to choose . I give you freedom. Only remember that your life’s happiness depends on your decision. Never mind me! ” “But I do not know, Father!” “There’s no need to talk! He receives his orders and will marry you or anybody;

But you are free to choose…. Go to your room, think it over, and come back in an hour and tell me in his presence: yes or no. I know you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like,

But you had better think it over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no! ” he still shouted when the princess, as if lost in a fog, had already staggered out of the study. Her fate was decided and happily decided. But what her father had said about Mademoiselle Bourienne was dreadful.

It was untrue to be sure, but still it was terrible, and she could not help thinking of it. She was going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing nor hearing anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of Mademoiselle Bourienne aroused her.

She raised her eyes, and two steps away saw Anatole embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her. With a horrified expression on his handsome face, Anatole looked at Princess Mary, but did not at once take his arm from the waist of Mademoiselle Bourienne who had not yet seen her . “Who’s that?

Why? Wait a moment!” Anatole’s face seemed to say. Princess Mary looked at them in silence. She could not understand it. At last Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a scream and ran away. Anatole bowed to Princess Mary with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in a laugh at this strange incident,

And then shrugging his shoulders went to the door that led to his own apartments. An hour later, Tíkhon came to call Princess Mary to the old prince; he added that Prince Vasíli was also there.

When Tíkhon came to her Princess Mary was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping Mademoiselle Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her hair. The princess’ beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance were looking with tender affection and pity at Mademoiselle Bourienne’s pretty face.

“No, Princess, I have lost your affection forever!” said Mademoiselle Bourienne. “Why? I love you more than ever,” said Princess Mary, “and I will try to do all I can for your happiness. ” “But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand being so carried away by passion.

Oh, only my poor mother…” “I quite understand,” answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile. “Calm yourself, my dear. I will go to my father, ” she said, and went out. Prince Vasíli, with one leg thrown high over the other and a snuffbox in his hand,

Was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion on his face, as if stirred to his heart’s core and himself regretting and laughing at his own sensibility, when Princess Mary entered . He hurriedly took a pinch of snuff. “Ah, my dear, my dear!” he began, rising and taking her by both hands.

Then, sighing, he added: “My son’s fate is in your hands. Decide, my dear, good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a daughter!” He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye. “Fr… fr…” snorted Prince Bolkónski.

“The prince is making a proposition to you in his pupil’s—I mean , his son’s—name. Do you wish or not to be Prince Anatole Kurágin’s wife? Reply : yes or no, ” he shouted, “and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion also. Yes,

My opinion, and only my opinion,” added Prince Bolkónski, turning to Prince Vasíli and answering his imploring look. “Yes, or no?” “My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my life from yours.

I don’t wish to marry,” she answered positively, glancing at Prince Vasíli and at her father with her beautiful eyes. “Humbug ! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!” cried Prince Bolkónski, frowning and taking his daughter’s hand; he did not kiss her, but only bending his forehead to hers just touched it,

And pressed her hand so that she winced and uttered a cry. Prince Vasíli rose. “My dear , I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never forget. But , my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching this heart,

So kind and generous? Say ‘perhaps’… The future is so long. Say ‘perhaps.’” “Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you for the honor , but I shall never be your son’s wife.

” “Well, so that’s finished, my dear fellow ! I am very glad to have seen you. Very glad! Go back to your rooms , Princess. Go!” said the old prince. “Very, very glad to have seen you,” repeated he , embracing Prince Vasíli.

“My vocation is a different one,” thought Princess Mary. “My vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will arrange poor Amélie’s happiness, she loves him so passionately , and so passionately repents.

I will do all I can to arrange the match between them. If he is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my father and Andrew. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless!

And, oh God, how passionately she must love him if she could so far forget herself! Perhaps I might have done the same !…” thought Princess Mary. Chapter 55. It was long since the Rostóvs had news of Nicholas.

Not till midwinter was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son’s handwriting . On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm and haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to read the letter. Anna Mikháylovna, who always knew everything that passed in the house,

On hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the room and found the count with it in his hand , sobbing and laughing at the same time. Anna Mikháylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still living with the Rostóvs.

“My dear friend?” said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared to sympathize in any way. The count sobbed yet more. “Nikólenka… a letter … wa… a… s… wounded. .. my darling boy… the countess… promoted to be an officer… thank God… How tell the little countess!

” Anna Mikháylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief wiped the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried her own eyes she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner and till teatime she would prepare the countess,

And after tea, with God’s help, would inform her. At dinner Anna Mikháylovna talked the whole time about the war news and about Nikólenka, twice asked when the last letter had been received from him, though she knew that already, and remarked that they might very likely be getting a letter from him that day.

Each time that these hints began to make the countess anxious and she glanced uneasily at the count and at Anna Mikháylovna, the latter very adroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters. Natásha, who, of the whole family, was the most gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of intonation, look, and expression,

Pricked up her ears from the beginning of the meal and was certain that there was some secret between her father and Anna Mikháylovna, that it had something to do with her brother, and that Anna Mikháylovna was preparing them for it.

Bold as she was, Natásha, who knew how sensitive her mother was to anything relating to Nikólenka, did not venture to ask any questions at dinner, but she was too excited to eat anything and kept wriggling about on her chair regardless of her governess’ remarks.

After dinner, she rushed headlong after Anna Mikháylovna and , dashing at her, flung herself on her neck as soon as she overtook her in the sitting room. “Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!” “Nothing, my dear.” “No , dearest, sweet one,

Honey, I won’t give up—I know you know something.” Anna Mikháylovna shook her head. “You are a little slyboots,” she said. “A letter from Nikólenka! I’m sure of it!” exclaimed Natásha, reading confirmation in Anna Mikháylovna’s face. “But for God’s sake , be careful,

You know how it may affect your mamma.” “I will, I will, only tell me! You won’t? Then I will go and tell at once.” Anna Mikháylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter, on condition that she should tell no one.

“No, on my true word of honor,” said Natásha, crossing herself, “I won’t tell anyone! ” and she ran off at once to Sónya. “Nikólenka… wounded… a letter ,” she announced in gleeful triumph. “Nicholas!” was all Sónya said, instantly turning white. Natásha, seeing the impression the news of her brother’s wound produced on Sónya,

Felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news. She rushed to Sónya, hugged her, and began to cry. “A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, he wrote himself, ” said she through her tears. “There now! It’s true that all you women are crybabies,

” remarked Pétya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. “Now I’m very glad, very glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himself so. You are all blubberers and understand nothing. ” Natásha smiled through her tears. “You haven’t read the letter?” asked Sónya.

“No, but she said that it was all over and that he’s now an officer.” “Thank God! ” said Sónya, crossing herself. “But perhaps she deceived you. Let us go to Mamma.

” Pétya paced the room in silence for a time. “If I’d been in Nikólenka’s place I would have killed even more of those Frenchmen, ” he said. “What nasty brutes they are! I’d have killed so many that there’d have been a heap of them.” “Hold your tongue,

Pétya, what a goose you are!” “I’m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles, ” said Pétya. “Do you remember him?” Natásha suddenly asked , after a moment’s silence. Sónya smiled. “Do I remember Nicholas?” “No, Sónya, but do you remember so that you remember him perfectly,

Remember everything?” said Natásha, with an expressive gesture , evidently wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. “I remember Nikólenka too, I remember him well,” she said. “But I don’t remember Borís. I don’t remember him a bit.” “What! You don’t remember Borís?

” asked Sónya in surprise. “It’s not that I don’t remember—I know what he is like, but not as I remember Nikólenka. Him—I just shut my eyes and remember, but Borís… No!” (She shut her eyes.) “No! there’s nothing at all.” “Oh, Natásha! ” said Sónya,

Looking ecstatically and earnestly at her friend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant to say and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking was out of the question, “I am in love with your brother once for all and,

Whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him as long as I live.” Natásha looked at Sónya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said nothing. She felt that Sónya was speaking the truth,

That there was such love as Sónya was speaking of. But Natásha had not yet felt anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it. “Shall you write to him?” she asked. Sónya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas,

And whether she ought to write , tormented her. Now that he was already an officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of herself and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had taken on himself?

“I don’t know. I think if he writes , I will write too,” she said, blushing. “And you won’t feel ashamed to write to him?” Sónya smiled. “No.” “And I should be ashamed to write to Borís. I’m not going to.” “Why should you be ashamed?

” “Well, I don’t know. It’s awkward and would make me ashamed.” “And I know why she’d be ashamed, ” said Pétya, offended by Natásha’s previous remark. “It’s because she was in love with that fat one in spectacles” (that was how Pétya described his namesake,

the new Count Bezúkhov)“and now she’s in love with that singer” (he meant Natásha’s Italian singing master) , “that’s why she’s ashamed!” “Pétya, you’re stupid!” said Natásha. “Not more stupid than you, madam,” said the nine-year-old Pétya, with the air of an old brigadier.

The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikháylovna’s hints at dinner. On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikháylovna,

With the letter, came on tiptoe to the countess’ door and paused. “Don’t come in,” she said to the old count who was following her. “Come later.” And she went in, closing the door behind her. The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.

At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna Mikháylovna’s voice alone in a long speech, then a cry , then silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. Anna Mikháylovna opened the door.

Her face wore the proud expression of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operation and admits the public to appreciate his skill. “It is done!” she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and in the other the letter,

And pressing them alternately to her lips. When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him , embraced his bald head, over which she again looked at the letter and the portrait , and in order to press them again to her lips,

She slightly pushed away the bald head. Véra, Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya now entered the room, and the reading of the letter began. After a brief description of the campaign and the two battles in which he had taken part,

And his promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his father’s and mother’s hands asking for their blessing, and that he kissed Véra, Natásha, and Pétya . Besides that, he sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them to kiss for him “dear Sónya,

Whom he loved and thought of just the same as ever. ” When she heard this Sónya blushed so that tears came into her eyes and, unable to bear the looks turned upon her, ran away into the dancing hall,

Whirled round it at full speed with her dress puffed out like a balloon, and, flushed and smiling, plumped down on the floor. The countess was crying. “Why are you crying, Mamma?” asked Véra. “From all he says one should be glad and not cry.” This was quite true,

But the count, the countess, and Natásha looked at her reproachfully. “And who is it she takes after? ” thought the countess. Nicholas’ letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were considered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess,

For she did not let it out of her hands . The tutors came, and the nurses, and Dmítri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread the letter each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh proofs of Nikólenka’s virtues. How strange, how extraordinary, how joyful it seemed, that her son,

The scarcely perceptible motion of whose tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her , that son about whom she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say “pear” and then “granny,

” that this son should now be away in a foreign land amid strange surroundings, a manly warrior doing some kind of man’s work of his own, without help or guidance. The universal experience of ages, showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood,

Did not exist for the countess. Her son’s growth toward manhood, at each of its stages, had seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed the millions of human beings who grew up in the same way.

As twenty years before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who lived somewhere under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast , and begin to speak, so now she could not believe that that little creature could be this strong,

Brave man, this model son and officer that, judging by this letter , he now was. “What a style! How charmingly he describes!” said she, reading the descriptive part of the letter. “And what a soul! Not a word about himself…. Not a word! About some Denísov or other,

Though he himself, I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing about his sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he has remembered everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was only so high—I always said.

…” For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of letters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied out, while under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude of the count ,

Money and all things necessary for the uniform and equipment of the newly commissioned officer were collected. Anna Mikháylovna, practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor with army authorities to secure advantageous means of communication for herself and her son.

She had opportunities of sending her letters to the Grand Duke Constantine Pávlovich, who commanded the Guards . The Rostóvs supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, was quite a definite address,

And that if a letter reached the Grand Duke in command of the Guards there was no reason why it should not reach the Pávlograd regiment, which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood.

And so it was decided to send the letters and money by the Grand Duke’s courier to Borís and Borís was to forward them to Nicholas. The letters were from the old count, the countess, Pétya, Véra, Natásha, and Sónya,

And finally there were six thousand rubles for his outfit and various other things the old count sent to his son. Chapter 56. On the twelfth of November, Kutúzov’s active army, in camp before Olmütz, was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two Emperors—the Russian and the Austrian.

The Guards, just arrived from Russia, spent the night ten miles from Olmütz and next morning were to come straight to the review, reaching the field at Olmütz by ten o’clock. That day Nicholas Rostóv received a letter from Borís, telling him that

The Ismáylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from Olmütz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for him. Rostóv was particularly in need of money now that the troops, after their active service,

were stationed near Olmütz and the camp swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting wares. The Pávlograds held feast after feast, celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made expeditions to Olmütz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian,

Who had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses. Rostóv, who had just celebrated his promotion to a cornetcy and bought Denísov’s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round , to his comrades and the sutlers. On receiving Borís’ letter he rode with a fellow officer to Olmütz,

Dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone to the Guards’ camp to find his old playmate. Rostóv had not yet had time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with a soldier’s cross, equally shabby cadet’s riding breeches lined with worn leather,

And an officer’s saber with a sword knot. The Don horse he was riding was one he had bought from a Cossack during the campaign, and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily back on one side of his head. As he rode up to the camp he thought

How he would impress Borís and all his comrades of the Guards by his appearance —that of a fighting hussar who had been under fire. The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip, parading their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy stages, their knapsacks conveyed on carts,

And the Austrian authorities had provided excellent dinners for the officers at every halting place. The regiments had entered and left the town with their bands playing, and by the Grand Duke’s orders the men had marched all the way in step (

A practice on which the Guards prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their proper posts. Borís had been quartered, and had marched all the way, with Berg who was already in command of a company. Berg, who had obtained his captaincy during the campaign,

Had gained the confidence of his superiors by his promptitude and accuracy and had arranged his money matters very satisfactorily. Borís, during the campaign, had made the acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by a letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkónski,

Through whom he hoped to obtain a post on the commander in chief’s staff. Berg and Borís, having rested after yesterday’s march, were sitting, clean and neatly dressed , at a round table in the clean quarters allotted to them, playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between his knees.

Borís, in the accurate way characteristic of him, was building a little pyramid of chessmen with his delicate white fingers while awaiting Berg’s move , and watched his opponent’s face, evidently thinking about the game as he always thought only of whatever he was engaged on.

“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he remarked. “We’ll try to, ” replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing his hand. At that moment the door opened. “Here he is at last!” shouted Rostóv. “And Berg too! Oh, you petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!

” he exclaimed, imitating his Russian nurse’s French , at which he and Borís used to laugh long ago . “Dear me, how you have changed! ” Borís rose to meet Rostóv, but in doing so did not omit to steady and replace some chessmen that were falling.

He was about to embrace his friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of youth, that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a manner different from that of its elders which is often insincere, Nicholas wished to do something special on meeting his friend.

He wanted to pinch him, push him, do anything but kiss him—a thing everybody did. But notwithstanding this, Borís embraced him in a quiet, friendly way and kissed him three times. They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when young men take their first steps on life’s road,

Each saw immense changes in the other, quite a new reflection of the society in which they had taken those first steps. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both were in a hurry to show the changes that had taken place in them.

“Oh , you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you’d been to a fete, not like us sinners of the line,” cried Rostóv, with martial swagger and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Borís, pointing to his own mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostóv’s loud voice,

Popped her head in at the door. “Eh, is she pretty?” he asked with a wink. “Why do you shout so? You’ll frighten them!” said Borís. “I did not expect you today, ” he added. “I only sent you the note yesterday by Bolkónski—an adjutant of Kutúzov’s,

Who’s a friend of mine. I did not think he would get it to you so quickly. … Well, how are you? Been under fire already ?” asked Borís. Without answering, Rostóv shook the soldier’s Cross of St. George fastened to the cording of his uniform and,

Indicating a bandaged arm, glanced at Berg with a smile. “As you see,” he said. “Indeed? Yes, yes!” said Borís, with a smile. “And we too have had a splendid march. You know, of course, that His Imperial Highness rode with our regiment all the time,

So that we had every comfort and every advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and balls! I can’t tell you. And the Tsarévich was very gracious to all our officers.

” And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one of his hussar revels and life in the fighting line, the other of the pleasures and advantages of service under members of the Imperial family. “Oh , you Guards!” said Rostóv. “I say, send for some wine.

” Borís made a grimace. “If you really want it,” said he. He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent for wine. “Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you, ” he added. Rostóv took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa,

Put both arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the letter. “Well, they’ve sent you a tidy sum,” said Berg, eying the heavy purse that sank into the sofa.

“As for us, Count, we get along on our pay. I can tell you for myself. ..” “I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostóv , “when you get a letter from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk everything over with,

And I happen to be there, I’ll go at once, to be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere… to the devil !” he exclaimed, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder and looking amiably into his face , evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his words,

He added, “Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak from my heart as to an old acquaintance. ” “Oh , don’t mention it, Count! I quite understand, ” said Berg, getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.

“Go across to our hosts: they invited you,” added Borís. Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust, stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and,

Having assured himself from the way Rostóv looked at it that his coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile. “Oh dear , what a beast I am! ” muttered Rostóv, as he read the letter. “Why?” “Oh, what a pig I am,

Not to have written and to have given them such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am! ” he repeated, flushing suddenly. “Well, have you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let’s have some!

” In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation to Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna’s advice had obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it.

“What nonsense! Much I need it !” said Rostóv, throwing the letter under the table. “Why have you thrown that away?” asked Borís. “It is some letter of recommendation. .. what the devil do I want it for !” “Why ‘What the devil’?” said Borís,

Picking it up and reading the address. “This letter would be of great use to you. ” “I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.” “Why not?” inquired Borís. “It’s a lackey’s job!” “You are still the same dreamer , I see,” remarked Borís,

Shaking his head. “And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the point. .. Come, how are you?” asked Rostóv. “Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.

” “Why?” “Because when once a man starts on military service , he should try to make as successful a career of it as possible. ” “Oh, that’s it!” said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something else.

He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, evidently trying in vain to find the answer to some question. Old Gabriel brought in the wine. “Shouldn’t we now send for Berg? ” asked Borís. “He would drink with you. I can’t.” “Well,

Send for him… and how do you get on with that German?” asked Rostóv, with a contemptuous smile. “He is a very, very nice, honest , and pleasant fellow, ” answered Borís. Again Rostóv looked intently into Borís’ eyes and sighed. Berg returned,

And over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostóv of their march and how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke,

And told stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the stories of the Grand Duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in Galicia he had managed

To deal with the Grand Duke when the latter made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts !

” (“Arnauts” was the Tsarévich’s favorite expression when he was in a rage)and called for the company commander. “Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew I was right. Without boasting, you know,

I may say that I know the Army Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord’s Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and so my conscience was at ease. I came forward….” (Berg stood up and showed how he presented himself,

With his hand to his cap, and really it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and self-complacency than his did.) “Well, he stormed at me, as the saying is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but rather of death,

As the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’ and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count?… ‘Hey, are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I remained silent.

And what do you think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way, Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke. “Yes, that was fine,” said Rostóv,

Smiling. But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where he got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated.

He told them of his Schön Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been, as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not at all as it really was.

Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood.

If he had told the truth to his hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still worse,

Would have thought that Rostóv was himself to blame since what generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at

A trot and that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of will to tell only what happened.

It is very difficult to tell the truth, and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square , cut his way in, slashed right and left,

How his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he told them all that. In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You cannot imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,

” Prince Andrew, whom Borís was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance and being well disposed toward Borís, who had managed to please him the day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted.

Having been sent with papers from Kutúzov to the Tsarévich, he looked in on Borís, hoping to find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line recounting his military exploits ( Prince Andrew could not endure that sort of man), he gave Borís a pleasant smile,

frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at Rostóv, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company. Rostóv flushed up on noticing this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however,

At Borís, he saw that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line. In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of the contempt with which Rostóv, from his fighting army point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently one,

Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent. Borís inquired what news there might be on the staff , and what, without indiscretion, one might ask about our plans. “We shall probably advance,” replied Bolkónski, evidently reluctant to say more in the presence of a stranger. Berg took the opportunity to ask,

With great politeness, whether, as was rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that he could give no opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed gaily. “As to your business,” Prince Andrew continued, addressing Borís,

“we will talk of it later” (and he looked round at Rostóv). “Come to me after the review and we will do what is possible. ” And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to Rostóv, whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to anger he did not condescend to notice,

And said: “I think you were talking of the Schön Grabern affair? Were you there?” “I was there, ” said Rostóv angrily, as if intending to insult the aide-de-camp . Bolkónski noticed the hussar’s state of mind, and it amused him. With a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: “Yes,

There are many stories now told about that affair!” “Yes, stories !” repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly grown furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski . “Yes, many stories! But our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy’s fire!

Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything! ” “Of whom you imagine me to be one?” said Prince Andrew, with a quiet and particularly amiable smile. A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man’s self-

Possession mingled at that moment in Rostóv’s soul. “I am not talking about you, ” he said, “I don’t know you and , frankly, I don’t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.” “And I will tell you this,” Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of quiet authority,

“you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven’t sufficient self- respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen.

In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more serious duel, and besides, Drubetskóy, who says he is an old friend of yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to displease you.

However,” he added rising, “you know my name and where to find me, but don’t forget that I do not regard either myself or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older than you , my advice is to let the matter drop.

Well then, on Friday after the review I shall expect you, Drubetskóy. Au revoir!” exclaimed Prince Andrew, and with a bow to them both he went out. Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to have said.

And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís , rode home. Should he go to headquarters next day and challenge that affected adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question that worried him all the way. He

Thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at seeing the fright of that small and frail but proud man when covered by his pistol, and then he felt with

Surprise that of all the men he knew there was none he would so much like to have for a friend as that very adjutant whom he so hated. Chapter 57 . The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the Austrian and Russian troops,

Both those freshly arrived from Russia and those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov. The two Emperors, the Russian with his heir the Tsarévich, and the Austrian with the Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men. From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move,

Forming up on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned with banners flying, formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of infantry in different uniforms;

Now was heard the rhythmic beat of hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan, or gray horses; then again,

Spreading out with the brazen clatter of the polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position.

Not only the generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars , and wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded officers,

But every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and solemn affair.

Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own insignificance , aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that enormous whole. From

Early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten o’clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the infantry.

A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov’s fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front) ; those recently arrived from Russia , both Guards and regiments of the line;

And the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines, under one command, and in a like order. Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: “They’re coming! They’re coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final preparation swept over all the troops.

From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It looked as if

By that slight motion the army itself was expressing its joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting: “Eyes front!” Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was repeated by others from various sides and all became silent. In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard.

This was the Emperors’ suites . The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army itself, rejoicing at the Emperors’ approach, had naturally burst into music. Amid these sounds,

Only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the first regiment roared “Hurrah!” so deafeningly, continuously, and joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the immensity of the power they constituted.

Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov’s army which the Tsar approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this triumph.

He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass ( and he himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water, commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism,

And so he could not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word . “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” thundered from all sides, one regiment after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march,

And then “Hurrah!”… Then the general march, and again “Hurrah ! Hurrah!” growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar. Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive,

Its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices, amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but symmetrically and above all freely ,

And in front of them two men—the Emperors. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that whole mass of men was concentrated. The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice,

Attracted everyone’s attention. Rostóv was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his handsome,

Happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every movement of the Tsar’s seemed to him enchanting. Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tsar said something in French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled.

Seeing that smile, Rostóv involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry .

The Tsar called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him . “Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?” thought Rostóv . “I should die of happiness!

” The Tsar addressed the officers also: “I thank you all , gentlemen, I thank you with my whole heart. ” To Rostóv every word sounded like a voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar! “You have earned the St. George’s standards and will be worthy of them.

” “Oh, to die , to die for him,” thought Rostóv. The Tsar said something more which Rostóv did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted “Hurrah!” Rostóv too, bending over his saddle , shouted “Hurrah! ” with all his might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout,

If only to express his rapture fully. The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided. “How can the Emperor be undecided?” thought Rostóv, but then even this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else the Tsar did. That hesitation lasted only an instant.

The Tsar’s foot, in the narrow pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides- de-camp. Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments,

Till at last only his white plumes were visible to Rostóv from amid the suites that surrounded the Emperors. Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostóv noticed Bolkónski, sitting his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostóv recalled their quarrel of yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought not to challenge Bolkónski.

“Of course not!” he now thought. “Is it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now.

” When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began a ceremonial march past him, and Rostóv on Bedouin , recently purchased from Denísov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron—that is , alone and in full view of the Emperor.

Before he reached him, Rostóv, who was a splendid horseman, spurred Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor’s eye upon him,

Passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground. Rostóv himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but blissful face “like a vewy devil,

” as Denísov expressed it. “Fine fellows, the Pávlograds!” remarked the Emperor. “My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this instant! ” thought Rostóv. When the review was over, the newly arrived officers , and also Kutúzov’s,

Collected in groups and began to talk about the awards, about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side. But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander.

His every word and movement was described with ecstasy. They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the enemy under the Emperor’s command. Commanded by the Emperor himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone,

Be it whom it might: so thought Rostóv and most of the officers after the review. All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles would have made them. Chapter 58. The day after the review, Borís , in his best uniform and with his comrade Berg’s best wishes for success,

Rode to Olmütz to see Bolkónski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself the best post he could—preferably that of adjutant to some important personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most attractive.

“It is all very well for Rostóv , whose father sends him ten thousand rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not be anyone’s lackey, but I who have nothing but my brains have to make a career and must not miss opportunities,

But must avail myself of them!” he reflected. He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmütz that day , but the appearance of the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed and the two Emperors were living with their suites,

Households, and courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world. He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman’s uniform, all these exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military men, seemed so immeasurably above him ,

An insignificant officer of the Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be aware of his existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief, Kutúzov, where he inquired for Bolkónski, all the adjutants and even the orderlies looked

At him as if they wished to impress on him that a great many officers like him were always coming there and that everybody was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather because of it, next day,

November 15, after dinner he again went to Olmütz and, entering the house occupied by Kutúzov, asked for Bolkónski. Prince Andrew was in and Borís was shown into a large hall probably formerly used for dancing , but in which five beds now stood, and furniture of various kinds: a table, chairs ,

And a clavichord. One adjutant, nearest the door, was sitting at the table in a Persian dressing gown, writing. Another, the red, stout Nesvítski, lay on a bed with his arms under his head, laughing with an officer who had sat down beside him. A third was playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord,

While a fourth, lying on the clavichord, sang the tune. Bolkónski was not there. None of these gentlemen changed his position on seeing Borís. The one who was writing and whom Borís addressed turned round crossly

And told him Bolkónski was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the reception room if he wished to see him. Borís thanked him and went to the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals . When he entered, Prince Andrew,

His eyes drooping contemptuously (with that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, “If it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment”), was listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier’s obsequious expression on his purple face,

Reporting something. “Very well, then, be so good as to wait, ” said Prince Andrew to the general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Borís, Prince Andrew, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring him to hear something more,

Nodded and turned to him with a cheerful smile. At that moment Borís clearly realized what he had before surmised, that in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was another,

More important, subordination, which made this tight-laced, purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain Prince Andrew, for his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant Drubetskóy. More than ever was Borís resolved to serve in future not according to the written code, but under this unwritten law.

He felt now that merely by having been recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general who at the front had the power to annihilate him, a lieutenant of the Guards. Prince Andrew came up to him and took his hand.

“I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the dispositions. When Germans start being accurate, there’s no end to it!” Borís smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to as something generally known.

But it was the first time he had heard Weyrother’s name, or even the term “dispositions. ” “Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant ? I have been thinking about you. ” “Yes, I was thinking”—for some reason Borís could not help blushing—“of asking the commander in chief.

He has had a letter from Prince Kurágin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards won’t be in action, ” he added as if in apology. “All right, all right. We’ll talk it over,” replied Prince Andrew.

“Only let me report this gentleman’s business, and I shall be at your disposal. ” While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that gentleman—evidently not sharing Borís’ conception of the advantages of the unwritten code of subordination

—looked so fixedly at the presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to say to the adjutant that Borís felt uncomfortable. He turned away and waited impatiently for Prince Andrew’s return from the commander in chief’s room. “You see, my dear fellow , I have been thinking about you,

” said Prince Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the clavichord was. “It’s no use your going to the commander in chief. He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner” (“That would not be bad as regards the unwritten code,

” thought Borís), “but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we’ll do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince Dolgorúkov;

And though you may not know it, the fact is that now Kutúzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorúkov; I have to go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you.

We shall see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you somewhere nearer the sun. ” Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a young man and help him to worldly success.

Under cover of obtaining help of this kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers success and which attracted him. He very readily took up Borís’ cause and went with him to Dolgorúkov.

It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmütz occupied by the Emperors and their retinues. That same day a council of war had been held in which all the members of the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part.

At that council, contrary to the views of the old generals Kutúzov and Prince Schwartzenberg, it had been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte . The council of war was just over when Prince Andrew accompanied by Borís arrived at the palace to find Dolgorúkov.

Everyone at headquarters was still under the spell of the day’s council, at which the party of the young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled delay and advised waiting for something else before advancing had been so completely silenced and their arguments confuted by such conclusive evidence of the advantages of attacking that

What had been discussed at the council—the coming battle and the victory that would certainly result from it—no longer seemed to be in the future but in the past. All the advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly superior to Napoleon’s , were concentrated in one place,

The troops inspired by the Emperors’ presence were eager for action. The strategic position where the operations would take place was familiar in all its details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had ordained that the Austrian army

Should maneuver the previous year on the very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps , and Bonaparte, evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing. Dolgorúkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just returned from the council,

Tired and exhausted but eager and proud of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his protégé, but Prince Dolgorúkov politely and firmly pressing his hand said nothing to Borís and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts which were uppermost in his mind at that moment,

Addressed Prince Andrew in French . “Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear fellow,” he said abruptly and eagerly, “I must confess to having been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What exactitude,

What minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what foresight for every eventuality , every possibility even to the smallest detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with Russian valor —what more could be wished for?

” “So the attack is definitely resolved on?” asked Bolkónski . “And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him today for the Emperor .” Dolgorúkov smiled significantly.

“Is that so? And what did he say?” inquired Bolkónski. “What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on… merely to gain time. I tell you he is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most amusing,” he continued, with a sudden ,

good-natured laugh, “was that we could not think how to address the reply! If not as ‘Consul’ and of course not as ‘Emperor, ’ it seemed to me it should be to ‘General Bonaparte. ’” “But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General Bonaparte , there is a difference,

” remarked Bolkónski. “That’s just it,” interrupted Dolgorúkov quickly, laughing. “You know Bilíbin—he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’” Dolgorúkov laughed merrily. “Only that?” said Bolkónski. “All the same, it was Bilíbin who found a suitable form for the address.

He is a wise and clever fellow.” “What was it?” “To the Head of the French Government. .. Au chef du gouvernement français,” said Dolgorúkov, with grave satisfaction. “Good, wasn’t it?” “Yes, but he will dislike it extremely,” said Bolkónski.

“Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he’s dined with him—the present Emperor—more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a more cunning or subtle diplomatist—you know, a combination of French adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and Count Markóv?

Count Markóv was the only man who knew how to handle him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful !” And the talkative Dolgorúkov, turning now to Borís, now to Prince Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador,

Purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markóv, probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how Markóv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching Bonaparte’s. “Delightful !” said Bolkónski. “But I have come to you,

Prince, as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see…” but before Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon Dolgorúkov to the Emperor. “Oh, what a nuisance,” said Dolgorúkov, getting up hurriedly and pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Borís. “You know I should be very

Glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young man. ” Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of good-natured, sincere , and animated levity. “But you see.. . another time!

” Borís was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here he was in contact with the springs that set

In motion the enormous movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny, obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorúkov out into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Emperor’s room by which Dolgorúkov had

Entered—a short man in civilian clothes with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression. This short man nodded to Dolgorúkov as to an intimate friend and stared at Prince Andrew with cool intensity,

Walking straight toward him and evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other turned away and went down the side of the corridor .

“Who was that?” asked Borís. “He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorýski…. It is such men as he who decide the fate of nations, ” added Bolkónski with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.

Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of Austerlitz, Borís was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorúkov again and remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment . Chapter 59.

At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denísov’s squadron, in which Nicholas Rostóv served and which was in Prince Bagratión’s detachment, moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing into action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for about two thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad.

Rostóv saw the Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then Generals Bagratión and Dolgorúkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear before action which he had experienced as previously, all the inner struggle to conquer that fear,

All his dreams of distinguishing himself as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostóv spent that day in a dull and wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and shouts of hurrah,

And saw wounded being brought back (there were not many of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment of French cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sótnya of Cossacks. Evidently the affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement.

The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost,

And the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers, officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostóv going or coming.

And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all the more depressed. “Come here, Wostóv. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief! ” shouted Denísov , who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food.

The officers gathered round Denísov’s canteen, eating and talking. “There! They are bringing another!” cried one of the officers, indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot by two Cossacks. One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he had taken from the prisoner.

“Sell us that horse!” Denísov called out to the Cossacks. “If you like, your honor!” The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner. The French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German accent.

He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when he heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers, addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have been taken, it was not his fault but the corporal’s who had sent him to seize some horsecloths,

Though he had told him the Russians were there. And at every word he added: “But don’t hurt my little horse!” and stroked the animal. It was plain that he did not quite grasp where he was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now,

Imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierly discipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into our rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army , which was so alien to us. The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces , and Rostóv,

Being the richest of the officers now that he had received his money , bought it. “But don’t hurt my little horse! ” said the Alsatian good-naturedly to Rostóv when the animal was handed over to the hussar. Rostóv smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money. “Alley! Alley!

” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner’s arm to make him go on. “The Emperor! The Emperor!” was suddenly heard among the hussars. All began to run and bustle, and Rostóv saw coming up the road behind him several riders with white plumes in their hats.

In a moment everyone was in his place, waiting. Rostóv did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted. Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected mood amid people of whom he was weary had gone,

Instantly every thought of himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to the Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him for the day he had lost. He was happy as a lover when the longed-for moment of meeting arrives.

Not daring to look round and without looking round, he was ecstatically conscious of his approach. He felt it not only from the sound of the hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew near everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant,

And more festive around him. Nearer and nearer to Rostóv came that sun shedding beams of mild and majestic light around, and already he felt himself enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm, and majestic voice that was yet so simple!

And as if in accord with Rostóv’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard the Emperor’s voice. “The Pávlograd hussars?” he inquired. “The reserves, sire!” replied a voice, a very human one compared to that which had said: “The Pávlograd hussars?

” The Emperor drew level with Rostóv and halted. Alexander’s face was even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. It shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that it suggested the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face of the majestic Emperor.

Casually, while surveying the squadron, the Emperor’s eyes met Rostóv’s and rested on them for not more than two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in Rostóv’s soul (it seemed to Rostóv that he understood everything)

, at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into Rostóv’s face. A gentle, mild light poured from them . Then all at once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horse with his left foot, and galloped on.

The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at the battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve o’clock left the third column with which he had been and galloped toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars,

Several adjutants met him with news of the successful result of the action. This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron , was represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the Emperor and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over the battlefield,

Believed that the French had been defeated and were retreating against their will. A few minutes after the Emperor had passed, the Pávlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau itself, a petty German town , Rostóv saw the Emperor again.

In the market place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the Emperor’s arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whom there had not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded by his suite of officers and courtiers , was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare,

A different one from that which he had ridden at the review, and bending to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his eyes and looked at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered head. The wounded soldier was so dirty,

Coarse, and revolting that his proximity to the Emperor shocked Rostóv. Rostóv saw how the Emperor’s rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horse’s side with the spur,

And how the well-trained horse looked round unconcerned and did not stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to place him on a stretcher that had been brought. The soldier groaned. “Gently, gently! Can’t you do it more gently?” said the Emperor apparently suffering more than the dying soldier,

And he rode away . Rostóv saw tears filling the Emperor’s eyes and heard him, as he was riding away , say to Czartorýski: “What a terrible thing war is: what a terrible thing! Quelle terrible chose que la guerre!” The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within sight of the enemy’s lines,

Which all day long had yielded ground to us at the least firing. The Emperor’s gratitude was announced to the vanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a double ration of vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs resounded even more merrily than on the previous night.

Denísov celebrated his promotion to the rank of major, and Rostóv, who had already drunk enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperor’s health. “Not ‘our Sovereign, the Emperor,’ as they say at official dinners ,” said he,

“but the health of our Sovereign, that good, enchanting, and great man! Let us drink to his health and to the certain defeat of the French! ” “If we fought before,” he said, “not letting the French pass, as at Schön Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front?

We will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not saying it right, I have drunk a good deal—but that is how I feel, and so do you too! To the health of Alexander the First!

Hurrah!” “Hurrah!” rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers. And the old cavalry captain, Kírsten, shouted enthusiastically and no less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostóv. When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kírsten filled others and,

In shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to the soldiers’ bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white chest showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the light of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm. “Lads ! here’s to our Sovereign, the Emperor,

And victory over our enemies! Hurrah!” he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar’s baritone. The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts . Late that night, when all had separated, Denísov with his short hand patted his favorite , Rostóv,

On the shoulder. “As there’s no one to fall in love with on campaign , he’s fallen in love with the Tsar, ” he said. “Denísov, don’t make fun of it !” cried Rostóv. “It is such a lofty, beautiful feeling, such a…” “I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove.

..” “No, you don’t understand!” And Rostóv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of what happiness it would be to die—not in saving the Emperor’s life ( he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before his eyes.

He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle of Austerlitz:

Nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the Russian arms . Chapter 60. The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician, was repeatedly summoned to see him.

At headquarters and among the troops near by the news spread that the Emperor was unwell. He ate nothing and had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by the sight of the killed and wounded.

At daybreak on the seventeenth , a French officer who had come with a flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The Emperor had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait.

At midday he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with Prince Dolgorúkov to the advanced post of the French army. It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander a meeting with Napoleon.

To the joy and pride of the whole army, a personal interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince Dolgorúkov , the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were actuated by a real desire for peace.

Toward evening Dolgorúkov came back, went straight to the Tsar, and remained alone with him for a long time . On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two days’ march and the enemy’s outposts after a brief interchange of shots retreated.

In the highest army circles from midday on the nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz was fought. Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity—the eager talk, running to and fro, and dispatching of adjutants—was confined to the Emperor’s headquarters.

But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached Kutúzov’s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of columns. By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of the army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth,

The whole eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles long. The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor’s headquarters in the

Morning and had started the whole movement that followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and a third, and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to work,

Chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands to advance with regular motion as a result of all that activity. Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result;

And just as indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a neighboring wheel is as

Quiet and motionless as though it were prepared to remain so for a hundred years ; but the moment comes when the lever catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken. Just as in a clock,

The result of the complicated motion of innumerable wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human activities of 160,000 Russians and French—all their passions,

Desires, remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and enthusiasm—was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the so-called battle of the three Emperors—that is to say, a slow movement of the hand on the dial of human history.

Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the commander in chief. At six in the evening, Kutúzov went to the Emperor’s headquarters and after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand marshal of the court,

Count Tolstóy. Bolkónski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the coming action from Dolgorúkov. He felt that Kutúzov was upset and dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were dissatisfied with him, and also that

At the Emperor’s headquarters everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something others do not know: he therefore wished to speak to Dolgorúkov. “Well, how d’you do , my dear fellow? ” said Dolgorúkov, who was sitting at tea with Bilíbin. “The fete is for tomorrow.

How is your old fellow? Out of sorts?” “I won’t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be heard.” “But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he talks sense, but

To temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible. ” “Yes, you have seen him?” said Prince Andrew. “Well, what is Bonaparte like? How did he impress you?” “Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as a general engagement,

” repeated Dolgorúkov, evidently prizing this general conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with Napoleon. “If he weren’t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that interview? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is so contrary to his method of conducting war?

Believe me, he is afraid, afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!” “But tell me, what is he like, eh?” said Prince Andrew again. “He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call him ‘Your Majesty ,’ but who, to his chagrin,

Got no title from me! That’s the sort of man he is, and nothing more,” replied Dolgorúkov, looking round at Bilíbin with a smile. “Despite my great respect for old Kutúzov, ” he continued,

“we should be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him a chance to escape , or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in our hands! No, we mustn’t forget Suvórov and his rule—not to put yourself in a position to be attacked,

But yourself to attack. Believe me in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than all the experience of old Cunctators. ” “But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces are situated,

” said Prince Andrew. He wished to explain to Dolgorúkov a plan of attack he had himself formed. “Oh, that is all the same,” Dolgorúkov said quickly, and getting up he spread a map on the table. “All eventualities have been foreseen.

If he is standing before Brünn…” And Prince Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother’s plan of a flanking movement. Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might have been as good as Weyrother’s, but for the disadvantage that Weyrother’s had already been approved.

As soon as Prince Andrew began to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan, Prince Dolgorúkov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent- mindedly not at the map, but at Prince Andrew’s face. “There will be a council of war at Kutúzov’s tonight,

Though; you can say all this there,” remarked Dolgorúkov. “I will do so,” said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map. “Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?” said Bilíbin, who, till then , had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and now was evidently ready with a joke.

“Whether tomorrow brings victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except your Kutúzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column ! The commanders are: Herr General Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le Prince de Lichtenstein, le Prince de Hohenlohe,

And finally Prishprish, and so on like all those Polish names.” “Be quiet, backbiter! ” said Dolgorúkov. “It is not true; there are now two Russians, Milorádovich, and Dokhtúrov, and there would be a third, Count Arakchéev, if his nerves were not too weak.” “However,

I think General Kutúzov has come out,” said Prince Andrew. “I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!” he added and went out after shaking hands with Dolgorúkov and Bilíbin. On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking Kutúzov, who was sitting silently beside him,

What he thought of tomorrow’s battle. Kutúzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: “I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstóy and asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? ‘But, my dear general,

I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military matters yourself! ’ Yes… That was the answer I got! ” Chapter 61. Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his plans to Kutúzov’s quarters where the council of war was to be held.

All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in chief’s and with the exception of Prince Bagratión, who declined to come, were all there at the appointed time. Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle ,

By his eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied and drowsy Kutúzov , who reluctantly played the part of chairman and president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be at the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable.

He was like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was pulling it or being pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at headlong speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead to.

Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy’s picket line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and Austrian, to report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had dictated the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived at Kutúzov’s .

He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly, without looking at the man he was addressing, and did not reply to questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful,

Weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and self-confident. Kutúzov was occupying a nobleman’s castle of modest dimensions near Ostralitz . In the large drawing room which had become the commander in chief’s office were gathered Kutúzov himself,

Weyrother, and the members of the council of war. They were drinking tea , and only awaited Prince Bagratión to begin the council. At last Bagratión’s orderly came with the news that the prince could not attend. Prince Andrew came in to inform the commander in chief of this and,

Availing himself of permission previously given him by Kutúzov to be present at the council, he remained in the room. “Since Prince Bagratión is not coming, we may begin, ” said Weyrother,

Hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on which an enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out. Kutúzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over his collar as if escaping,

Was sitting almost asleep in a low chair, with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound of Weyrother’s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort.

“Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late,” said he, and nodding his head he let it droop and again closed his eye. If at first the members of the council thought that Kutúzov was pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that followed proved that the commander in chief

At that moment was absorbed by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for the dispositions or anything else—he was engaged in satisfying the irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. Weyrother, with the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment,

Glanced at Kutúzov and, having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in a loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the impending battle, under a heading which he also read out: “Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz,

November 30, 1805.” The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as follows: “As the enemy’s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there, while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his right,

It is advantageous to attack the enemy’s latter wing especially if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we can both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy’s front.

For this object it is necessary that… The first column marches… The second column marches… The third column marches…” and so on, read Weyrother. The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions. The tall , fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle,

And seemed not to listen or even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite Weyrother, with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache twisted upwards, sat the ruddy Milorádovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees,

And his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrother’s face, and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished reading . Then Milorádovich looked round significantly at the other generals. But one could not tell from

That significant look whether he agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next to Weyrother sat Count Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left his typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading, gazed at his

Delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his thin lips interrupted Weyrother,

Wishing to say something. But the Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his elbows, as if to say: “You can tell me your views later, but now be so good as to look at the map and listen.” Langeron lifted his eyes with an expression of perplexity,

Turned round to Milorádovich as if seeking an explanation, but meeting the latter’s impressive but meaningless gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox. “A geography lesson!” he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough to be heard.

Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention. Dohktúrov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He asked

Weyrother several times to repeat words he had not clearly heard and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother complied and Dohktúrov noted them down. When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron again brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother or at anyone in particular,

Began to say how difficult it was to carry out such a plan in which the enemy’s position was assumed to be known , whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement.

Langeron’s objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief aim was to show General Weyrother—who had read his dispositions with as much self- confidence as if he were addressing school children —that he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something in military matters.

When the monotonous sound of Weyrother’s voice ceased, Kutúzov opened his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if remarking, “So you are still at that silly business!

” quickly closed his eye again, and let his head sink still lower . Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother’s vanity as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might easily attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this plan perfectly worthless.

Weyrother met all objections with a firm and contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections be they what they might. “If he could attack us, he would have done so today, ” said he. “So you think he is powerless?” said Langeron. “He has forty thousand men at most, ” replied Weyrother,

With the smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of a case. “In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,” said Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round for support to Milorádovich who was near him.

But Milorádovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything rather than of what the generals were disputing about. “Ma foi!” said he, “tomorrow we shall see all that on the battlefield. ” Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to

Him it was strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of. “The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from his camp,

” said he. “What does that mean? Either he is retreating , which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.” (He smiled ironically.) “But even if he also took up a position in the Thuerassa, he

Merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our arrangements to the minutest detail remain the same. ” “How is that?…” began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting an opportunity to express his doubts. Kutúzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the generals.

“Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow—or rather for today, for it is past midnight—cannot now be altered, ” said he. “You have heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is nothing more important…” he paused,

“than to have a good sleep.” He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past midnight. Prince Andrew went out. The council of war , at which Prince Andrew had not been able to express his opinion as he had hoped to,

Left on him a vague and uneasy impression. Whether Dolgorúkov and Weyrother, or Kutúzov, Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were right—he did not know. “But was it really not possible for Kutúzov to state his views plainly to the Emperor?

Is it possible that on account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives, and my life, my life,” he thought, “must be risked?” “Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow, ” he thought . And suddenly, at this thought of death,

A whole series of most distant, most intimate , memories rose in his imagination: he remembered his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened

Mood he went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Nesvítski and began to walk up and down before it. The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed mysteriously. “Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!” he thought. “Tomorrow everything may be over for me!

All these memories will be no more, none of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly, I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all I can do. ” And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the concentration of fighting at one point,

And the hesitation of all the commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly expresses his opinion to Kutúzov, to Weyrother,

And to the Emperors. All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division—stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangements—leads his division to the decisive point,

And gains the victory alone. “But death and suffering?” suggested another voice . Prince Andrew, however, did not answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs . The dispositions for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an adjutant on Kutúzov’s staff, but he does everything alone.

The next battle is won by him alone. Kutúzov is removed and he is appointed. .. “Well and then?” asked the other voice. “If before that you are not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well … what then?…” “Well then,” Prince Andrew answered himself,

“I don’t know what will happen and don’t want to know, and can’t, but if I want this—want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only for that.

Yes , for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh God! what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men’s esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of family—I fear nothing.

And precious and dear as many persons are to me—father , sister, wife—those dearest to me—yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them all at once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men I don’t know and never shall know,

For the love of these men here,” he thought, as he listened to voices in Kutúzov’s courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a coachman’s, was teasing Kutúzov’s old cook whom Prince Andrew knew,

And who was called Tit. He was saying , “Tit, I say, Tit!” “Well? ” returned the old man. “Go, Tit, thresh a bit!” said the wag. “Oh, go to the devil!” called out a voice, drowned by the laughter of the orderlies and servants.

“All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this mist! ” Chapter 62. That same night, Rostóv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front of Bagratión’s detachment.

His hussars were placed along the line in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our army’s campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him;

In front of him was misty darkness. Rostóv could see nothing , peer as he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray, now there was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in his own eyes.

His eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared—now the Emperor, now Denísov, and now Moscow memories—and he again hurriedly opened his eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them , the black figures of hussars,

But in the distance was still the same misty darkness . “Why not?… It might easily happen, ” thought Rostóv, “that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as he would to any other officer; he’ll say: ‘Go and find out what’s there.

’ There are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just such a chance way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place near him? Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I would unmask his deceivers!

” And in order to realize vividly his love devotion to the sovereign, Rostóv pictured to himself an enemy or a deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom he would slap in the face before the Emperor.

Suddenly a distant shout aroused him. He started and opened his eyes. “Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line… pass and watchword—shaft , Olmütz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in reserve tomorrow, ” he thought. “I’ll ask leave to go to the front,

This may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It won’t be long now before I am off duty. I’ll take another turn and when I get back I’ll go to the general and ask him. ” He

Readjusted himself in the saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more round his hussars. It seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a sloping descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a wall.

On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostóv could not at all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on that white spot.

“I expect it’s snow… that spot… a spot—une tache,” he thought. “There now… it’s not a tache… Natásha… sister, black eyes… Na… tasha… (Won’t she be surprised when I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor? ) Natásha… take my sabretache …”—“Keep to the right, your honor,

There are bushes here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar . He was succumbing to irresistible,

Youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, that’s not it—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha… sabretache. .. saber them… Whom? The hussars… Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches.

.. I thought about him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house … Old Gúryev…. Oh, but Denísov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say something, but dared not.

… No, it was I who dared not. But that’s nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha , sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s right!

” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What ? What? What?… Cut them down! What?…” said Rostóv, waking up. At the moment he opened his eyes he heard in front of him,

Where the enemy was, the long-drawn shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar near him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the shouting came from, a fire flared up and went out again,

Then another, and all along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the shouting grew louder and louder. Rostóv could hear the sound of French words but could not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too great; all he could hear was:

“ahahah!” and “rrrr!” “What’s that? What do you make of it?” said Rostóv to the hussar beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!” The hussar did not reply. “Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostóv asked again, after waiting for a reply. “Who can tell, your honor?” replied the hussar reluctantly. “From the direction,

It must be the enemy,” repeated Rostóv. “It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s dark… Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse. Rostóv’s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground, pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights.

The shouting grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Rostóv no longer wanted to sleep.

The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating effect on him. “Vive l’Empereur! l’Empereur!” he now heard distinctly. “They can’t be far off, probably just beyond the stream, ” he said to the hussar beside him. The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily.

The sound of horse’s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of hussars suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant. “Your honor, the generals!” said the sergeant,

Riding up to Rostóv. Rostóv, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode with the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line. One was on a white horse. Prince Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with their adjutants

Had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión, reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the generals were saying. “Believe me,” said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, “it is nothing but a trick!

He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us. ” “Hardly,” said Bagratión. “I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too. … Officer!” said Bagratión to Rostóv, “are the enemy’s skirmishers still there?

” “They were there this evening, but now I don’t know, your excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied Rostóv. Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv’s face in the mist. “Well, go and see,

” he said, after a pause. “Yes, sir.” Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and

Pleased to be riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty distance where no one had been before him. Bagratión called to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv pretended not to hear him and did not stop but rode on and on,

Continually mistaking bushes for trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes. Having descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or the enemy’s fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly and distinctly.

In the valley he saw before him something like a river , but when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto the road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or cross it and ride over the black field up the hillside.

To keep to the road which gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it would be easier to see people coming along it. “Follow me!” said he, crossed the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the point where the French pickets had been standing that evening.

“Your honor, there he is!” cried one of the hussars behind him. And before Rostóv had time to make out what the black thing was that had suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report,

And a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan. Rostóv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones.

Rostóv reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen, like his own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well, some more! Some more!” a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no more shots came. Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again,

And with his hand at the salute rode up to the general. Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only lit fires to deceive us. “What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They might retreat and leave the pickets.

” “It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said Bagratión. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything tomorrow.” “The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was in the evening,” reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at the salute and

Unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his ride and especially by the sound of the bullets. “Very good, very good,” said Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.” “Your excellency , ” said Rostóv, “may I ask a favor?” “What is it?” “Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve.

May I ask to be attached to the first squadron?” “What’s your name?” “Count Rostóv. ” “Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.” “Count Ilyá Rostóv’s son? ” asked Dolgorúkov. But Rostóv did not reply. “Then I may reckon on it , your excellency?

” “I will give the order.” “Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the Emperor, ” thought Rostóv. “Thank God! ” The fires and shouting in the enemy’s army were occasioned by the fact that while Napoleon’s proclamation was being read to the troops the Emperor himself rode round his bivouacs.

The soldiers, on seeing him, lit wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!” Napoleon’s proclamation was as follows : Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the Austrian army of Ulm . They are the same battalions you broke at Hollabrünn and have pursued ever since to this place.

The position we occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go round me on the right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers ! I will myself direct your battalions. I will keep out of fire if you with your habitual valor carry disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks,

But should victory be in doubt, even for a moment, you will see your Emperor exposing himself to the first blows of the enemy, for there must be no doubt of victory, especially on this day when what is at stake is the honor of the French infantry,

So necessary to the honor of our nation. Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let every man be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings of England,

Inspired by such hatred of our nation! This victory will conclude our campaign and we can return to winter quarters, where fresh French troops who are being raised in France will join us, and the peace I shall conclude will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself.

NAPOLEON Chapter 63. At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the center, the reserves , and Bagratión’s right flank had not yet moved, but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, which were to be the first to descend the heights

To attack the French right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan, were already up and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into which they were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes smart. It was cold and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting,

The soldiers, munching biscuit and beating a tattoo with their feet to warm themselves, gathering round the fires throwing into the flames the remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they did not want or could not carry away with them.

Austrian column guides were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds of the advance. As soon as an Austrian officer showed himself near a commanding officer’s quarters, the regiment began to move: the soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots,

Their bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank. The officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches, and moved along the ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves,

Gave final instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and unable, from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog ,

To see either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going . A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever strange , unknown, and dangerous places he reaches,

Just as a sailor is always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the same sergeant major Iván Mítrich, the same company dog Jack,

And the same commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle—heaven knows how and whence—a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral atmosphere of an army,

Announcing the approach of something decisive and solemn, and awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning what is going on around them.

The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could not see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one might encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off.

But the columns advanced for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills, avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became aware that in front, behind, and on all sides,

Other Russian columns were moving in the same direction . Every soldier felt glad to know that to the unknown place where he was going , many more of our men were going too. “There now, the Kúrskies have also gone past,

” was being said in the ranks. “It’s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A regular Moscow!

” Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves to cheer the men but merely carried out the orders)

, yet the troops marched gaily, as they always do when going into action, especially to an attack. But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog, the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks.

How such a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly, and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek.

Had the Russian army been alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid Germans,

And everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had been occasioned by the sausage eaters. “Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up against the French?” “No, one can’t hear them. They’d be firing if we had.” “They were in a hurry enough to start us,

And now here we stand in the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It’s all those damned Germans’ muddling! What stupid devils !” “Yes, I’d send them on in front, but no fear, they’re crowding up behind. And now here we stand hungry.

” “I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the way, ” said an officer. “Ah, those damned Germans! They don’t know their own country! ” said another. “What division are you?” shouted an adjutant, riding up. “The Eighteenth.

” “Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you won’t get there till evening. ” “What stupid orders! They don’t themselves know what they are doing!” said the officer and rode off. Then a general rode past shouting something angrily , not in Russian.

“Tafa-lafa! But what he’s jabbering no one can make out,” said a soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. “I’d shoot them, the scoundrels!” “We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven’t got halfway. Fine orders !” was being repeated on different sides.

And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the Germans. The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center was too far separated

From our right flank and the cavalry were all ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in front of the infantry, who had to wait. At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a Russian general. The general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be halted,

The Austrian argued that not he , but the higher command, was to blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited . After an hour’s delay they at last moved on, descending the hill. The fog that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below,

Where they were descending. In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another, at first irregularly at varying intervals—trata…tat—and then more and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream began.

Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading through the ranks, and above

All being unable to see anything in front or around them in the thick fog , the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown surroundings unable to find their own regiments.

In this way the action began for the first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into the valley. The fourth column, with which Kutúzov was, stood on the Pratzen Heights. Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog;

On the higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was going on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed, six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one knew till after eight o’clock.

It was nine o’clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was a clear blue sky,

And the sun’s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow, crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far

Side of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could distinguish a mounted man from one on foot.

Napoleon, in the blue cloak which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab horse a little in front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian troops were moving in the distance,

And he listened to the sounds of firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face—which in those days was still thin—moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on one spot. His predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian force had already

Descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes and part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian columns,

Their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night, by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns,

And from all indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still he did not begin the engagement.

Today was a great day for him—the anniversary of his coronation . Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything succeeds.

He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident, self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily in love. The marshals stood behind him not venturing to distract his attention.

He looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating up out of the mist. When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were aglow with dazzling light—as if he had only awaited this to begin the action—he drew the glove from his shapely white hand,

Made a sign with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin. The marshals, accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions, and a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly toward those Pratzen

Heights which were being more and more denuded by Russian troops moving down the valley to their left. Chapter 64. At eight o’clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth column,

Milorádovich’s, the one that was to take the place of Przebyszéwski’s and Langeron’s columns which had already gone down into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead that column himself.

When he had reached the village of Pratzen he halted . Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the commander in chief’s suite. He was in a state of suppressed excitement and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of a long-

Awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would come about he did not know, but he felt sure it would do so.

The locality and the position of our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother’s plan,

Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new projects such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision . To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight would concentrate. “There we shall encounter difficulties,

And there,” thought he, “I shall be sent with a brigade or division , and there, standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of me.” He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions. Seeing them he kept thinking,

“That may be the very standard with which I shall lead the army. ” In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a milk-white sea.

Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing. Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist,

Some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably was, for something could be descried. On the right the Guards were entering the misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and then a gleam of bayonets; to the left

Beyond the village similar masses of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and behind moved infantry. The commander in chief was standing at the end of the village letting the troops pass by him. That morning Kutúzov seemed worn and irritable.

The infantry passing before him came to a halt without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in front. “Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the village! ” he said angrily to a general who had ridden up . “Don’t you understand,

Your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the enemy? ” “I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,” answered the general. Kutúzov laughed bitterly. “You’ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy!

Very fine!” “The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the dispositions. ..” “The dispositions!” exclaimed Kutúzov bitterly. “Who told you that?… Kindly do as you are ordered. ” “Yes, sir.” “My dear fellow,” Nesvítski whispered to Prince Andrew, “the old man is as surly as a dog.

” An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat galloped up to Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor’s name had the fourth column advanced into action. Kutúzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall upon Prince Andrew,

Who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutúzov’s malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what was being done was not his adjutant’s fault, and still not answering the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkónski . “Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed the village.

Tell it to stop and await my orders. ” Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him. “And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted, ” he added. “What are they doing? What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still not replying to the Austrian. Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order.

Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped the third division and convinced himself that there really were no sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the regiment was much surprised at the commander in chief’s order to throw out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there

Were other troops in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away. There was really nothing to be seen in front except a barren descent hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the commander in chief’s name to rectify this omission,

Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutúzov still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily with closed eyes. The troops were no longer moving, but stood with the butts of their muskets on the ground. “All right,

All right!” he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all the left-flank columns had already descended. “Plenty of time, your excellency,” muttered Kutúzov in the midst of a yawn.

“Plenty of time,” he repeated. Just then at a distance behind Kutúzov was heard the sound of regiments saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person they were greeting was riding quickly.

When the soldiers of the regiment in front of which Kutúzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one side and looked round with a frown . Along the road from Pratzen galloped what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms.

Two of them rode side by side in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform with white plumes in his hat rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who was in a white uniform rode a black one. These were the two Emperors followed by their suites. Kutúzov,

Affecting the manners of an old soldier at the front, gave the command “Attention! ” and rode up to the Emperors with a salute. His whole appearance and manner were suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys without reasoning. With an affectation of respect which evidently struck Alexander unpleasantly,

He rode up and saluted. This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face of the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished. After his illness he looked rather thinner that day than on the field of Olmütz where Bolkónski had seen him for the first time abroad,

But there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted innocent youth. At the Olmütz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed brighter and more energetic.

He was slightly flushed after galloping two miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own. Czartorýski, Novosíltsev, Prince Volkónsky, Strógonov, and the others, all richly dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed,

Fresh, only slightly heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the Emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long faced young man, sat very erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and preoccupied manner .

He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked some question—“Most likely he is asking at what o’clock they started, ” thought Prince Andrew, watching his old acquaintance with a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brünn.

In the Emperors’ suite were the picked young orderly officers of the Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms leading the Tsar’s beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered cloths. As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters a stuffy room,

So a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of success reached Kutúzov’s cheerless staff with the galloping advent of all these brilliant young men. “Why aren’t you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?” said the Emperor Alexander hurriedly to Kutúzov, glancing courteously at the same time at the Emperor Francis. “I am waiting,

Your Majesty,” answered Kutúzov, bending forward respectfully. The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not quite heard. “Waiting, Your Majesty, ” repeated Kutúzov. (Prince Andrew noted that Kutúzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the word “waiting.

”) “Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your Majesty.” The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him, as if complaining of Kutúzov . “You know, Michael Ilariónovich,

We are not on the Empress’ Field where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled, ” said the Tsar with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting him if not to join in at least to listen to what he was saying.

But the Emperor Francis continued to look about him and did not listen. “That is just why I do not begin, sire,” said Kutúzov in a resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being heard, and again something in his face twitched—“That is just why I do not begin,

Sire, because we are not on parade and not on the Empress’ Field, ” said he clearly and distinctly. In the Emperor’s suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed dissatisfaction and reproach. “Old though he may be, he should not, he certainly should not, speak like that,” their glances seemed to say.

The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutúzov’s eye waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutúzov, with respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted for about a minute. “However, if you command it , Your Majesty,

” said Kutúzov, lifting his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but submissive general. He touched his horse and having called Milorádovich, the commander of the column, gave him the order to advance. The troops again began to move ,

And two battalions of the Nóvgorod and one of the Ápsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor. As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Milorádovich, without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front and back,

Galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined in his horse before the Emperor. “God be with you, general !” said the Emperor. “Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce qui sera dans notre possibilité, sire ,” * he answered gaily,

Raising nevertheless ironic smiles among the gentlemen of the Tsar’s suite by his poor French. * “Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to do, Sire. ” Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little behind the Emperor .

The Ápsheron men, excited by the Tsar’s presence, passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk pace. “Lads!” shouted Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of battle , and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons,

His comrades in Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors, that he forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village you’ve had to take, ” cried he. “Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers. The Emperor’s horse started at the sudden cry.

This horse that had carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the Empress’ Field,

Not understanding the significance of the firing, nor of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, nor of all that was being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider. The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a remark to him, pointing to the gallant Ápsherons.

Chapter 65. Kutúzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind the carabineers. When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column he stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been an inn, where two roads parted.

Both of them led downhill and troops were marching along both. The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly visible about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down below, on the left, the firing became more distinct.

Kutúzov had stopped and was speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who was a little behind looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask him for a field glass. “Look, look!” said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the distance,

But down the hill before him. “It’s the French!” The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass, trying to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces suddenly changed to one of horror . The French were supposed to be a mile and a half away,

But had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in front of us. “It’s the enemy?… No!… Yes, see it is!… for certain…. But how is that? ” said different voices. With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw below them to the right, not more than five hundred paces from where Kutúzov was standing,

A dense French column coming up to meet the Ápsherons. “Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,” thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutúzov. “The Ápsherons must be stopped, your excellency,” cried he. But at that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all round,

Firing was heard quite close at hand, and a voice of naïve terror barely two steps from Prince Andrew shouted, “Brothers! All’s lost!” And at this as if at a command, everyone began to run. Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five minutes before the troops had passed the Emperors.

Not only would it have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to be carried back with it oneself. Bolkónski only tried not to lose touch with it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was happening in front of him.

Nesvítski with an angry face, red and unlike himself, was shouting to Kutúzov that if he did not ride away at once he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutúzov remained in the same place and without answering drew out a handkerchief.

Blood was flowing from his cheek. Prince Andrew forced his way to him. “You are wounded? ” he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of his lower jaw. “The wound is not here, it is there!” said Kutúzov, pressing the handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers.

“Stop them!” he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the right. A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it.

The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting , “Get on! Why are you hindering us? ” Another in the same place turned round and fired in the air; a third was striking the horse Kutúzov himself rode.

Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men, Kutúzov, with his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward a sound of artillery fire near by. Having forced his way out of the crowd of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutúzov,

Saw on the slope of the hill amid the smoke a Russian battery that was still firing and Frenchmen running toward it. Higher up stood some Russian infantry, neither moving forward to protect the battery nor backward with the fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself from the infantry and approached Kutúzov.

Of Kutúzov’s suite only four remained. They were all pale and exchanged looks in silence. “Stop those wretches!” gasped Kutúzov to the regimental commander, pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to punish him for those words,

Bullets flew hissing across the regiment and across Kutúzov’s suite like a flock of little birds. The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutúzov, were firing at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg ; several soldiers fell,

And a second lieutenant who was holding the flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without orders. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” groaned Kutúzov despairingly and looked around…. “Bolkónski!” he whispered,

His voice trembling from a consciousness of the feebleness of age , “Bolkónski!” he whispered, pointing to the disordered battalion and at the enemy, “what’s that?” But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of shame and anger choking him , had already leapt from his horse and run to the standard.

“Forward, lads!” he shouted in a voice piercing as a child’s. “Here it is!” thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him . Several soldiers fell. “Hurrah!” shouted Prince Andrew, and, scarcely able to hold up the heavy standard,

He ran forward with full confidence that the whole battalion would follow him. And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting “Hurrah! ” and overtook him.

A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag that was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew’s hands, but he was immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard and, dragging it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front he saw our artillerymen , some of whom were fighting,

While others, having abandoned their guns, were running toward him . He also saw French infantry soldiers who were seizing the artillery horses and turning the guns round. Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces of the cannon .

He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly and to right and left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But he did not look at them: he looked only at what was going on in front of him—at the battery.

He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired gunner with his shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while a French soldier tugged at the other. He could distinctly see the distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men, who evidently did not realize what they were doing.

“What are they about?” thought Prince Andrew as he gazed at them. “Why doesn’t the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed ? Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him.

…” And really another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him, was about to be decided . But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended.

It seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of it was that the pain distracted him and prevented his seeing what he had been looking at.

“What’s this ? Am I falling? My legs are giving way, ” thought he, and fell on his back . He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended,

whether the red-haired gunner had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray clouds gliding slowly across it.

“How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not at all as I ran ,” thought Prince Andrew—“not as we ran, shouting and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds glide across that lofty infinite sky!

How was it I did not see that lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing, nothing , but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but quiet and peace . Thank God!…

” Chapter 66. On our right flank commanded by Bagratión, at nine o’clock the battle had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorúkov’s demand to commence the action , and wishing to avert responsibility from himself, Prince Bagratión proposed to Dolgorúkov to send to inquire of the commander in chief.

Bagratión knew that as the distance between the two flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed (which he very likely would be) , and found the commander in chief (which would be very difficult ), he would not be able to get back before evening.

Bagratión cast his large, expressionless , sleepy eyes round his suite, and the boyish face of Rostóv, breathless with excitement and hope, was the first to catch his eye. He sent him. “And if I should meet His Majesty before I meet the commander in chief,

Your excellency?” said Rostóv, with his hand to his cap. “You can give the message to His Majesty, ” said Dolgorúkov , hurriedly interrupting Bagratión. On being relieved from picket duty Rostóv had managed to get a few hours’ sleep before morning and felt cheerful,

Bold, and resolute, with elasticity of movement , faith in his good fortune, and generally in that state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and easy. All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be a general engagement in which he was taking part,

More than that, he was orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a message to Kutúzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of joy and happiness.

On receiving the order he gave his horse the rein and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the line of Bagratión’s troops, which had not yet advanced into action but were standing motionless;

Then he came to the region occupied by Uvárov’s cavalry and here he noticed a stir and signs of preparation for battle; having passed Uvárov’s cavalry he clearly heard the sound of cannon and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder and louder. In the fresh morning air were now heard,

Not two or three musket shots at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots, but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before Pratzen, interrupted

By such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes several of them were not separated from one another but merged into a general roar. He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another down the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling , spreading, and mingling with one another.

He could also, by the gleam of bayonets visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow lines of artillery with green caissons. Rostóv stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was going on,

But strain his attention as he would he could not understand or make out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men of some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of troops; but why, whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make out.

These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him; on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination . “Go on! Go on! Give it them!” he mentally exclaimed at these sounds, and again proceeded to gallop along the line,

Penetrating farther and farther into the region where the army was already in action. “How it will be there I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought Rostóv. After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the line (

The Guards) was already in action. “So much the better! I shall see it close, ” he thought. He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came galloping toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered ranks were returning from the attack.

Rostóv got out of their way, involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on. “That is no business of mine,” he thought . He had not ridden many hundred yards after that before he saw to his left , across the whole width of the field,

An enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and across his path. Rostóv put his horse to full gallop to get out of the way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at the same speed,

But they kept increasing their pace, so that some of the horses were already galloping. Rostóv heard the thud of their hoofs and the jingle of their weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and even their faces, more and more distinctly.

They were our Horse Guards, advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them. The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses. Rostóv could already see their faces and heard the command: “Charge! ” shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to full speed . Rostóv,

Fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack on the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, but still was not in time to avoid them. The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily on seeing Rostóv before him, with whom he would inevitably collide.

This Guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostóv and his Bedouin over ( Rostóv felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men and horses) had it not occurred to Rostóv to flourish his whip before the eyes of the Guardsman’s horse.

The heavy black horse, sixteen hands high , shied, throwing back its ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman drove his huge spurs in violently , and the horse, flourishing its tail and extending its neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse Guards passed Rostóv before he heard them shout, “Hurrah!

” and looking back saw that their foremost ranks were mixed up with some foreign cavalry with red epaulets , probably French. He could see nothing more, for immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere and smoke enveloped everything. At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him, disappeared in the smoke,

Rostóv hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go where he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of the Horse Guards that amazed the French themselves. Rostóv was horrified to hear later that of all that mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant, rich youths, officers and cadets,

who had galloped past him on their thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen were left after the charge. “Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see the Emperor immediately !” thought Rostóv and galloped on.

When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them and around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so much because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on the soldiers’ faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the officers. Passing behind one of

The lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he heard a voice calling him by name. “Rostóv! ” “What?” he answered, not recognizing Borís. “I say, we’ve been in the front line!

Our regiment attacked!” said Borís with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have been under fire for the first time. Rostóv stopped. “Have you ?” he said. “Well, how did it go? ” “We drove them back!” said Borís with animation , growing talkative. “Can you imagine it?

” and he began describing how the Guards, having taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had unexpectedly to go into action.

Rostóv without hearing Borís to the end spurred his horse. “Where are you off to?” asked Borís. “With a message to His Majesty.” “There he is! ” said Borís, thinking Rostóv had said “His Highness,

” and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet and Horse Guards’ jacket, shouting something to a pale, white uniformed Austrian officer. “But that’s the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the Emperor,

” said Rostóv, and was about to spur his horse . “Count! Count! ” shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager as Borís . “Count! I am wounded in my right hand” (and he showed his bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it)

“and I remained at the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family—the von Bergs—have been knights!” He said something more, but Rostóv did not wait to hear it and rode away. Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space,

Rostóv, to avoid again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops,

Where he could never have expected the enemy to be. “What can it be?” he thought. “The enemy in the rear of our army? Impossible! ” And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself and for the issue of the whole battle.

“But be that what it may,” he reflected, “there is no riding round it now. I must look for the commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with the rest. ” The foreboding of evil that

Had suddenly come over Rostóv was more and more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds . “What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is firing ?

” Rostóv kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian soldiers running in confused crowds across his path. “The devil knows! They’ve killed everybody! It’s all up now!” he was told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who understood what was happening as little as he did.

“Kill the Germans!” shouted one. “May the devil take them—the traitors! ” “Zum Henker diese Russen!” * muttered a German. * “Hang these Russians!” Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams, and groans mingled in a general hubbub,

Then the firing died down. Rostóv learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing at one another. “My God! What does it all mean?” thought he. “And here, where at any moment the Emperor may see them…. But no, these must be only a handful of scoundrels.

It will soon be over, it can’t be that, it can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!” The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostóv’s head. Though he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief,

He could not, did not wish to, believe that. Chapter 67. Rostóv had been ordered to look for Kutúzov and the Emperor near the village of Pratzen . But neither they nor a single commanding officer were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds.

He urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on which he had come out was thronged with calèches, carriages of all sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and some not.

This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries stationed on the Pratzen Heights. “Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutúzov?” Rostóv kept asking everyone he could stop,

But got no answer from anyone. At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer. “Eh, brother! They’ve all bolted long ago !” said the soldier, laughing for some reason and shaking himself free. Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk,

Rostóv stopped the horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and that he was dangerously wounded.

“It can’t be!” said Rostóv. “It must have been someone else.” “I saw him myself, ” replied the man with a self-confident smile of derision . “I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I’ve seen him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you.

… There he sat in the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It’s time I knew the Imperial horses and Ilyá Iványch. I don’t think Ilyá drives anyone except the Tsar!

” Rostóv let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded officer passing by addressed him: “Who is it you want?” he asked. “The commander in chief? He was killed by a cannon ball —struck in the breast before our regiment.

” “Not killed—wounded!” another officer corrected him. “Who ? Kutúzov?” asked Rostóv. “Not Kutúzov, but what’s his name—well, never mind… there are not many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders are there,” said the officer,

Pointing to the village of Hosjeradek, and he walked on. Rostóv rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible to doubt it now. Rostóv rode in the direction pointed out to him,

In which he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say to the Tsar or to Kutúzov , even if they were alive and unwounded? “Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!

” a soldier shouted to him. “They’d kill you there!” “Oh , what are you talking about? ” said another. “Where is he to go? That way is nearer.” Rostóv considered, and then went in the direction where they said he would be killed.

“It’s all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to save myself? ” he thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen.

The French had not yet occupied that region, and the Russians—the uninjured and slightly wounded—had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded to each couple of acres.

The wounded crept together in twos and threes and one could hear their distressing screams and groans, sometimes feigned—or so it seemed to Rostóv. He put his horse to a trot to avoid seeing all these suffering men,

And he felt afraid—afraid not for his life, but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not stand the sight of these unfortunates. The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and wounded where there was no one left to fire at,

On seeing an adjutant riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around him merged in Rostóv’s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity for himself.

He remembered his mother’s last letter. “What would she feel ,” thought he, “if she saw me here now on this field with the cannon aimed at me? ” In the village of Hosjeradek there were Russian troops retiring from the field of battle,

Who though still in some confusion were less disordered. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle was lost. No one whom Rostóv asked could tell him where the Emperor or Kutúzov was.

Some said the report that the Emperor was wounded was correct, others that it was not, and explained the false rumor that had spread by the fact that the Emperor’s carriage had really galloped from the field of battle with the pale and terrified Ober-

Hofmarschal Count Tolstóy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in the Emperor’s suite. One officer told Rostóv that he had seen someone from headquarters behind the village to the left, and thither Rostóv rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience.

When he had ridden about two miles and had passed the last of the Russian troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch round it, two men on horseback facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed familiar to Rostóv;

The other on a beautiful chestnut horse (which Rostóv fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his horse with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only a little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse’s hind hoofs.

Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially addressed the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting that he should do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar to Rostóv and involuntarily riveted his attention,

Made a gesture of refusal with his head and hand and by that gesture Rostóv instantly recognized his lamented and adored monarch. “But it can’t be he , alone in the midst of this empty field! ” thought Rostóv.

At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostóv saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The Emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm , the mildness of his features,

Was all the greater. Rostóv was happy in the assurance that the rumors about the Emperor being wounded were false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even ought to go straight to him and give the message Dolgorúkov had ordered him to deliver.

But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help or a chance of delay and flight when the longed-

For moment comes and he is alone with her, so Rostóv, now that he had attained what he had longed for more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach the Emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be inconvenient,

Unseemly, and impossible to do so. “What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of his being alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant or painful to him at this moment of sorrow; besides , what can I say to him now,

When my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight of him? ” Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the Emperor that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall. Those speeches were intended for quite other conditions,

They were for the most part to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph, generally when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked him for heroic deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his actions had proved. “Besides how can I ask the Emperor for his instructions

For the right flank now that it is nearly four o’clock and the battle is lost? No, certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his reflections . Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind look or bad opinion from him,” Rostóv decided;

And sorrowfully and with a heart full despair he rode away, continually looking back at the Tsar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision. While Rostóv was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away, Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot,

And seeing the Emperor at once rode up to him , offered his services, and assisted him to cross the ditch on foot. The Emperor, wishing to rest and feeling unwell, sat down under an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him.

Rostóv from a distance saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke long and warmly to the Emperor and how the Emperor, evidently weeping, covered his eyes with his hand and pressed von Toll’s hand.

“And I might have been in his place!” thought Rostóv, and hardly restraining his tears of pity for the Emperor, he rode on in utter despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding. His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was the cause of his grief.

He might… not only might but should, have gone up to the sovereign . It was a unique chance to show his devotion to the Emperor and he had not made use of it.

… “What have I done?” thought he. And he turned round and galloped back to the place where he had seen the Emperor, but there was no one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages were passing by. From one of the drivers he learned that Kutúzov’s staff were not far off,

In the village the vehicles were going to. Rostóv followed them. In front of him walked Kutúzov’s groom leading horses in horsecloths. Then came a cart, and behind that walked an old , bandy-legged domestic serf in a peaked cap and sheepskin coat. “Tit! I say, Tit!” said the groom. “What?

” answered the old man absent-mindedly. “Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!” “Oh, you fool!” said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed in silence, and then the same joke was repeated. Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points.

More than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French . Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused masses. The remains of Langeron’s and Dokhtúrov’s mingled forces

Were crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of Augesd . After five o’clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot cannonade (delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from numerous batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights,

Directed at our retreating forces. In the rearguard, Dokhtúrov and others rallying some battalions kept up a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It was growing dusk.

On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many years the old miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap peacefully angling, while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the floundering silvery fish in the watering can,

On that dam over which for so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully driven their two- horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty with flour whitening their carts—on that narrow dam amid the wagons and the cannon,

Under the horses’ hoofs and between the wagon wheels, men disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one another, dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another,

Only to move on a few steps and be killed themselves in the same way. Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and splashing with blood those near them. Dólokhov—now an officer—wounded in the arm,

And on foot, with the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company, represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and, jammed in on all sides,

Had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a cannon and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon ball killed someone behind them, another fell in front and splashed Dólokhov with blood. The crowd, pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few steps, and again stopped.

“Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here another two minutes and it is certain death, ” thought each one. Dólokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the edge of the dam,

Throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto the slippery ice that covered the millpool. “Turn this way!” he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked under him; “turn this way!” he shouted to those with the gun. “It bears!…” The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked,

And it was plain that it would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon even under his weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to the bank, hesitating to step onto the ice.

The general on horseback at the entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to address Dólokhov. Suddenly a cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd that everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist,

And the general fell from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of raising him. “Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don’t you hear? Go on!” innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck the general,

The men themselves not knowing what , or why, they were shouting. One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto the ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond.

The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to his waist. The nearest soldiers shrank back, the gun driver stopped his horse, but from behind still came the shouts:

“Onto the ice, why do you stop? Go on! Go on!” And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers near the gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice, that had held under those on foot,

Collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on it dashed, some forward and some back, drowning one another. Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered the dam, the pond, and the bank.

Chapter 68. On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan. Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still.

He did not know how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head . “Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now,

But saw today?” was his first thought. “And I did not know this suffering either, ” he thought . “Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all till now. But where am I ?” He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices speaking French. He opened his eyes.

Above him again was the same lofty sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up and stopped near him.

It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp . Bonaparte riding over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left on the field . “Fine men!

” remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier, who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide. “The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted,

Your Majesty,” said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were firing at Augesd. “Have some brought from the reserve,” said Napoleon, and having gone on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back with the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him.

(The flag had already been taken by the French as a trophy.) “That’s a fine death! ” said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkónski. Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire.

But he heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death, and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky.

He knew it was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was passing now between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over him,

Or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to understand it so differently.

He collected all his strength, to stir and utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan which aroused his own pity. “Ah! He is alive,” said Napoleon. “Lift this young man up and carry him to the dressing station.

” Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who, hat in hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory. Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher,

The jolting while being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station. He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, when with other wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital.

During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look about him and even speak. The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French convoy officer, who said rapidly: “We must halt here: the Emperor will pass here immediately;

It will please him to see these gentlemen prisoners.” “There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army, that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer. “All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor Alexander’s Guards,

” said the first one, indicating a Russian officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards. Bolkónski recognized Prince Repnín whom he had met in Petersburg society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of the Horse Guards.

Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse. “Which is the senior?” he asked, on seeing the prisoners. They named the colonel, Prince Repnín. “You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander’s regiment of Horse Guards? ” asked Napoleon. “I commanded a squadron,” replied Repnín. “Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,

” said Napoleon. “The praise of a great commander is a soldier’s highest reward, ” said Repnín. “I bestow it with pleasure ,” said Napoleon. “And who is that young man beside you? ” Prince Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen . After looking at him Napoleon smiled.

“He’s very young to come to meddle with us .” “Youth is no hindrance to courage, ” muttered Sukhtélen in a failing voice. “A splendid reply !” said Napoleon. “Young man, you will go far!” Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor’s eyes to complete the show of prisoners,

Could not fail to attract his attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield and, addressing him, again used the epithet “young man” that was connected in his memory with Prince Andrew. “Well , and you, young man,” said he. “How do you feel, mon brave?” Though five minutes before,

Prince Andrew had been able to say a few words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed straight on Napoleon, he was silent…. So insignificant at that moment seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon,

So mean did his hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear, compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and understood, that he could not answer him.

Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood, suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into Napoleon’s eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand,

And the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one alive could understand or explain. The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to one of the officers as he went: “Have these gentlemen attended to and taken to my bivouac; let my doctor , Larrey, examine their wounds.

Au revoir, Prince Repnín!” and he spurred his horse and galloped away. His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure. The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother’s neck,

But seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now hastened to return the holy image. Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced , but the little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest outside his uniform.

“It would be good,” thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, “it would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in this life,

And what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I should be if I could now say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me! ’… But to whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable, incomprehensible,

Which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in words—the Great All or Nothing- ” said he to himself, “or to that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary! There is nothing certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I understand,

And the greatness of something incomprehensible but all-important.” The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain; his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father, wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night before the battle,

The figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious fancies. The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented itself to him.

He was already enjoying that happiness when that little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and torments had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning all these

Dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon’s doctor, Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence. “He is a nervous, bilious subject,” said Larrey, “and will not recover.” And Prince Andrew,

With others fatally wounded, was left to the care of the inhabitants of the district. BOOK FOUR: 1806 Chapter 69. Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostóv returned home on leave. Denísov was going home to Vorónezh and Rostóv persuaded him to travel with him as far as Moscow and to stay with him there.

Meeting a comrade at the last post station but one before Moscow, Denísov had drunk three bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to Moscow,

But lay at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostóv, who grew more and more impatient the nearer they got to Moscow. “How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets, shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps, and sleighs !” thought Rostóv,

When their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and they had entered Moscow. “Denísov! We’re here! He’s asleep,” he added, leaning forward with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed of the sleigh .

Denísov gave no answer. “There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár, has his stand, and there’s Zakhár himself and still the same horse! And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t you hurry up? Now then!” “Which house is it?” asked the driver.

“Why, that one, right at the end, the big one . Don’t you see? That’s our house, ” said Rostóv. “Of course, it’s our house! Denísov, Denísov ! We’re almost there! ” Denísov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer. “Dmítri,” said Rostóv to his valet on the box,

“those lights are in our house, aren’t they?” “Yes , sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study. ” “Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now, don’t forget to put out my new coat ,” added Rostóv, fingering his new mustache.

“Now then, get on,” he shouted to the driver . “Do wake up, Váska! ” he went on, turning to Denísov, whose head was again nodding . “Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for vodka—get on!” Rostóv shouted, when the sleigh was only three houses from his door.

It seemed to him the horses were not moving at all. At last the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and Rostóv saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster broken off,

The porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it. There was no one in the hall. “Oh God! Is everyone all right?

” he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of the familiar staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always angered the countess when it was not properly cleaned,

Turned as loosely as ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom. Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy , the footman, who was so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges.

He looked up at the opening door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one of delighted amazement. “Gracious heavens! The young count!” he cried, recognizing his young master. “Can it be? My treasure !” and Prokófy, trembling with excitement, rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in order to announce him,

But, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the young man’s shoulder. “All well? ” asked Rostóv, drawing away his arm. “Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have a look at you, your excellency.” “Is everything quite all right?” “The Lord be thanked,

Yes!” Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it;

But someone had already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same kind sprang from a second door and a third;

More hugging, more kissing, more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed that. “And I did not know… Nicholas… My darling!…” “Here he is.

.. our own… Kólya, * dear fellow… How he has changed!… Where are the candles? … Tea!…” * Nicholas. “And me, kiss me!” “Dearest… and me!” Sónya, Natásha , Pétya, Anna Mikháylovna, Véra, and the old count were all hugging him, and the serfs , men and maids,

Flocked into the room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing. Pétya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!” Natásha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat,

Sprang away and pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly. All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around were lips seeking a kiss. Sónya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and , radiant with bliss, looked eagerly toward his eyes,

Waiting for the look for which she longed. Sónya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone.

The old countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s. Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since he had left.

All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denísov, who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone,

Stood there and wiped his eyes at the sight. “Vasíli Denísov, your son’s friend, ” he said, introducing himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him. “You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and embracing Denísov. “Nicholas wrote us.

.. Natásha, Véra, look! Here is Denísov!” The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denísov. “Darling Denísov!” screamed Natásha, beside herself with rapture, springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This escapade made everybody feel confused.

Denísov blushed too, but smiled and, taking Natásha’s hand, kissed it. Denísov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostóvs all gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room. The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every moment, sat beside him:

The rest, crowding round him, watched every movement, word , or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest to him and disputed with one another who should bring him his tea,

Handkerchief, and pipe. Rostóv was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more. Next morning , after the fatigues of their journey,

The travelers slept till ten o’clock. In the room next to their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers, satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall . The servants were bringing in jugs and basins,

Hot water for shaving, and their well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco. “Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe !” came Vasíli Denísov’s husky voice. “Wostóv, get up!” Rostóv, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his disheveled head from the hot pillow.

“Why, is it late?” “Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natásha’s voice. A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a crack and there was a glimpse of something blue,

Of ribbons, black hair, and merry faces . It was Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya, who had come to see whether they were getting up. “Nicholas! Get up! ” Natásha’s voice was again heard at the door. “Directly!” Meanwhile, Pétya , having found and seized the sabers in the outer room,

With the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed, opened the bedroom door. “Is this your saber?” he shouted. The girls sprang aside.

Denísov hid his hairy legs under the blanket, looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let Pétya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it. “Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natásha’s voice.

“Is this your saber?” asked Pétya. “Or is it yours?” he said, addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference. Rostóv hurriedly put something on his feet , drew on his dressing gown, and went out. Natásha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting her foot into the other.

Sónya, when he came in, was twirling round and was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down . They were dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and bright . Sónya ran away,

But Natásha, taking her brother’s arm, led him into the sitting room , where they began talking. They hardly gave one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natásha laughed at every word he said or that she said herself,

Not because what they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter. “Oh, how nice, how splendid!” she said to everything. Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that childlike smile which

Had not once appeared on his face since he left home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his soul and his face. “No, but listen,” she said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother .” She touched his mustache.

“I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as we? No? ” “Why did Sónya run away?” asked Rostóv. “Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to her—thou or you ?” “As may happen,” said Rostóv.

“No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it some other time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sónya’s my dearest friend . Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!” She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long,

Slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered even by a ball dress. “I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the fire and pressed it there!

” Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natásha’s wildly bright eyes, Rostóv re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life;

And the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it. “Well, and is that all?” he asked. “We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just nonsense,

But we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does it for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.” “Well, what then?” “Well, she loves me and you like that. ” Natásha suddenly flushed. “Why, you remember before you went away ?… Well,

She says you are to forget all that…. She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?” asked Natásha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what she was now saying she had talked of before,

With tears. Rostóv became thoughtful. “I never go back on my word, ” he said. “Besides, Sónya is so charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness. ” “No, no!” cried Natásha, “she and I have already talked it over. We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see,

If you say that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all. ” Rostóv saw that it had been well considered by them.

Sónya had already struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely . She was a charming girl of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt that for an instant)

. Why should he not love her now, and even marry her, Rostóv thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he thought, “I must remain free .” “Well then,

That’s excellent,” said he. “We’ll talk it over later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you! ” “Well, and are you still true to Borís?” he continued . “Oh, what nonsense! ” cried Natásha, laughing. “I don’t think about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.

” “Dear me! Then what are you up to now?” “Now?” repeated Natásha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have you seen Duport?” “No.” “Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t understand. That’s what I’m up to.” Curving her arms,

Natásha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes. “See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself on her toes any longer.

“So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone .” Rostóv laughed so loud and merrily that Denísov, in his bedroom, felt envious and Natásha could not help joining in.

“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” she kept repeating . “Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Borís? ” Natásha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell him so when I see him!” “Dear me !” said Rostóv. “But that’s all rubbish,

” Natásha chattered on. “And is Denísov nice?” she asked . “Yes, indeed!” “Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible, Denísov?” “Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid fellow.” “You call him Váska? That’s funny ! And is he very nice?

” “Very.” “Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together .” And Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet dancer , but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he reddened.

He did not know how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters,

Was looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as you —Sónya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared,

By Natásha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to love her,

For that would be impossible. “How strange it is,” said Véra, selecting a moment when all were silent, “that Sónya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet like strangers. ” Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like most of her observations,

It made everyone feel uncomfortable, not only Sónya, Nicholas, and Natásha , but even the old countess, who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making a brilliant match—blushed like a girl. Denísov, to Rostóv’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with pomaded hair,

Perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the ladies and gentlemen than Rostóv had ever expected to see him. Chapter 70. On his return to Moscow from the army,

Nicholas Rostóv was welcomed by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their darling Nikólenka; by his relations as a charming , attractive, and polite young man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good dancer,

And one of the best matches in the city. The Rostóvs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enough that year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas, acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the latest cut,

Such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the latest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs, passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himself to the old conditions of life , Nicholas found it very pleasant to be at home again.

He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. His despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money from Gavríl to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sónya on the sly —he now recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind.

Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, and wearing the Cross of St. George , awarded to soldiers for bravery in action, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respected racing men was training a trotter of his own for a race.

He knew a lady on one of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He led the mazurka at the Arkhárovs’ ball, talked about the war with Field Marshal Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with a colonel of forty to whom Denísov had introduced him.

His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But still, as he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him, he often spoke about him and about his love for him, letting it be understood that

He had not told all and that there was something in his feelings for the Emperor not everyone could understand, and with his whole soul he shared the adoration then common in Moscow for the Emperor, who was spoken of as the “angel incarnate.” During Rostóv’s short stay in Moscow,

Before rejoining the army, he did not draw closer to Sónya, but rather drifted away from her. She was very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him, but he was at the period of youth when there seems so much to do that there is no time for that sort of thing

And a young man fears to bind himself and prizes his freedom which he needs for so many other things. When he thought of Sónya, during this stay in Moscow , he said to himself, “Ah, there will be, and there are, many more such girls somewhere whom I do not yet know.

There will be time enough to think about love when I want to, but now I have no time.” Besides, it seemed to him that the society of women was rather derogatory to his manhood. He went to balls and into ladies’ society with an affectation of doing so against his will.

The races, the English Club, sprees with Denísov, and visits to a certain house—that was another matter and quite the thing for a dashing young hussar! At the beginning of March, old Count Ilyá Rostóv was very busy arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagratión at the English Club.

The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving orders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktíst, the club’s head cook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and fish for this dinner.

The count had been a member and on the committee of the club from the day it was founded. To him the club entrusted the arrangement of the festival in honor of Bagratión, for few men knew so well how to arrange a feast on an open-handed , hospitable scale,

And still fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out of their own resources what might be needed for the success of the fete. The club cook and the steward listened to the count’s orders with pleased faces ,

For they knew that under no other management could they so easily extract a good profit for themselves from a dinner costing several thousand rubles. “Well then, mind and have cocks’ comb in the turtle soup, you know!” “Shall we have three cold dishes then ?” asked the cook. The count considered.

“We can’t have less—yes, three… the mayonnaise, that’s one,” said he, bending down a finger. “Then am I to order those large sterlets ?” asked the steward. “Yes, it can’t be helped if they won’t take less. Ah, dear me! I was forgetting.

We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!” he clutched at his head. “Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmítri! Eh, Dmítri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate, ” he said to the factotum who appeared at his call. “Hurry off and tell Maksím,

The gardener, to set the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must be brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots here on Friday.” Having given several more orders, he was about to go to his “little countess” to have a rest,

But remembering something else of importance , he returned again, called back the cook and the club steward, and again began giving orders. A light footstep and the clinking of spurs were heard at the door, and the young count, handsome, rosy, with a dark little mustache,

Evidently rested and made sleeker by his easy life in Moscow, entered the room. “Ah, my boy, my head’s in a whirl!” said the old man with a smile, as if he felt a little confused before his son. “Now,

If you would only help a bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my own orchestra, but shouldn’t we get the gypsy singers as well? You military men like that sort of thing. ” “Really, Papa, I believe Prince Bagratión worried himself less before the battle of Schön Grabern than you do now,

” said his son with a smile. The old count pretended to be angry. “Yes, you talk , but try it yourself!” And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and son. “What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktíst?

” said he. “Laughing at us old fellows!” “That’s so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good dinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that’s not their business!” “That’s it, that’s it !” exclaimed the count,

And gaily seizing his son by both hands, he cried, “Now I’ve got you, so take the sleigh and pair at once, and go to Bezúkhov’s, and tell him ‘Count Ilyá has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples. ’ We can’t get them from anyone else. He’s not there himself,

So you’ll have to go in and ask the princesses; and from there go on to the Rasgulyáy—the coachman Ipátka knows—and look up the gypsy Ilyúshka, the one who danced at Count Orlóv’s , you remember, in a white Cossack coat,

And bring him along to me.” “And am I to bring the gypsy girls along with him? ” asked Nicholas, laughing. “Dear, dear!…” At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with the businesslike, preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which never left her face, Anna Mikháylovna entered the hall.

Though she came upon the count in his dressing gown every day, he invariably became confused and begged her to excuse his costume. “No matter at all, my dear count,” she said, meekly closing her eyes . “But I’ll go to Bezúkhov’s myself.

Pierre has arrived, and now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him in any case. He has forwarded me a letter from Borís. Thank God, Borís is now on the staff.

” The count was delighted at Anna Mikháylovna’s taking upon herself one of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her. “Tell Bezúkhov to come. I’ll put his name down . Is his wife with him? ” he asked. Anna Mikháylovna turned up her eyes, and profound sadness was depicted on her face.

“Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate,” she said. “If what we hear is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thing when we were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soul as young Bezúkhov! Yes,

I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give him what consolation I can. ” “Wh-what is the matter?” asked both the young and old Rostóv. Anna Mikháylovna sighed deeply. “Dólokhov, Mary Ivánovna’s son,” she said in a mysterious whisper, “has compromised her completely,

They say. Pierre took him up, invited him to his house in Petersburg, and now… she has come here and that daredevil after her!” said Anna Mikháylovna, wishing to show her sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile betraying her sympathy for the “daredevil,

” as she called Dólokhov. “They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune. ” “Dear, dear! But still tell him to come to the club—it will all blow over. It will be a tremendous banquet.” Next day , the third of March, soon after one o’clock,

Two hundred and fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaiting the guest of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagratión, to dinner. On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscow had been bewildered. At that time,

The Russians were so used to victories that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it , while others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an event. In the English Club , where all who were distinguished, important, and well informed foregathered when the news began to arrive in December,

Nothing was said about the war and the last battle, as though all were in a conspiracy of silence. The men who set the tone in conversation —Count Rostopchín, Prince Yúri Dolgorúkov, Valúev, Count Markóv, and Prince Vyázemski—did not show themselves at the club, but met in private houses in intimate circles,

And the Moscovites who took their opinions from others—Ilyá Rostóv among them—remained for a while without any definite opinion on the subject of the war and without leaders. The Moscovites felt that something was wrong and that to discuss the bad news was difficult,

And so it was best to be silent. But after a while, just as a jury comes out of its room, the bigwigs who guided the club’s opinion reappeared, and everybody began speaking clearly and definitely. Reasons were found for the incredible, unheard-of, and impossible event of a Russian defeat, everything became clear,

And in all corners of Moscow the same things began to be said. These reasons were the treachery of the Austrians, a defective commissariat, the treachery of the Pole Przebyszéwski and of the Frenchman Langeron, Kutúzov’s incapacity, and (it was whispered) the youth and inexperience of the sovereign,

Who had trusted worthless and insignificant people . But the army, the Russian army, everyone declared, was extraordinary and had achieved miracles of valor. The soldiers, officers, and generals were heroes. But the hero of heroes was Prince Bagratión, distinguished by his Schön Grabern affair and by the retreat from Austerlitz, where he

Alone had withdrawn his column unbroken and had all day beaten back an enemy force twice as numerous as his own. What also conduced to Bagratión’s being selected as Moscow’s hero was the fact that he had no connections in the city and was a stranger there.

In his person, honor was shown to a simple fighting Russian soldier without connections and intrigues, and to one who was associated by memories of the Italian campaign with the name of Suvórov. Moreover, paying such honor to Bagratión was the best way of expressing disapproval and dislike of Kutúzov.

“Had there been no Bagratión, it would have been necessary to invent him, ” said the wit Shinshín, parodying the words of Voltaire. Kutúzov no one spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers, calling him a court weathercock and an old satyr.

All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorúkov’s saying: “If you go on modeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay, ” suggesting consolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; and the words of Rostopchín, that French soldiers have to be incited to battle by highfalutin words,

And Germans by logical arguments to show them that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, but that Russian soldiers only need to be restrained and held back! On all sides, new and fresh anecdotes were heard of individual examples of heroism shown by our officers and men at Austerlitz .

One had saved a standard, another had killed five Frenchmen, a third had loaded five cannon singlehanded. Berg was mentioned, by those who did not know him, as having, when wounded in the right hand, taken his sword in the left, and gone forward. Of Bolkónski, nothing was said,

And only those who knew him intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving a pregnant wife with his eccentric father. Chapter 71. On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime.

The members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat, stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress, and a few here and there with powdered hair and in Russian kaftáns. Powdered footmen,

In livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings, stood at every door anxiously noting visitors’ every movement in order to offer their services. Most of those present were elderly, respected men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures and voices .

This class of guests and members sat in certain habitual places and met in certain habitual groups. A minority of those present were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denísov, Rostóv, and Dólokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov regiment . The faces of these young people,

Especially those who were military men, bore that expression of condescending respect for their elders which seems to say to the older generation, “We are prepared to respect and honor you, but all the same remember that the future belongs to us.” Nesvítski was there as an old member of the club.

Pierre, who at his wife’s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles, went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here, as elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people,

he treated them with absent-minded contempt. By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and so he went from one group to another.

Some of the most important old men were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully to hear the voices of well- known men. The largest circles formed round Count Rostopchín, Valúev, and Narýshkin.

Rostopchín was describing how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to force their way through them with bayonets. Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz. In the third circle,

Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the Austrian Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to the nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshín, standing close by, tried to make a joke,

Saying that Kutúzov had evidently failed to learn from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a cock, but the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him feel that in that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of Kutúzov. Count Ilyá Rostóv,

Hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all equals,

while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostóv stood at a window with Dólokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately made and highly valued. The old count came up to them and pressed Dólokhov’s hand.

“Please come and visit us… you know my brave boy.. . been together out there… both playing the hero … Ah, Vasíli Ignátovich. .. How d’ye do, old fellow?” he said, turning to an old man who was passing,

But before he had finished his greeting there was a general stir , and a footman who had run in announced, with a frightened face: “He’s arrived!” Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and—like rye shaken together in a shovel—the guests

Who had been scattered about in different rooms came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the door of the ballroom. Bagratión appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat or sword, which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall porter.

He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip over his shoulder, as when Rostóv had seen him on the eve of the battle of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign Orders, and the Star of St.

George on his left breast. Evidently just before coming to the dinner he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed, which changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naïvely festive in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile features, gave him a rather comical expression.

Bekleshëv and Theodore Uvárov, who had arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him, as the guest of honor, to enter first. Bagratión was embarrassed, not wishing to avail himself of their courtesy , and this caused some delay at the doors, but after all he did at last enter first.

He walked shyly and awkwardly over the parquet floor of the reception room , not knowing what to do with his hands; he was more accustomed to walk over a plowed field under fire, as he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at Schön Grabern—and he would have found that easier.

The committeemen met him at the first door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a highly honored guest , took possession of him as it were, without waiting for his reply, surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was at first impossible to enter the drawing

Room door for the crowd of members and guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look at Bagratión over each other’s shoulders, as if he were some rare animal. Count Ilyá Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words,

“Make way, dear boy! Make way, make way!” pushed through the crowd more energetically than anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and seated them on the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members of the club, beset the new arrivals. Count Ilyá, again thrusting his way through the crowd,

Went out of the drawing room and reappeared a minute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salver which he presented to Prince Bagratión. On the salver lay some verses composed and printed in the hero’s honor. Bagratión, on seeing the salver , glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help.

But all eyes demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself in their power, he resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked sternly and reproachfully at the count who had presented it to him. Someone obligingly took the dish from Bagratión (or he would, it seemed,

have held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it)and drew his attention to the verses . “Well, I will read them, then!” Bagratión seemed to say, and, fixing his weary eyes on the paper,

Began to read them with a fixed and serious expression. But the author himself took the verses and began reading them aloud. Bagratión bowed his head and listened: Bring glory then to Alexander’s reign And on the throne our Titus shield. A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man,

A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field! E’en fortunate Napoleon Knows by experience, now, Bagratión, And dare not Herculean Russians trouble… But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domo announced that dinner was ready ! The door opened,

And from the dining room came the resounding strains of the polonaise : Conquest’s joyful thunder waken, Triumph, valiant Russians, now!… and Count Rostóv, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading his verses, bowed to Bagratión. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner was more important than verses,

And Bagratión, again preceding all the rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between two Alexanders—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin —which was a significant allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance:

The more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows deepest where the land lies lowest. Just before dinner, Count Ilyá Rostóv presented his son to Bagratión, who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward, as were all the words he spoke that day,

And Count Ilyá looked joyfully and proudly around while Bagratión spoke to his son. Nicholas Rostóv, with Denísov and his new acquaintance, Dólokhov, sat almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince Nesvítski. Count Ilyá Rostóv with the other members of the committee sat facing Bagratión and,

As the very personification of Moscow hospitality, did the honors to the prince. His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the end of the meal.

He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at sight of which Ilyá Rostóv blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses.

After the fish, which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with the other committeemen . “There will be many toasts, it’s time to begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were silent, waiting for what he would say. “To the health of our Sovereign,

The Emperor!” he cried, and at the same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm. The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder waken…” All rose and cried “Hurrah! ” Bagratión also rose and shouted “Hurrah!

” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted it on the field at Schön Grabern . Young Rostóv’s ecstatic voice could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept . “To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!

” he roared, “Hurrah!” and emptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody sat down again,

Smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging remarks. The old count rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside his plate, and proposed a toast, “To the health of the hero of our last campaign, Prince Peter Ivánovich Bagratión!

” and again his blue eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again, but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by Paul Ivánovich Kutúzov: Russians! O’er all barriers on! Courage conquest guarantees; Have we not Bagratión?

He brings foemen to their knees,… etc. As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed and Count Ilyá Rostóv became more and more moved, more glass was smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv, Narýshkin , Uvárov, Dolgorúkov,

Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee, to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to Count Ilyá Rostóv separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept outright. Chapter 72.

Pierre sat opposite Dólokhov and Nicholas Rostóv. As usual, he ate and drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or,

With fixed eyes and a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some depressing and unsolved problem.

The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given by the princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dólokhov’s intimacy with his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw badly through his spectacles,

But that his wife’s connection with Dólokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely disbelieved both the princess’ hints and the letter, but he feared now to look at Dólokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Every time he chanced to meet Dólokhov’s handsome insolent eyes,

Pierre felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly away. Involuntarily recalling his wife’s past and her relations with Dólokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be true,

Or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife. He involuntarily remembered how Dólokhov, who had fully recovered his former position after the campaign, had returned to Petersburg and come to him. Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon companion,

Dólokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre had put him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Hélène had smilingly expressed disapproval of Dólokhov’s living at their house, and how cynically

Dólokhov had praised his wife’s beauty to him and from that time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day. “Yes, he is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. It would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridicule me,

Just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him , and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if it were true, but I do not believe it.

I have no right to, and can’t, believe it.” He remembered the expression Dólokhov’s face assumed in his moments of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any reason,

Or shot a post-boy’s horse with a pistol . That expression was often on Dólokhov’s face when looking at him. “Yes, he is a bully,” thought Pierre, “to kill a man means nothing to him. It must seem to him that everyone is afraid of him,

And that must please him. He must think that I, too, am afraid of him—and in fact I am afraid of him ,” he thought, and again he felt something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul. Dólokhov , Denísov, and Rostóv were now sitting opposite Pierre and seemed very gay.

Rostóv was talking merrily to his two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at Pierre , whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very noticeable one at the dinner. Rostóv looked inimically at Pierre,

First because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the husband of a beauty, and in a word—an old woman; and secondly because Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized Rostóv and had not responded to his greeting.

When the Emperor’s health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his glass. “What are you about?” shouted Rostóv, looking at him in an ecstasy of exasperation. “Don’t you hear it’s His Majesty the Emperor’s health?” Pierre sighed , rose submissively,

Emptied his glass, and, waiting till all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostóv. “Why, I didn’t recognize you!” he said. But Rostóv was otherwise engaged; he was shouting “Hurrah! ” “Why don’t you renew the acquaintance?” said Dólokhov to Rostóv . “Confound him,

He’s a fool!” said Rostóv. “One should make up to the husbands of pretty women, ” said Denísov. Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking about him. He reddened and turned away. “Well, now to the health of handsome women!” said Dólokhov,

And with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre. “Here’s to the health of lovely women, Peterkin—and their lovers!” he added. Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at Dólokhov or answering him.

The footman, who was distributing leaflets with Kutúzov’s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the principal guests . He was just going to take it when Dólokhov, leaning across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked at Dólokhov and his eyes dropped,

The something terrible and monstrous that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and took possession of him . He leaned his whole massive body across the table. “How dare you take it?” he shouted.

Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvítski and the neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezúkhov. “Don’t! Don’t! What are you about ?” whispered their frightened voices. Dólokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that smile of his which seemed to say,

“Ah! This is what I like!” “You shan’t have it!” he said distinctly. Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy. “You…! you … scoundrel! I challenge you!” he ejaculated, and, pushing back his chair, he rose from the table. At the very instant he did this and uttered those words,

Pierre felt that the question of his wife’s guilt which had been tormenting him the whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative. He hated her and was forever sundered from her. Despite Denísov’s request that he would take no part in the matter, Rostóv agreed to be Dólokhov’s second,

And after dinner he discussed the arrangements for the duel with Nesvítski, Bezúkhov’s second. Pierre went home, but Rostóv with Dólokhov and Denísov stayed on at the club till late, listening to the gypsies and other singers. “Well then, till tomorrow at Sokólniki,

” said Dólokhov, as he took leave of Rostóv in the club porch. “And do you feel quite calm? ” Rostóv asked. Dólokhov paused. “Well, you see, I’ll tell you the whole secret of dueling in two words.

If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and write affectionate letters to your parents, and if you think you may be killed, you are a fool and are lost for certain . But go with the firm intention of killing your man as quickly and surely as possible,

And then all will be right, as our bear huntsman at Kostromá used to tell me. ‘Everyone fears a bear,’ he says, ‘but when you see one your fear’s all gone, and your only thought is not to let him get away!’ And that’s how it is with me.

À demain, mon cher.” * * Till tomorrow, my dear fellow. Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvítski drove to the Sokólniki forest and found Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv already there. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations which had no connection with the matter in hand.

His haggard face was yellow. He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about distractedly and screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. He was entirely absorbed by two considerations: his wife’s guilt, of which after his sleepless night he had not the slightest doubt, and the guiltlessness of Dólokhov,

Who had no reason to preserve the honor of a man who was nothing to him. … “I should perhaps have done the same thing in his place,” thought Pierre. “It’s even certain that I should have done the same, then why this duel,

This murder? Either I shall kill him, or he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee. Can’t I go away from here , run away, bury myself somewhere? ” passed through his mind. But just at moments when such thoughts occurred to him,

He would ask in a particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the respect of the onlookers, “Will it be long? Are things ready?” When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the barriers, and the pistols loaded, Nesvítski went up to Pierre.

“I should not be doing my duty, Count,” he said in timid tones, “and should not justify your confidence and the honor you have done me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very grave , moment I did not tell you the whole truth.

I think there is no sufficient ground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it…. You were not right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous…” “Oh yes, it is horribly stupid ,” said Pierre. “Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure your opponent will accept them,

” said Nesvítski (who like the others concerned in the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did not yet believe that the affair had come to an actual duel). “You know, Count, it is much more honorable to admit one’s mistake than to let matters become irreparable.

There was no insult on either side. Allow me to convey….” “No! What is there to talk about? ” said Pierre. “It’s all the same…. Is everything ready?” he added. “Only tell me where to go and where to shoot,” he said with an unnaturally gentle smile.

He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working of the trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand—a fact that he did not wish to confess. “Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot,” said he. “No apologies, none whatever,

” said Dólokhov to Denísov (who on his side had been attempting a reconciliation), and he also went up to the appointed place. The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road, where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pine forest covered with melting snow,

The frost having begun to break up during the last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart at the farther edge of the clearing . The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and Nesvítski’s and Dólokhov’s sabers,

Which were stuck into the ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at forty paces’ distance nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had been ready, but they still delayed and all were silent.

Chapter 73. “Well, begin!” said Dólokhov. “All right,” said Pierre , still smiling in the same way. A feeling of dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightly begun could no longer be averted but was taking its course independently of men’s will.

Denísov first went to the barrier and announced : “As the adve’sawies have wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed . Take your pistols, and at the word thwee begin to advance. “O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!” he shouted angrily and stepped aside. The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks,

Nearer and nearer to one another, beginning to see one another through the mist. They had the right to fire when they liked as they approached the barrier. Dólokhov walked slowly without raising his pistol, looking intently with his bright,

Sparkling blue eyes into his antagonist’s face. His mouth wore its usual semblance of a smile. “So I can fire when I like !” said Pierre, and at the word “three, ” he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and stepping into the deep snow.

He held the pistol in his right hand at arm’s length, apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left hand he held carefully back, because he wished to support his right hand with it and knew he must not do so.

Having advanced six paces and strayed off the track into the snow , Pierre looked down at his feet, then quickly glanced at Dólokhov and, bending his finger as he had been shown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierre shuddered at the sound and then,

Smiling at his own sensations, stood still. The smoke , rendered denser by the mist, prevented him from seeing anything for an instant, but there was no second report as he had expected. He only heard Dólokhov’s hurried steps, and his figure came in view through the smoke.

He was pressing one hand to his left side, while the other clutched his drooping pistol. His face was pale. Rostóv ran toward him and said something. “No-o-o!” muttered Dólokhov through his teeth, “no, it’s not over .” And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the saber,

He sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowning face was pallid and quivered. “Plea…” began Dólokhov , but could not at first pronounce the word. “Please,” he uttered with an effort. Pierre , hardly restraining his sobs,

Began running toward Dólokhov and was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dólokhov cried: “To your barrier!” and Pierre, grasping what was meant , stopped by his saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dólokhov lowered his head to the snow, greedily bit at it,

Again raised his head, adjusted himself, drew in his legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. He sucked and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered but his eyes, still smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation as he mustered his remaining strength.

He raised his pistol and aimed. “Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!” ejaculated Nesvítski. “Cover yourself!” even Denísov cried to his adversary. Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing Dólokhov and looked sorrowfully at him.

Denísov, Rostóv, and Nesvítski closed their eyes. At the same instant they heard a report and Dólokhov’s angry cry . “Missed!” shouted Dólokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards on the snow. Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest, trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words: “Folly… folly!

Death… lies…” he repeated, puckering his face. Nesvítski stopped him and took him home. Rostóv and Denísov drove away with the wounded Dólokhov. The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer a word to the questions addressed to him.

But on entering Moscow he suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Rostóv, who was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostóv was struck by the totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on Dólokhov’s face .

“Well? How do you feel?” he asked. “Bad! But it’s not that, my friend—” said Dólokhov with a gasping voice. “Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don’t matter , but I have killed her, killed… She won’t get over it! She won’t survive….” “Who ?” asked Rostóv. “My mother!

My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother,” and Dólokhov pressed Rostóv’s hand and burst into tears. When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostóv that he was living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying , would not survive it. He implored Rostóv to go on and prepare her.

Rostóv went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise learned that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lived in Moscow with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate of sons and brothers. Chapter 74. Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone.

Both in Petersburg and in Moscow their house was always full of visitors. The night after the duel he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remained in his father’s room, that huge room in which Count Bezúkhov had died.

He lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all that had happened to him, but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings, thoughts, and memories suddenly arose within him that he could not fall asleep ,

Nor even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pace the room with rapid steps. Now he seemed to see her in the early days of their marriage, with bare shoulders and a languid, passionate look on her face, and then immediately he saw beside her Dólokhov’s handsome,

Insolent, hard, and mocking face as he had seen it at the banquet, and then that same face pale, quivering, and suffering, as it had been when he reeled and sank on the snow. “What has happened?” he asked himself. “I have killed her lover,

Yes, killed my wife’s lover. Yes, that was it ! And why? How did I come to do it? ”—“Because you married her,” answered an inner voice. “But in what was I to blame? ” he asked. “In marrying her without loving her; in deceiving yourself and her.

” And he vividly recalled that moment after supper at Prince Vasíli’s, when he spoke those words he had found so difficult to utter : “I love you. ” “It all comes from that! Even then I felt it,” he thought .

“I felt then that it was not so, that I had no right to do it. And so it turns out. ” He remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection . Particularly vivid, humiliating,

And shameful was the recollection of how one day soon after his marriage he came out of the bedroom into his study a little before noon in his silk dressing gown and found his head steward there, who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face and at his dressing gown and smiled slightly,

As if expressing respectful understanding of his employer’s happiness. “But how often I have felt proud of her, proud of her majestic beauty and social tact, ” thought he; “been proud of my house, in which she received all Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability and beauty. So this is what I was proud of!

I then thought that I did not understand her. How often when considering her character I have told myself that I was to blame for not understanding her, for not understanding that constant composure and complacency and lack of all interests or desires,

And the whole secret lies in the terrible truth that she is a depraved woman. Now I have spoken that terrible word to myself all has become clear. “Anatole used to come to borrow money from her and used to kiss her naked shoulders .

She did not give him the money, but let herself be kissed. Her father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous: ‘Let him do what he pleases,’ she used to say of me.

One day I asked her if she felt any symptoms of pregnancy. She laughed contemptuously and said she was not a fool to want to have children, and that she was not going to have any children by me.

” Then he recalled the coarseness and bluntness of her thoughts and the vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, though she had been brought up in the most aristocratic circles. “I’m not such a fool. … Just you try it on…. Allez-vous promener,” * she used to say.

Often seeing the success she had with young and old men and women Pierre could not understand why he did not love her. * “You clear out of this.” “Yes, I never loved her, ” said he to himself; “I knew she was a depraved woman,” he repeated,

“but dared not admit it to myself. And now there’s Dólokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and perhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado! ” Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what is called weak character,

Do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He digested his sufferings alone. “It is all, all her fault,” he said to himself; “but what of that? Why did I bind myself to her?

Why did I say ‘Je vous aime’ *to her, which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure. .. what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s nonsense, ” he thought. “The slur on my name and honor—that’s all apart from myself.

” * I love you. “Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a criminal, ” came into Pierre’s head, “and from their point of view they were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a martyr’s death for his sake.

Then Robespierre was beheaded for being a despot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are alive—live: tomorrow you’ll die as I might have died an hour ago. And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life in comparison with eternity?

” But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by such reflections, she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had most strongly expressed his insincere love for her ,

And he felt the blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break and tear whatever came to his hand. “Why did I tell her that ‘Je vous aime’?” he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it for the tenth time, Molière’s words:

“Mais que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?” * occurred to him, and he began to laugh at himself. * “But what the devil was he doing in that galley? ” In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go to Petersburg.

He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. He resolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of his intention to part from her forever. Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee,

Pierre was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand. He woke up and looked round for a while with a startled expression, unable to realize where he was. “The countess told me to inquire whether your excellency was at home,

” said the valet. But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, the countess herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered with silver and with simply dressed hair ( two immense plaits twice round her lovely head like a coronet)

Entered the room, calm and majestic, except that there was a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominent marble brow. With her imperturbable calm she did not begin to speak in front of the valet. She knew of the duel and had come to speak about it.

She waited till the valet had set down the coffee things and left the room. Pierre looked at her timidly over his spectacles, and like a hare surrounded by hounds who lays back her ears and continues to crouch motionless before her enemies,

He tried to continue reading. But feeling this to be senseless and impossible, he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down but looked at him with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to go. “Well, what’s this now? What have you been up to now,

I should like to know?” she asked sternly. “I? What have I.. .?” stammered Pierre. “So it seems you’re a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duel about? What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you.” Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth,

But could not reply. “If you won’t answer, I’ll tell you. ..” Hélène went on. “You believe everything you’re told. You were told. ..” Hélène laughed, “that Dólokhov was my lover,” she said in French with her coarse plainness of speech, uttering the word amant as casually as any other word, “and you believed it!

Well, what have you proved? What does this duel prove ? That you’re a fool, que vous êtes un sot, but everybody knew that. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock of all Moscow, that everyone will say that you,

Drunk and not knowing what you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause. ” Hélène raised her voice and became more and more excited , “A man who’s a better man than you in every way. ..” “Hm… Hm…!” growled Pierre , frowning without looking at her,

And not moving a muscle. “And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I like his company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I should prefer yours. ” “Don’t speak to me… I beg you,” muttered Pierre hoarsely. “Why shouldn’t I speak? I can speak as I like,

And I tell you plainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you who would not have taken lovers ( des amants), but I have not done so,” said she. Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange expression she did not understand , and lay down again.

He was suffering physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could not breathe. He knew that he must do something to put an end to this suffering, but what he wanted to do was too terrible. “We had better separate,

” he muttered in a broken voice. “Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune, ” said Hélène. “Separate! That’s a thing to frighten me with!” Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her. “I’ll kill you!” he shouted,

And seizing the marble top of a table with a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward her brandishing the slab. Hélène’s face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside. His father’s nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination and delight of frenzy.

He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping down on her with outstretched hands shouted, “Get out!” in such a terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knows what he would have done at that moment had Hélène not fled from the room.

A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all his estates in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left for Petersburg alone. Chapter 75. Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and the loss of Prince Andrew had reached Bald Hills,

And in spite of the letters sent through the embassy and all the searches made, his body had not been found nor was he on the list of prisoners. What was worst of all for his relations was the fact that there

Was still a possibility of his having been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the place and that he might now be lying, recovering or dying, alone among strangers and unable to send news of himself. The gazettes from which the old prince first heard of the defeat at Austerlitz stated,

As usual very briefly and vaguely , that after brilliant engagements the Russians had had to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order. The old prince understood from this official report that our army had been defeated.

A week after the gazette report of the battle of Austerlitz came a letter from Kutúzov informing the prince of the fate that had befallen his son. “Your son,” wrote Kutúzov, “fell before my eyes, a standard in his hand and at the head of a regiment—he fell as a hero,

Worthy of his father and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of the whole army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfort myself and you with the hope that your son is alive,

For otherwise he would have been mentioned among the officers found on the field of battle, a list of whom has been sent me under flag of truce.” After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his study, the old prince went for his walk as usual next morning,

But he was silent with his steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though he looked very grim he said nothing to anyone. When Princess Mary went to him at the usual hour he was working at his lathe and,

As usual, did not look round at her. “Ah, Princess Mary!” he said suddenly in an unnatural voice, throwing down his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its own impetus, and Princess Mary long remembered the dying creak of that wheel,

Which merged in her memory with what followed.) She approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her. Her eyes grew dim . By the expression of her father’s face, not sad, not crushed, but angry and working unnaturally,

She saw that hanging over her and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, the worst in life, one she had not yet experienced, irreparable and incomprehensible—the death of one she loved. “Father! Andrew!”—said the ungraceful,

awkward princess with such an indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father could not bear her look but turned away with a sob. “Bad news! He’s not among the prisoners nor among the killed! Kutúzov writes.

..” and he screamed as piercingly as if he wished to drive the princess away by that scream. .. “Killed!” The princess did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, but on hearing these words her face changed and something brightened in her beautiful,

Radiant eyes. It was as if joy—a supreme joy apart from the joys and sorrows of this world—overflowed the great grief within her. She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, took his hand, and drawing him down put her arm round his thin,

Scraggy neck. “Father,” she said, “do not turn away from me, let us weep together. ” “Scoundrels! Blackguards!” shrieked the old man, turning his face away from her. “Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why? Go, go and tell Lise.” The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and wept. She saw

Her brother now as he had been at the moment when he took leave of her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She saw him tender and amused as he was when he put on the little icon. “Did he believe? Had he repented of his unbelief? Was he now there?

There in the realms of eternal peace and blessedness?” she thought. “Father, tell me how it happened,” she asked through her tears . “Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men and Russia’s glory were led to destruction.

Go, Princess Mary. Go and tell Lise. I will follow.” When Princess Mary returned from her father, the little princess sat working and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happy calm peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes did not see Princess Mary but were looking within.

.. into herself… at something joyful and mysterious taking place within her. “Mary,” she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying back, “give me your hand.” She took her sister-in-law’s hand and held it below her waist. Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained lifted in childlike happiness.

Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her sister- in-law’s dress. “There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange . And do you know, Mary, I am going to love him very much,” said Lise ,

looking with bright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law. Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping. “What is the matter, Mary?” “Nothing… only I feel sad… sad about Andrew,” she said, wiping away her tears on her sister-in-law’s knee.

Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary began trying to prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as was the little princess, these tears, the cause of which she did not understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as if in search of something.

Before dinner the old prince, of whom she was always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at Princess Mary,

Then sat thinking for a while with that expression of attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women, and suddenly began to cry. “Has anything come from Andrew?” she asked. “No , you know it’s too soon for news. But my father is anxious and I feel afraid.” “So there’s nothing?

” “Nothing,” answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radiant eyes at her sister-in-law. She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected within a few days.

Princess Mary and the old prince each bore and hid their grief in their own way. The old prince would not cherish any hope: he made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed, and though he sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son,

He ordered a monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked less, ate less,

Slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news of his return. Chapter 76. “Dearest,” said the little princess after breakfast on the morning of the nineteenth March,

And her downy little lip rose from old habit, but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so now the smile of the

Little princess—influenced by the general mood though without knowing its cause—was such as to remind one still more of the general sorrow. “Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique *—as Fóka the cook calls it—has disagreed with me. ” * Frühstück: breakfast. “What is the matter with you,

My darling? You look pale. Oh, you are very pale !” said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft, ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law . “Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one of the maids who was present.

(Mary Bogdánovna was a midwife from the neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight. ) “Oh yes,” assented Princess Mary, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go. Courage, my angel.” She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room. “Oh , no, no!

” And besides the pallor and the physical suffering on the little princess’ face , an expression of childish fear of inevitable pain showed itself. “No, it’s only indigestion?… Say it’s only indigestion, say so,

Mary! Say…” And the little princess began to cry capriciously like a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some affectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch Mary Bogdánovna. “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh !” she heard as she left the room.

The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small, plump white hands with an air of calm importance. “Mary Bogdánovna, I think it’s beginning! ” said Princess Mary looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm. “Well,

The Lord be thanked, Princess,” said Mary Bogdánovna, not hastening her steps . “You young ladies should not know anything about it. ” “But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?” said the princess. (

In accordance with Lise’s and Prince Andrew’s wishes they had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at any moment. ) “No matter, Princess, don’t be alarmed,” said Mary Bogdánovna. “We’ll manage very well without a doctor.

” Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavy being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the large leather sofa from Prince Andrew’s study into the bedroom. On their faces was a quiet and solemn look.

Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess and turned away.

She did not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before the icon stand. To her surprise and distress she found that her prayers did not calm her excitement.

Suddenly her door opened softly and her old nurse, Praskóvya Sávishna, who hardly ever came to that room as the old prince had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl round her head . “I’ve come to sit with you a bit,

Másha,” said the nurse, “and here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles to light before his saint, my angel,” she said with a sigh. “Oh, nurse, I’m so glad! ” “God is merciful, birdie.” The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door with her knitting.

Princess Mary took a book and began reading. Only when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, the princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced as she sat in her room.

But owing to the superstition that the fewer the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the prince’s household,

A common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished at that moment made itself felt. There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’ hall all sat waiting,

Silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’ quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The old prince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent Tíkhon to ask Mary Bogdánovna what news. —“Say only that ‘the prince told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer.

” “Inform the prince that labor has begun,” said Mary Bogdánovna, giving the messenger a significant look . Tíkhon went and told the prince. “Very good!” said the prince closing the door behind him, and Tíkhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.

After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed face, shook his head ,

And going up to him silently kissed him on the shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course. Evening passed,

Night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased. No one slept. It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay

Of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its hollows and snow-

Covered pools of water. Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which she knew so well ), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the kerchief,

And the loose skin that hung under her chin. Nurse Sávishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of times before:

How the late princess had given birth to Princess Mary in Kishenëv with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a midwife. “God is merciful, doctors are never needed,” she said. Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the window,

From which the double frame had been removed (by order of the prince , one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks returned), and , forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft.

Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose locks of gray hair. “Princess,

My dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!” she said, holding the casement and not closing it. “With lanterns. Most likely the doctor.” “Oh, my God! thank God!” said Princess Mary.

“I must go and meet him, he does not know Russian .” Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer. As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs.

On a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots,

And a voice that seemed familiar to Princess Mary was saying something. “Thank God!” said the voice. “And Father?” “Gone to bed,” replied the voice of Demyán the house steward, who was downstairs. Then the voice said something more, Demyán replied,

And the steps in the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly. “It’s Andrew!” thought Princess Mary. “No it can’t be, that would be too extraordinary, ” and at the very moment she thought this, the face and figure of Prince Andrew,

In a fur cloak the deep collar of which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman stood with the candle. Yes , it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and strangely softened but agitated expression on his face.

He came up the stairs and embraced his sister. “You did not get my letter? ” he asked, and not waiting for a reply—which he would not have received, for the princess was unable to speak—he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the doctor who had entered the hall after him (

They had met at the last post station), and again embraced his sister. “What a strange fate, Másha darling !” And having taken off his cloak and felt boots, he went to the little princess’ apartment. Chapter 77. The little princess lay supported by pillows,

With a white cap on her head (the pains had just left her) . Strands of her black hair lay round her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully.

Prince Andrew entered and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying. Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested on him without changing their expression. “I love you all and have done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so?

Help me!” her look seemed to say. She saw her husband, but did not realize the significance of his appearance before her now. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and kissed her forehead. “My darling!” he said—a word he had never used to her before.

“God is merciful….” She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach. “I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either! ” said her eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did not realize that he had come.

His coming had nothing to do with her sufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and Mary Bogdánovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room. The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary, again joined her.

They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke off at every moment. They waited and listened. “Go, dear,” said Princess Mary. Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next to hers. A woman

Came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands and remained so for some minutes. Piteous , helpless, animal moans came through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door ,

And tried to open it. Someone was holding it shut. “You can’t come in! You can’t!” said a terrified voice from within. He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased , and a few more seconds went by.

Then suddenly a terrible shriek—it could not be hers, she could not scream like that—came from the bedroom. Prince Andrew ran to the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant. “What have they taken a baby in there for?

” thought Prince Andrew in the first second . “A baby? What baby. ..? Why is there a baby there? Or is the baby born ?” Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry,

Sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor gave him a bewildered look and passed by without a word.

A woman rushed out and seeing Prince Andrew stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into his wife’s room. She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen her in five minutes before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of the cheeks,

The same expression was on her charming childlike face with its upper lip covered with tiny black hair. “I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you done to me? ”—said her charming, pathetic, dead face.

In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed in Mary Bogdánovna’s trembling white hands. Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into his father’s room. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to the door and as soon

As it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise round his son’s neck , and without a word he began to sob like a child. Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrew went up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss.

And there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes. “Ah, what have you done to me?” it still seemed to say, and Prince Andrew felt that something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep.

The old man too came up and kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly crossed one on the other on her breast, and to him, too, her face seemed to say: “Ah, what have you done to me, and why?” And at the sight the old man turned angrily away.

Another five days passed, and then the young Prince Nicholas Andréevich was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy’s little red and wrinkled soles and palms.

His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over to the godmother, Princess Mary . Prince Andrew sat in another room, faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited the termination of the ceremony.

He looked up joyfully at the baby when the nurse brought it to him and nodded approval when she told him that the wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated. Chapter 78.

Rostóv’s share in Dólokhov’s duel with Bezúkhov was hushed up by the efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of Moscow. As a result he could not go to the country with the rest of the family,

But was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dólokhov recovered, and Rostóv became very friendly with him during his convalescence. Dólokhov lay ill at his mother’s who loved him passionately and tenderly, and old Mary Ivánovna, who had grown fond of Rostóv for his friendship to her Fédya,

Often talked to him about her son. “Yes, Count,” she would say, “he is too noble and pure-souled for our present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like a reproach to everyone. Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it honorable, of Bezúkhov?

And Fédya, with his noble spirit, loved him and even now never says a word against him. Those pranks in Petersburg when they played some tricks on a policeman, didn’t they do it together? And there! Bezúkhov got off scotfree, while Fédya had to bear the whole burden on his shoulders.

Fancy what he had to go through! It’s true he has been reinstated, but how could they fail to do that? I think there were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out there as he. And now—this duel! Have these people no feeling, or honor ? Knowing him to be an only son,

To challenge him and shoot so straight! It’s well God had mercy on us. And what was it for? Who doesn’t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I see things he should have shown it sooner,

But he lets it go on for months. And then to call him out, reckoning on Fédya not fighting because he owed him money! What baseness! What meanness ! I know you understand Fédya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you.

Few people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul! ” Dólokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Rostóv in a way no one would have expected of him. “I know people consider me a bad man!” he said. “Let them! I don’t care a straw about anyone but those I love;

But those I love, I love so that I would give my life for them, and the others I’d throttle if they stood in my way. I have an adored, a priceless mother ,

And two or three friends—you among them—and as for the rest I only care about them in so far as they are harmful or useful. And most of them are harmful, especially the women. Yes, dear boy,” he continued, “I have met loving , noble, high-minded men,

But I have not yet met any women—countesses or cooks—who were not venal. I have not yet met that divine purity and devotion I look for in women. If I found such a one I’d give my life for her ! But those!…” and he made a gesture of contempt. “And believe me,

If I still value my life it is only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you don’t understand it.” “Oh, yes , I quite understand, ” answered Rostóv, who was under his new friend’s influence. In the autumn the Rostóvs returned to Moscow.

Early in the winter Denísov also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the winter of 1806, which Nicholas Rostóv spent in Moscow, was one of the happiest, merriest times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought many young men to his parents’ house.

Véra was a handsome girl of twenty ; Sónya a girl of sixteen with all the charm of an opening flower; Natásha, half grown up and half child, was now childishly amusing, now girlishly enchanting.

At that time in the Rostóvs’ house there prevailed an amorous atmosphere characteristic of homes where there are very young and very charming girls. Every young man who came to the house—seeing those impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him,

And hearing the fitful bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of young girls ready for anything and full of hope—experienced the same feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostóvs’ household a readiness to fall in love and an expectation of happiness.

Among the young men introduced by Rostóv one of the first was Dólokhov, whom everyone in the house liked except Natásha. She almost quarreled with her brother about him. She insisted that he was a bad man, and that in the duel with Bezúkhov,

Pierre was right and Dólokhov wrong, and further that he was disagreeable and unnatural. “There’s nothing for me to understand,” she cried out with resolute self-will, “he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like your Denísov though he is a rake and all that,

Still I like him; so you see I do understand . I don’t know how to put it. .. with this one everything is calculated, and I don’t like that. But Denísov. ..” “Oh, Denísov is quite different,” replied Nicholas,

Implying that even Denísov was nothing compared to Dólokhov—“you must understand what a soul there is in Dólokhov, you should see him with his mother. What a heart!” “Well, I don’t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And do you know he has fallen in love with Sónya?

” “What nonsense…” “I’m certain of it; you’ll see.” Natásha’s prediction proved true. Dólokhov, who did not usually care for the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the question for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it)

Was soon settled. He came because of Sónya. And Sónya, though she would never have dared to say so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dólokhov appeared. Dólokhov often dined at the Rostóvs’,

Never missed a performance at which they were present, and went to Iogel’s balls for young people which the Rostóvs always attended. He was pointedly attentive to Sónya and looked at her in such a way that not only could she not bear his glances without coloring,

But even the old countess and Natásha blushed when they saw his looks. It was evident that this strange, strong man was under the irresistible influence of the dark, graceful girl who loved another. Rostóv noticed something new in Dólokhov’s relations with Sónya, but he did not explain to himself what these new relations were.

“They’re always in love with someone,” he thought of Sónya and Natásha. But he was not as much at ease with Sónya and Dólokhov as before and was less frequently at home. In the autumn of 1806 everybody had again begun talking of the war with Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before.

Orders were given to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army, and besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere Bonaparte was anathematized and in Moscow nothing but the coming war was talked of. For the Rostóv family the

Whole interest of these preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denísov’s furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His approaching departure did not prevent his amusing himself, but rather gave zest to his pleasures.

He spent the greater part of his time away from home, at dinners, parties, and balls. Chapter 79. On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner,

As he and Denísov were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people were present, including Dólokhov and Denísov. Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostóvs’ house as at this holiday time.

“Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly . It is the one thing we are interested in here, ” said the spirit of the place. Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses,

Without visiting all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited, returned home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and felt the tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a curious embarrassment among some of those present . Sónya, Dólokhov,

And the old countess were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree Natásha . Nicholas understood that something must have happened between Sónya and Dólokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness natural to him was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner.

On that same evening there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the dancing master) gave for his pupils during the holidays. “Nicholas, will you come to Iogel’s? Please do! ” said Natásha. “He asked you, and Vasíli Dmítrich * is also going .” * Denísov.

“Where would I not go at the countess’ command!” said Denísov, who at the Rostóvs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natásha’s knight. “I’m even weady to dance the pas de châle.” “If I have time, ” answered Nicholas. “But I promised the Arkhárovs ; they have a party.

” “And you?” he asked Dólokhov, but as soon as he had asked the question he noticed that it should not have been put. “Perhaps,” coldly and angrily replied Dólokhov, glancing at Sónya, and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre at the club dinner.

“There is something up,” thought Nicholas , and he was further confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dólokhov left immediately after dinner. He called Natásha and asked her what was the matter. “And I was looking for you,

” said Natásha running out to him. “I told you, but you would not believe it, ” she said triumphantly. “He has proposed to Sónya!” Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sónya of late, something seemed to give way within him at this news.

Dólokhov was a suitable and in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless , orphan girl. From the point of view of the old countess and of society it was out of the question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling on hearing the news was one of anger with Sónya.

… He tried to say, “That’s capital; of course she’ll forget her childish promises and accept the offer, ” but before he had time to say it Natásha began again. “And fancy! she refused him quite definitely !” adding, after a pause,

“she told him she loved another.” “Yes, my Sónya could not have done otherwise! ” thought Nicholas. “Much as Mamma pressed her, she refused, and I know she won’t change once she has said. ..” “And Mamma pressed her!” said Nicholas reproachfully. “Yes ,” said Natásha.

“Do you know, Nicholas—don’t be angry—but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but I know for certain that you won’t marry her. ” “Now you don’t know that at all!” said Nicholas. “But I must talk to her.

What a darling Sónya is!” he added with a smile. “Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you.” And Natásha kissed her brother and ran away. A minute later Sónya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand.

This was the first time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love. “Sophie,” he began, timidly at first and then more and more boldly, “if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and advantageous match but a splendid,

Noble fellow… he is my friend…” Sónya interrupted him. “I have already refused, ” she said hurriedly. “If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I. ..” Sónya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look.

“Nicholas, don’t tell me that!” she said. “No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I love you , and I think I love you more than anyone else.

…” “That is enough for me ,” said Sónya, blushing. “No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship , confidence, and love as I have for you. Then I am young. Mamma does not wish it.

In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider Dólokhov’s offer,” he said, articulating his friend’s name with difficulty. “Don’t say that to me !

I want nothing. I love you as a brother and always shall, and I want nothing more.” “You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of misleading you.” And Nicholas again kissed her hand.

Chapter 80. Iogel’s were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers as they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps, and so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they were ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who came to these balls with an air of condescension and found them most enjoyable. That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two pretty young Princesses Gorchakóv met suitors there and were married and so further increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished them from others was the absence of host or hostess and the presence of the good-natured Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according to the rules of his art, as he collected the tickets from all his visitors. There was the fact that only those came who wished to dance and amuse themselves as girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are wearing long dresses for the first time. With scarcely any exceptions they all were, or seemed to be, pretty—so rapturous were their smiles and so sparkling their eyes. Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom Natásha, who was exceptionally graceful, was first, even danced the pas de châle, but at this last ball only the écossaise,

The anglaise, and the mazurka, which was just coming into fashion, were danced. Iogel had taken a ballroom in Bezúkhov’s house, and the ball, as everyone said, was a great success. There were many pretty girls and the Rostóv girls were among the prettiest. They were both particularly happy and gay. That evening, proud of Dólokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her explanation with Nicholas, Sónya twirled about before she left home so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was transparently radiant with impulsive joy. Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink ribbons. Natásha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom.

She was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment. “Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sónya. Nicholas and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly patronage at the dancers. “How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said Denísov. “Who?” “Countess Natásha,” answered Denísov.

“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause. “Who are you talking about?” “About your sister,” ejaculated Denísov testily. Rostóv smiled. “My dear count, you were one of my best pupils—you must dance ,” said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas.

“Look how many charming young ladies—” He turned with the same request to Denísov who was also a former pupil of his. “No , my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower, ” said Denísov. “Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?” “Oh no!” said Iogel, hastening to reassure him.

“You were only inattentive, but you had talent—oh yes, you had talent!” The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not refuse Iogel and asked Sónya to dance. Denísov sat down by the old ladies and,

Leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young people dancing, Iogel with Natásha, his pride and his best pupil, were the first couple . Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little feet in low shoes,

Iogel flew first across the hall with Natásha, who, though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denísov did not take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not because he could not.

In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Rostóv who was passing: “This is not at all the thing,” he said. “What sort of Polish mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly.” Knowing that Denísov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly way in which he danced the mazurka,

Nicholas ran up to Natásha: “Go and choose Denísov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!” he said. When it came to Natásha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and, tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows,

Ran timidly to the corner where Denísov sat. She saw that everybody was looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denísov was refusing though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them. “Please, Vasíli Dmítrich ,” Natásha was saying, “do come!

” “Oh no, let me off, Countess,” Denísov replied. “Now then , Váska,” said Nicholas. “They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!” said Denísov jokingly. “I’ll sing for you a whole evening, ” said Natásha. “Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!

” said Denísov, and he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot, waiting for the beat.

Only on horse back and in the mazurka was Denísov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow he felt himself to be . At the right beat of the music he looked sideways at his partner with a merry and triumphant air,

Suddenly stamped with one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at them, when suddenly,

Clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs, he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot clanking his spurs , whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natásha guessed what he meant to do,

And abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him, and again jumping up,

Dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath, and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her chair,

He drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natásha did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement, smiling as if she did not recognize him. “What does this mean?” she brought out.

Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone was delighted with Denísov’s skill, he was asked again and again as a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the good old days. Denísov,

Flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself with his handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for the rest of the evening. Chapter 81. For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at Dólokhov’s home :

On the third day he received a note from him: As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel.

About ten o’clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov. He was at once shown to the best room, which Dólokhov had taken for that evening. Some twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dólokhov sat between two candles.

On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he was keeping the bank. Rostóv had not seen him since his proposal and Sónya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they would meet. Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the door,

As though he had long expected him. “It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming. I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his chorus. ” “I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening . Dólokhov made no reply.

“You may punt,” he said. Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov had then said. “Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if guessing Rostóv’s thought.

Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt a need to escape from it by some strange , and usually cruel,

Action. Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with which to reply to Dólokhov’s words. But before he had thought of anything, Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and deliberately so that everyone could hear: “Do you remember we had a talk about cards.

.. ‘He’s a fool who trusts to luck, one should make certain, ’ and I want to try.” “To try his luck or the certainty?” Rostóv asked himself. “Well, you’d better not play,” Dólokhov added, and springing a new pack of cards said:

“Bank, gentlemen!” Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostóv sat down by his side and at first did not play. Dólokhov kept glancing at him. “Why don’t you play? ” he asked. And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a card,

Putting a small stake on it , and beginning to play. “I have no money with me, ” he said. “I’ll trust you .” Rostóv staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again lost. Dólokhov “killed,” that is, beat, ten cards of Rostóv’s running.

“Gentlemen,” said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time. “Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the reckoning. ” One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted. “Yes , you might,

But I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I ask you to put the money on your cards, ” replied Dólokhov. “Don’t stint yourself, we’ll settle afterwards ,” he added, turning to Rostóv.

The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne. All Rostóv’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored up against him. He wrote “800 rubles” on a card, but while the waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual stake of twenty rubles.

“Leave it,” said Dólokhov, though he did not seem to be even looking at Rostóv, “you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?” he asked again. Rostóv submitted.

He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He well remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts,

On which with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles ” in clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was handed him , smiled at Dólokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart, waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dólokhov’s hands which held the pack.

Much depended on Rostóv’s winning or losing on that seven of hearts. On the previous Sunday the old count had given his son two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money difficulties had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have till May,

And asked him to be more economical this time. Nicholas had replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve hundred rubles was left of that money ,

So that this seven of hearts meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles, but the necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart he watched Dólokhov’s hands and thought,

“Now then, make haste and let me have this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denísov, Natásha, and Sónya, and will certainly never touch a card again. ” At that moment his home life , jokes with Pétya, talks with Sónya, duets with Natásha, piquet with his father,

And even his comfortable bed in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness , clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and unappreciated bliss,

Long past. He could not conceive that a stupid chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left, might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined misery. That could not be,

Yet he awaited with a sinking heart the movement of Dólokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took up a glass and a pipe that were handed him.

“So you are not afraid to play with me?” repeated Dólokhov, and as if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his chair, and began deliberately with a smile: “Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow that I’m a sharper,

So I advise you to be careful .” “Come now, deal!” exclaimed Rostóv. “Oh, those Moscow gossips!” said Dólokhov, and he took up the cards with a smile. “Aah!” Rostóv almost screamed lifting both hands to his head . The seven he needed was lying uppermost,

The first card in the pack. He had lost more than he could pay. “Still, don’t ruin yourself!” said Dólokhov with a side glance at Rostóv as he continued to deal. Chapter 82. An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested in their own play.

The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv. Instead of sixteen hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him, which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now , as he vaguely supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already exceeded twenty thousand rubles.

Dólokhov was no longer listening to stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Rostóv’s hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him . He had decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand.

He had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and Sónya’s joint ages. Rostóv, leaning his head on both hands, sat at the table which was scrawled over with figures , wet with spilled wine, and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him :

that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him in their power. “Six hundred rubles, ace , a corner, a nine. .. winning it back’s impossible… Oh, how pleasant it was at home !… The knave,

Double or quits… it can’t be!… And why is he doing this to me?” Rostóv pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to accept it and fixed the stake himself.

Nicholas submitted to him, and at one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand from the crumpled heap under the table would save him,

Now counted the cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other players, or peered at the now cold face of Dólokhov and tried to read what was passing in his mind.

“He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my ruin. Wasn’t he my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck? … And it’s not my fault either,” he thought to himself, “I have done nothing wrong.

Have I killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home.

I was so happy, so free, so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table, chose and placed cards,

and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it will all end in nothing!” He was flushed and bathed in perspiration,

Though the room was not hot. His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless efforts to seem calm . The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand. Rostóv had just prepared a card,

By bending the corner of which he meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when Dólokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began rapidly adding up the total of Rostóv’s debt, breaking the chalk as he marked the figures in his clear,

Bold hand. “Supper, it’s time for supper ! And here are the gypsies! ” Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone:

“Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready, ” as if it were the fun of the game which interested him most. “It’s all up! I’m lost!” thought he. “Now a bullet through my brain—that’s all that’s left me!

” And at the same time he said in a cheerful voice: “Come now, just this one more little card! ” “All right!” said Dólokhov, having finished the addition. “All right! Twenty-one rubles,” he said,

pointing to the figure twenty-one by which the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and taking up a pack he prepared to deal. Rostóv submissively unbent the corner of his card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended,

carefully wrote twenty-one. “It’s all the same to me ,” he said. “I only want to see whether you will let me win this ten , or beat it.” Dólokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Rostóv detested at that moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists,

Which held him in their power…. The ten fell to him. “You owe forty-three thousand, Count,” said Dólokhov, and stretching himself he rose from the table. “One does get tired sitting so long,” he added . “Yes, I’m tired too,

” said Rostóv. Dólokhov cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not for him to jest. “When am I to receive the money , Count?” Rostóv, flushing, drew Dólokhov into the next room. “I cannot pay it all immediately . Will you take an I.O.U.?” he said.

“I say, Rostóv,” said Dólokhov clearly, smiling and looking Nicholas straight in the eyes, “you know the saying, ‘Lucky in love, unlucky at cards.’ Your cousin is in love with you, I know.” “Oh, it’s terrible to feel oneself so in this man’s power,

” thought Rostóv. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to escape it all, and felt that Dólokhov knew that he could save him from all this shame and sorrow,

But wanted now to play with him as a cat does with a mouse. “Your cousin…” Dólokhov started to say , but Nicholas interrupted him. “My cousin has nothing to do with this and it’s not necessary to mention her!

” he exclaimed fiercely. “Then when am I to have it?” “Tomorrow ,” replied Rostóv and left the room. Chapter 83. To say “tomorrow” and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult, but to go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father,

Confess and ask for money he had no right to after giving his word of honor, was terrible. At home, they had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning from the theater, had had supper and were grouped round the clavichord . As soon as Nicholas entered,

He was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere of love which pervaded the Rostóv household that winter and, now after Dólokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, seemed to have grown thicker round Sónya and Natásha as the air does before a thunderstorm .

Sónya and Natásha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater, looking pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord, happy and smiling. Véra was playing chess with Shinshín in the drawing room. The old countess, waiting for the return of her husband and son,

Sat playing patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house. Denísov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice,

Some verses called “Enchantress,” which he had composed, and to which he was trying to fit music: Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre What magic power is this recalls me still? What spark has set my inmost soul on fire, What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?

He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natásha. “Splendid! Excellent !” exclaimed Natásha. “Another verse,” she said, without noticing Nicholas. “Everything’s still the same with them ,” thought Nicholas, glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Véra and his mother with the old lady.

“Ah, and here’s Nicholas!” cried Natásha, running up to him. “Is Papa at home? ” he asked. “I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natásha, without answering him . “We are enjoying ourselves! Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer for my sake! Did you know?” “No,

Papa is not back yet,” said Sónya. “Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!” called the old countess from the drawing room. Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her table began to watch her hands arranging the cards.

From the dancing room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade Natásha to sing. “All wight! All wight!” shouted Denísov. “It’s no good making excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla—I entweat you! ” The countess glanced at her silent son. “What is the matter?

” she asked. “Oh, nothing,” said he, as if weary of being continually asked the same question. “Will Papa be back soon?” “I expect so.” “Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where am I to go?” thought Nicholas,

And went again into the dancing room where the clavichord stood . Sónya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to Denísov’s favorite barcarolle. Natásha was preparing to sing. Denísov was looking at her with enraptured eyes. Nicholas began pacing up and down the room.

“Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s nothing to be happy about! ” thought he. Sónya struck the first chord of the prelude. “My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain is the only thing left me—not singing!

” his thoughts ran on. “Go away? But where to? It’s one—let them sing! ” He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denísov and the girls and avoiding their eyes. “Nikólenka, what is the matter?” Sónya’s eyes fixed on him seemed to ask.

She noticed at once that something had happened to him. Nicholas turned away from her. Natásha too, with her quick instinct, had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though she noticed it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment,

So far from sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself as young people often do. “No, I am too happy now to spoil my enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow, ” she felt, and she said to herself: “No, I must be mistaken,

He must be feeling happy, just as I am.” “Now, Sónya!” she said, going to the very middle of the room, where she considered the resonance was best. Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet dancers do , Natásha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes,

Stepped to the middle of the room and stood still. “Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with which Denísov followed her. “And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his sister. “Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?” Natásha took the first note, her throat swelled,

Her chest rose, her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time,

But which leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill you and make you weep. Natásha , that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously, mainly because Denísov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang as a child,

There was no longer in her singing that comical, childish, painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: “It is not trained,

But it is a beautiful voice that must be trained.” Only they generally said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in it and wished to hear it again.

In her voice there was a virginal freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained velvety softness , which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling it.

“What is this?” thought Nicholas , listening to her with widely opened eyes. “What has happened to her? How she is singing today! ” And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into three beats: “Oh mio crudele affetto.

”… One, two, three… one, two, three… One… “Oh mio crudele affetto.”… One , two, three. .. One. “Oh, this senseless life of ours!” thought Nicholas. “All this misery, and money, and Dólokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all nonsense… but this is real…. Now then,

Natásha, now then, dearest! Now then, darling! How will she take that si? She’s taken it! Thank God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si he sung a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did I really take it?

How fortunate!” he thought. Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest in Rostóv’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and Dólokhov, and words of honor?

… All nonsense! One might kill and rob and yet be happy…. ” Chapter 84. It was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he did that day. But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than reality again presented itself.

He got up without saying a word and went downstairs to his own room . A quarter of an hour later the old count came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him drive up, went to meet him. “Well—had a good time?” said the old count,

Smiling gaily and proudly at his son. Nicholas tried to say “Yes,” but could not: and he nearly burst into sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s condition. “Ah, it can’t be avoided!” thought Nicholas, for the first and last time.

And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him have the carriage to drive to town: “Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting.

I need some money.” “Dear me!” said his father, who was in a specially good humor. “I told you it would not be enough. How much?” “Very much,” said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless smile, for which he was long unable to forgive himself,

“I have lost a little, I mean a good deal, a great deal—forty three thousand. ” “What! To whom?… Nonsense!” cried the count, suddenly reddening with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do . “I promised to pay tomorrow,

” said Nicholas. “Well!…” said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking helplessly on the sofa. “It can’t be helped! It happens to everyone !” said the son, with a bold, free, and easy tone,

While in his soul he regarded himself as a worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime . He longed to kiss his father’s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness, but said , in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to everyone!

The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son’s words and began bustlingly searching for something .

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “it will be difficult, I fear , difficult to raise… happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?” And with a furtive glance at his son’s face, the count went out of the room…. Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all expected this. “Papa! Pa-pa!” he called after him, sobbing, “forgive me!” And seizing his father’s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into tears. While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and daughter were having one not less important. Natásha came running to her mother, quite excited. “Mamma!… Mamma!… He has made me…” “Made what?” “Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed. The countess did not believe her ears. Denísov had proposed. To whom? To this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with dolls and who was still having lessons. “Don’t, Natásha! What nonsense!” she said, hoping it was a joke. “Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,” said Natásha indignantly. “I come to ask you what to do, and you call it ‘nonsense!’” The countess shrugged her shoulders. “If it is true that Monsieur Denísov has made you a proposal, tell him he is a fool,

That’s all!” “No, he’s not a fool!” replied Natásha indignantly and seriously. “Well then, what do you want? You’re all in love nowadays. Well, if you are in love, marry him!” said the countess, with a laugh of annoyance. “Good luck to you!” “No, Mamma, I’m not in love with him, I suppose I’m not in love with him.” “Well then, tell him so.” “Mamma, are you cross? Don’t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?” “No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?” said the countess smiling. “No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It’s all very well for you,” said Natásha, with a responsive smile. “You should have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came out accidently.” “Well, all the same, you must refuse him.” “No, I mustn’t. I am so sorry for him! He’s so nice.” “Well then, accept his offer. It’s high time for you to be married,” answered the countess sharply and sarcastically. “No, Mamma, but I’m so sorry for him. I don’t know how I’m to say it.” “And there’s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,” said the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this little Natásha as grown up. “No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen at the door,” and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing hall, where Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord with his face in his hands. He jumped up at the sound of her light step. “Nataly,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my fate. It is in your hands.” “Vasíli Dmítrich, I’m so sorry for you!

… No, but you are so nice… but it won’t do…not that… but as a friend, I shall always love you.” Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them. “Vasíli Dmítrich, I thank you for the honor,” she said, with an embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denísov—“but my daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not have obliged me to give this refusal.” “Countess…” said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face. He tried to say more, but faltered. Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began to sob aloud. “Countess, I have done w’ong,” Denísov went on in an unsteady voice, “but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family that I would give my life twice over…” He looked at the countess, and seeing her severe face said: “Well, good-by, Countess,” and kissing her hand, he left the room with quick resolute strides, without looking at Natásha. Next day Rostóv saw Denísov off. He did not wish to stay another day in Moscow. All Denísov’s Moscow friends gave him a farewell entertainment at the gypsies’, with the result that he had no recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three stages of his journey. After Denísov’s departure, Rostóv spent another fortnight in Moscow, without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could not at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls’ room. Sónya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was as if she wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of her. He filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having at last sent Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland. BOOK FIVE:

1806 – 07 Chapter 85. After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At the Torzhók post station, either there were no horses or the postmaster would not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing, he lay down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his big feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect. “Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and tea?” asked his valet. Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had begun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same question—one so important that he took no notice of what went on around him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got to Petersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation at this station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him it was a matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hours or for the rest of his life. The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling Torzhók embroidery came into the room offering their services. Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the day he returned from Sokólniki after the duel and had spent that first agonizing, sleepless night. But now, in the solitude of the journey, they seized him with special force. No matter what he thought about, he always returned to these same questions which he could not solve and yet could not cease to ask himself. It was as if the thread of the chief screw which held his life together were stripped, so that the screw could not get in or out, but went on turning uselessly in the same place. The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg his excellency to wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted to get more money from the traveler. “Is this good or bad?” Pierre asked himself. “It is good for me, bad for another traveler, and for himself it’s unavoidable, because he needs money for food; the man said an officer had once given him a thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses. But the officer thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly as possible. And I,” continued Pierre, “shot Dólokhov because I considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who executed him—also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? What should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I? What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?” There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was: “You’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease asking.” But dying was also dreadful. The Torzhók peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers. “I have hundreds of rubles I don’t know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered cloak looking timidly at me,” he thought. “And what does she want the money for? As if that money could add a hair’s breadth to happiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or me less a prey to evil and death?—death which ends all and must come today or tomorrow—at any rate, in an instant as compared with eternity.” And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread, and again it turned uselessly in the same place. His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by Madame de Souza. He began reading about the sufferings and virtuous struggles of a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. “And why did she resist her seducer when she loved him?” he thought. “God could not have put into her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife—as she once was—did not struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been found out, nothing discovered,” Pierre again said to himself. “All we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human wisdom.” Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction. “I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for this gentleman,” said the postmaster, entering the room followed by another traveler, also detained for lack of horses. The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled old man, with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinite grayish color. Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on a bed that had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who, with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking off his wraps with the aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. With a pair of felt boots on his thin bony legs, and keeping on a worn, nankeen-covered, sheepskin coat, the traveler sat down on the sofa, leaned back his big head with its broad temples and close-cropped hair, and looked at Bezúkhov. The stern, shrewd, and penetrating expression of that look struck Pierre. He felt a wish to speak to the stranger, but by the time he had made up his mind to ask him a question about the roads, the traveler had closed his eyes. His shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of them Pierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a death’s head. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as it seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. His servant was also a yellow, wrinkled old man, without beard or mustache, evidently not because he was shaven but because they had never grown. This active old servant was unpacking the traveler’s canteen and preparing tea. He brought in a boiling samovar. When everything was ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, filled a tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man to whom he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and the need, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation with this stranger. The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down, * with an unfinished bit of nibbled sugar, and asked if anything more would be wanted. * To indicate he did not want more tea. “No. Give me the book,” said the stranger. The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotional work, and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him. All at once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, and again, leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in his former position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had not time to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and severe gaze straight on Pierre’s face. Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old eyes attracted him irresistibly. Chapter 86. “I have the pleasure of addressing Count Bezúkhov, if I am not mistaken,” said the stranger in a deliberate and loud voice. Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles. “I have heard of you, my dear sir,” continued the stranger, “and of your misfortune.” He seemed to emphasize the last word, as if to say—“Yes, misfortune! Call it what you please, I know that what happened to you in Moscow was a misfortune.”—“I regret it very much, my dear sir.” Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile. “I have not referred to this out of curiosity, my dear sir, but for greater reasons.” He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way of inviting the other to take a seat beside him. Pierre felt reluctant to enter into conversation with this old man, but, submitting to him involuntarily, came up and sat down beside him. “You are unhappy, my dear sir,” the stranger continued. “You are young and I am old. I should like to help you as far as lies in my power.” “Oh, yes!” said Pierre, with a forced smile. “I am very grateful to you. Where are you traveling from?” The stranger’s face was not genial, it was even cold and severe, but in spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were irresistibly attractive to Pierre. “But if for any reason you don’t feel inclined to talk to me,” said the old man, “say so, my dear sir.” And he suddenly smiled, in an unexpected and tenderly paternal way. “Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your acquaintance,” said Pierre. And again, glancing at the stranger’s hands, he looked more closely at the ring,

With its skull—a Masonic sign. “Allow me to ask,” he said, “are you a Mason?” “Yes, I belong to the Brotherhood of the Freemasons,” said the stranger, looking deeper and deeper into Pierre’s eyes. “And in their name and my own I hold out a brotherly hand to you.” “I am afraid,” said Pierre, smiling, and wavering between the confidence the personality of the Freemason inspired in him and his own habit of ridiculing the Masonic beliefs—“I am afraid I am very far from understanding—how am I to put it?—I am afraid my way of looking at the world is so opposed to yours that we shall not understand one another.” “I know your outlook,” said the Mason, “and the view of life you mention, and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts, is the one held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit of pride, indolence, and ignorance. Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I had not known it I should not have addressed you. Your view of life is a regrettable delusion.” “Just as I may suppose you to be deluded,” said Pierre, with a faint smile. “I should never dare to say that I know the truth,” said the Mason, whose words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness. “No one can attain to truth by himself. Only by laying stone on stone with the cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our forefather Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be a worthy dwelling place of the Great God,” he added, and closed his eyes. “I ought to tell you that I do not believe… do not believe in God,” said Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it essential to speak the whole truth. The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with millions in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy. “Yes, you do not know Him, my dear sir,” said the Mason. “You cannot know Him. You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy.” “Yes, yes, I am unhappy,” assented Pierre. “But what am I to do?” “You know Him not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy. You do not know Him, but He is here, He is in me, He is in my words, He is in thee, and even in those blasphemous words thou hast just uttered!” pronounced the Mason in a stern and tremulous voice. He paused and sighed, evidently trying to calm himself. “If He were not,” he said quietly, “you and I would not be speaking of Him, my dear sir. Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom hast thou denied?” he suddenly asked with exulting austerity and authority in his voice. “Who invented Him, if He did not exist? Whence came thy conception of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being? didst thou, and why did the whole world, conceive the idea of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being, a Being all-powerful, eternal, and infinite in all His attributes?…” He stopped and remained silent for a long time. Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence. “He exists, but to understand Him is hard,” the Mason began again, looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep still. “If it were a man whose existence thou didst doubt I could bring him to thee, could take him by the hand and show him to thee. But how can I, an insignificant mortal, show His omnipotence, His infinity, and all His mercy to one who is blind, or who shuts his eyes that he may not see or understand Him and may not see or understand his own vileness and sinfulness?” He paused again. “Who art thou? Thou dreamest that thou art wise because thou couldst utter those blasphemous words,” he went on, with a somber and scornful smile. “And thou art more foolish and unreasonable than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a skillfully made watch, dares to say that, as he does not understand its use, he does not believe in the master who made it. To know Him is hard…. For ages, from our forefather Adam to our own day, we labor to attain that knowledge and are still infinitely far from our aim; but in our lack of understanding we see only our weakness and His greatness….” Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason’s face with shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with his whole soul what the stranger said. Whether he accepted the wise reasoning contained in the Mason’s words, or believed as a child believes, in the speaker’s tone of conviction and earnestness, or the tremor of the speaker’s voice—which sometimes almost broke—or those brilliant aged eyes grown old in this conviction, or the calm firmness and certainty of his vocation, which radiated from his whole being (and which struck Pierre especially by contrast with his own dejection and hopelessness)—at any rate, Pierre longed with his whole soul to believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort, regeneration, and return to life. “He is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life,” said the Mason. “I do not understand,” said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts reawakening. He was afraid of any want of clearness, any weakness, in the Mason’s arguments; he dreaded not to be able to believe in him. “I don’t understand,” he said, “how it is that the mind of man cannot attain the knowledge of which you speak.” The Mason smiled with his gentle fatherly smile. “The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest liquid we may wish to imbibe,” he said. “Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure vessel and judge of its purity?

Only by the inner purification of myself can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive.” “Yes, yes, that is so,” said Pierre joyfully. “The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those worldly sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into which intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom is one. The highest wisdom has but one science—the science of the whole—the science explaining the whole creation and man’s place in it. To receive that science it is necessary to purify and renew one’s inner self, and so before one can know, it is necessary to believe and to perfect one’s self. And to attain this end, we have the light called conscience that God has implanted in our souls.” “Yes, yes,” assented Pierre. “Look then at thy inner self with the eyes of the spirit, and ask thyself whether thou art content with thyself. What hast thou attained relying on reason only? What art thou? You are young, you are rich, you are clever, you are well educated. And what have you done with all these good gifts? Are you content with yourself and with your life?” “No, I hate my life,” Pierre muttered, wincing. “Thou hatest it. Then change it, purify thyself; and as thou art purified, thou wilt gain wisdom. Look at your life, my dear sir. How have you spent it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving everything from society and giving nothing in return. You have become the possessor of wealth. How have you used it? What have you done for your neighbor? Have you ever thought of your tens of thousands of slaves? Have you helped them physically and morally? No! You have profited by their toil to lead a profligate life. That is what you have done. Have you chosen a post in which you might be of service to your neighbor? No! You have spent your life in idleness. Then you married, my dear sir—took on yourself responsibility for the guidance of a young woman; and what have you done? You have not helped her to find the way of truth, my dear sir, but have thrust her into an abyss of deceit and misery. A man offended you and you shot him, and you say you do not know God and hate your life. There is nothing strange in that, my dear sir!” After these words, the Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre looked at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved his lips without uttering a sound. He wished to say, “Yes, a vile, idle, vicious life!” but dared not break the silence. The Mason cleared his throat huskily, as old men do, and called his servant. “How about the horses?” he asked, without looking at Pierre. “The exchange horses have just come,” answered the servant. “Will you not rest here?” “No, tell them to harness.

” “Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me all, and without promising to help me?” thought Pierre, rising with downcast head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at the Mason. “Yes, I never thought of it, but I have led a contemptible and profligate life, though I did not like it and did not want to,” thought Pierre. “But this man knows the truth and, if he wished to, could disclose it to me.” Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to. The traveler, having packed his things with his practiced hands, began fastening his coat. When he had finished, he turned to Bezúkhov, and said in a tone of indifferent politeness: “Where are you going to now, my dear sir?” “I?… I’m going to Petersburg,” answered Pierre, in a childlike, hesitating voice. “I thank you. I agree with all you have said. But do not suppose me to be so bad. With my whole soul I wish to be what you would have me be, but I have never had help from anyone…. But it is I, above all, who am to blame for everything. Help me, teach me, and perhaps I may…” Pierre could not go on. He gulped and turned away. The Mason remained silent for a long time, evidently considering. “Help comes from God alone,” he said, “but such measure of help as our Order can bestow it will render you, my dear sir. You are going to Petersburg.

Hand this to Count Willarski” (he took out his notebook and wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four). “Allow me to give you a piece of advice. When you reach the capital, first of all devote some time to solitude and self-examination and do not resume your former way of life. And now I wish you a good journey, my dear sir,” he added, seeing that his servant had entered… “and success.” The traveler was Joseph Alexéevich Bazdéev, as Pierre saw from the postmaster’s book. Bazdéev had been one of the best-known Freemasons and Martinists, even in Novíkov’s time. For a long while after he had gone, Pierre did not go to bed or order horses but paced up and down the room, pondering over his vicious past, and with a rapturous sense of beginning anew pictured to himself the blissful, irreproachable, virtuous future that seemed to him so easy.

It seemed to him that he had been vicious only because he had somehow forgotten how good it is to be virtuous. Not a trace of his former doubts remained in his soul. He firmly believed in the possibility of the brotherhood of men united in the aim of supporting one another in the path of virtue, and that is how Freemasonry presented itself to him.

Chapter 87 . On reaching Petersburg Pierre did not let anyone know of his arrival,

He went nowhere and spent whole days in reading Thomas à Kempis, whose book had been sent him by someone unknown. One thing he continually realized as he read that book: the joy , hitherto unknown to him, of believing in the possibility of attaining perfection,

And in the possibility of active brotherly love among men, which Joseph Alexéevich had revealed to him. A week after his arrival, the young Polish count, Willarski, whom Pierre had known slightly in Petersburg society, came into his room one evening in the official and ceremonious manner in which Dólokhov’s second had called on him,

And, having closed the door behind him and satisfied himself that there was nobody else in the room, addressed Pierre. “I have come to you with a message and an offer, Count,” he said without sitting down. “A person of very high standing in our Brotherhood has made application for you to be

Received into our Order before the usual term and has proposed to me to be your sponsor. I consider it a sacred duty to fulfill that person’s wishes. Do you wish to enter the Brotherhood of Freemasons under my sponsorship?

” The cold, austere tone of this man, whom he had almost always before met at balls, amiably smiling in the society of the most brilliant women, surprised Pierre. “Yes, I do wish it,” said he . Willarski bowed his head.

“One more question, Count,” he said, “which I beg you to answer in all sincerity—not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you renounced your former convictions—do you believe in God? ” Pierre considered. “Yes… yes, I believe in God,” he said. “In that case.

..” began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him. “Yes , I do believe in God, ” he repeated. “In that case we can go,” said Willarski . “My carriage is at your service. ” Willarski was silent throughout the drive. To Pierre’s inquiries as to what he must do and how he should answer,

Willarski only replied that brothers more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to tell the truth. Having entered the courtyard of a large house where the Lodge had its headquarters, and having ascended a dark staircase,

They entered a small well-lit anteroom where they took off their cloaks without the aid of a servant. From there they passed into another room. A man in strange attire appeared at the door. Willarski, stepping toward him ,

Said something to him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small wardrobe in which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen before. Having taken a kerchief from the cupboard, Willarski bound Pierre’s eyes with it and tied it in a knot behind,

Catching some hairs painfully in the knot. Then he drew his face down, kissed him, and taking him by the hand led him forward. The hairs tied in the knot hurt Pierre and there were lines of pain on his face and a shamefaced smile.

His huge figure, with arms hanging down and with a puckered , though smiling face, moved after Willarski with uncertain, timid steps. Having led him about ten paces, Willarski stopped. “Whatever happens to you,” he said, “you must bear it all manfully if you have firmly resolved to join our Brotherhood.

” (Pierre nodded affirmatively.) “When you hear a knock at the door, you will uncover your eyes,” added Willarski. “I wish you courage and success, ” and, pressing Pierre’s hand, he went out. Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way.

Once or twice he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to the kerchief, as if wishing to take it off, but let it drop again. The five minutes spent with his eyes bandaged seemed to him an hour. His arms felt numb, his legs almost gave way,

It seemed to him that he was tired out. He experienced a variety of most complex sensations. He felt afraid of what would happen to him and still more afraid of showing his fear. He felt curious to know what was going to happen and what would be revealed to him; but most of all,

He felt joyful that the moment had come when he would at last start on that path of regeneration and on the actively virtuous life of which he had been dreaming since he met Joseph Alexéevich. Loud knocks were heard at the door. Pierre took the bandage off his eyes and glanced around him.

The room was in black darkness, only a small lamp was burning inside something white. Pierre went nearer and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on which lay an open book.

The book was the Gospel, and the white thing with the lamp inside was a human skull with its cavities and teeth. After reading the first words of the Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God,

” Pierre went round the table and saw a large open box filled with something. It was a coffin with bones inside. He was not at all surprised by what he saw. Hoping to enter on an entirely new life quite unlike the old one,

He expected everything to be unusual, even more unusual than what he was seeing. A skull, a coffin , the Gospel—it seemed to him that he had expected all this and even more . Trying to stimulate his emotions he looked around. “God, death, love, the brotherhood of man ,” he kept saying to himself,

Associating these words with vague yet joyful ideas. The door opened and someone came in. By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he saw a rather short man. Having evidently come from the light into the darkness, the man paused,

Then moved with cautious steps toward the table and placed on it his small leather- gloved hands. This short man had on a white leather apron which covered his chest and part of his legs; he had on a kind of necklace above which rose a high white ruffle,

Outlining his rather long face which was lit up from below. “For what have you come hither? ” asked the newcomer, turning in Pierre’s direction at a slight rustle made by the latter. “Why have you, who do not believe in the truth of the light and who have not seen the light,

Come here? What do you seek from us? Wisdom, virtue, enlightenment?” At the moment the door opened and the stranger came in, Pierre felt a sense of awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at confession; he felt himself in the presence of one socially a complete stranger,

Yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man . With bated breath and beating heart he moved toward the Rhetor (by which name the brother who prepared a seeker for entrance into the Brotherhood was known) . Drawing nearer, he recognized in the Rhetor a man he knew, Smolyanínov,

And it mortified him to think that the newcomer was an acquaintance—he wished him simply a brother and a virtuous instructor. For a long time he could not utter a word, so that the Rhetor had to repeat his question. “Yes… I… I… desire regeneration,” Pierre uttered with difficulty. “Very well,

” said Smolyanínov, and went on at once: “Have you any idea of the means by which our holy Order will help you to reach your aim? ” said he quietly and quickly. “I… hope… for guidance… help. .. in regeneration,” said Pierre,

With a trembling voice and some difficulty in utterance due to his excitement and to being unaccustomed to speak of abstract matters in Russian. “What is your conception of Freemasonry?” “I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who have virtuous aims,

” said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy of his words for the solemnity of the moment, as he spoke . “I imagine…” “Good!” said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with this answer. “Have you sought for means of attaining your aim in religion?

” “No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it,” said Pierre, so softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was saying. “I have been an atheist,” answered Pierre. “You are seeking for truth in order to follow its laws in your life,

Therefore you seek wisdom and virtue. Is that not so? ” said the Rhetor, after a moment’s pause. “Yes , yes,” assented Pierre. The Rhetor cleared his throat, crossed his gloved hands on his breast , and began to speak. “Now I must disclose to you the chief aim of our Order,” he said,

“and if this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood with profit. The first and chief object of our Order, the foundation on which it rests and which no human power can destroy, is the preservation and handing on to posterity of a certain important mystery.

.. which has come down to us from the remotest ages, even from the first man—a mystery on which perhaps the fate of mankind depends. But since this mystery is of such a nature that nobody can know or use it unless he be prepared by long and diligent self-

Purification, not everyone can hope to attain it quickly. Hence we have a secondary aim, that of preparing our members as much as possible to reform their hearts, to purify and enlighten their minds, by means handed on to us by tradition from those who have striven to attain this mystery,

And thereby to render them capable of receiving it. “By purifying and regenerating our members we try, thirdly, to improve the whole human race, offering it in our members an example of piety and virtue, and thereby try with all our might to combat the evil which sways the world.

Think this over and I will come to you again.” “To combat the evil which sways the world. ..” Pierre repeated, and a mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind. He imagined men such as he had himself been a fortnight ago,

And he addressed an edifying exhortation to them. He imagined to himself vicious and unfortunate people whom he would assist by word and deed, imagined oppressors whose victims he would rescue. Of the three objects mentioned by the Rhetor,

This last, that of improving mankind, especially appealed to Pierre. The important mystery mentioned by the Rhetor, though it aroused his curiosity, did not seem to him essential , and the second aim, that of purifying and regenerating himself,

Did not much interest him because at that moment he felt with delight that he was already perfectly cured of his former faults and was ready for all that was good. Half an hour later , the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the seven virtues,

Corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon’s temple, which every Freemason should cultivate in himself. These virtues were: 1 . Discretion, the keeping of the secrets of the Order. 2. Obedience to those of higher ranks in the Order. 3. Morality. 4. Love of mankind. 5. Courage. 6. Generosity. 7 . The love of death.

“In the seventh place, try, by the frequent thought of death ,” the Rhetor said, “to bring yourself to regard it not as a dreaded foe, but as a friend that frees the soul grown weary in the labors of virtue from this distressful life,

And leads it to its place of recompense and peace.” “Yes, that must be so,” thought Pierre, when after these words the Rhetor went away, leaving him to solitary meditation.

“It must be so, but I am still so weak that I love my life, the meaning of which is only now gradually opening before me. ” But five of the other virtues which Pierre recalled, counting them on his fingers, he felt already in his soul: courage, generosity,

Morality, love of mankind, and especially obedience—which did not even seem to him a virtue, but a joy. (He now felt so glad to be free from his own lawlessness and to submit his will to those who knew the indubitable truth.

) He forgot what the seventh virtue was and could not recall it. The third time the Rhetor came back more quickly and asked Pierre whether he was still firm in his intention and determined to submit to all that would be required of him.

“I am ready for everything,” said Pierre. “I must also inform you ,” said the Rhetor, “that our Order delivers its teaching not in words only but also by other means, which may perhaps have a stronger effect on the sincere seeker after wisdom and virtue than mere words.

This chamber with what you see therein should already have suggested to your heart, if it is sincere, more than words could do. You will perhaps also see in your further initiation a like method of enlightenment. Our Order imitates the ancient societies that explained their teaching by hieroglyphics. A hieroglyph,” said the Rhetor ,

“is an emblem of something not cognizable by the senses but which possesses qualities resembling those of the symbol. ” Pierre knew very well what a hieroglyph was, but dared not speak. He listened to the Rhetor in silence, feeling from all he said that his ordeal was about to begin.

“If you are resolved, I must begin your initiation,” said the Rhetor coming closer to Pierre. “In token of generosity I ask you to give me all your valuables.” “But I have nothing here, ” replied Pierre, supposing that he was asked to give up all he possessed.

“What you have with you: watch, money, rings ….” Pierre quickly took out his purse and watch, but could not manage for some time to get the wedding ring off his fat finger. When that had been done, the Rhetor said: “In token of obedience,

I ask you to undress.” Pierre took off his coat, waistcoat, and left boot according to the Rhetor’s instructions. The Mason drew the shirt back from Pierre’s left breast, and stooping down pulled up the left leg of his trousers to above the knee. Pierre hurriedly began taking off his right boot also and

Was going to tuck up the other trouser leg to save this stranger the trouble , but the Mason told him that was not necessary and gave him a slipper for his left foot. With a childlike smile of embarrassment, doubt, and self-derision, which appeared on his face against his will,

Pierre stood with his arms hanging down and legs apart , before his brother Rhetor, and awaited his further commands. “And now, in token of candor , I ask you to reveal to me your chief passion, ” said the latter. “My passion ! I have had so many,” replied Pierre.

“That passion which more than all others caused you to waver on the path of virtue, ” said the Mason. Pierre paused, seeking a reply. “Wine? Gluttony? Idleness? Laziness? Irritability? Anger? Women?” He went over his vices in his mind,

not knowing to which of them to give the pre-eminence. “Women,” he said in a low, scarcely audible voice. The Mason did not move and for a long time said nothing after this answer. At last he moved up to Pierre and, taking the kerchief that lay on the table,

Again bound his eyes. “For the last time I say to you—turn all your attention upon yourself, put a bridle on your senses , and seek blessedness, not in passion but in your own heart. The source of blessedness is not without us but within…

.” Pierre had already long been feeling in himself that refreshing source of blessedness which now flooded his heart with glad emotion. Chapter 88. Soon after this there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not the Rhetor but Pierre’s sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his voice.

To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre replied: “Yes, yes, I agree,” and with a beaming, childlike smile , his fat chest uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered and one booted foot , he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his bare chest.

He was conducted from that room along passages that turned backwards and forwards and was at last brought to the doors of the Lodge. Willarski coughed, he was answered by the Masonic knock with mallets, the doors opened before them. A bass voice (Pierre was still blindfolded) questioned him as to who he was,

When and where he was born, and so on. Then he was again led somewhere still blindfolded, and as they went along he was told allegories of the toils of his pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal Architect of the universe, and of the courage with which he should endure toils and dangers.

During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken of now as the “Seeker, ” now as the “Sufferer,” and now as the “Postulant, ” to the accompaniment of various knockings with mallets and swords. As he was being led up to some object he noticed a hesitation and uncertainty among his conductors.

He heard those around him disputing in whispers and one of them insisting that he should be led along a certain carpet. After that they took his right hand, placed it on something, and told him to hold a pair

Of compasses to his left breast with the other hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud an oath of fidelity to the laws of the Order. The candles were then extinguished and some spirit lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and he was told that he would now see the lesser light.

The bandage was taken off his eyes and, by the faint light of the burning spirit, Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men standing before him, wearing aprons like the Rhetor’s and holding swords in their hands pointed at his breast.

Among them stood a man whose white shirt was stained with blood. On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with his breast toward the swords, meaning them to pierce it. But the swords were drawn back from him and he was at once blindfolded again. “Now thou hast seen the lesser light,” uttered a voice.

Then the candles were relit and he was told that he would see the full light; the bandage was again removed and more than ten voices said together: “Sic transit gloria mundi. ” Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room and at the people in it.

Round a long table covered with black sat some twelve men in garments like those he had already seen. Some of them Pierre had met in Petersburg society. In the President’s chair sat a young man he did not know, with a peculiar cross hanging from his neck.

On his right sat the Italian abbé whom Pierre had met at Anna Pávlovna’s two years before. There were also present a very distinguished dignitary and a Swiss who had formerly been tutor at the Kurágins’ .

All maintained a solemn silence, listening to the words of the President, who held a mallet in his hand. Let into the wall was a star-shaped light. At one side of the table was a small carpet with various figures worked upon it,

At the other was something resembling an altar on which lay a Testament and a skull. Round it stood seven large candlesticks like those used in churches. Two of the brothers led Pierre up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles,

And bade him lie down, saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of the Temple. “He must first receive the trowel,” whispered one of the brothers. “Oh, hush, please!” said another. Pierre , perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without obeying,

And suddenly doubts arose in his mind. “Where am I? What am I doing? Aren’t they laughing at me? Shan’t I be ashamed to remember this? ” But these doubts only lasted a moment. Pierre glanced at the serious faces of those around,

Remembered all he had already gone through, and realized that he could not stop halfway. He was aghast at his hesitation and, trying to arouse his former devotional feeling, prostrated himself before the Gates of the Temple. And really , the feeling of devotion returned to him even more strongly than before.

When he had lain there some time, he was told to get up, and a white leather apron , such as the others wore, was put on him: he was given a trowel and three pairs of gloves,

And then the Grand Master addressed him. He told him that he should try to do nothing to stain the whiteness of that apron, which symbolized strength and purity; then of the unexplained trowel, he told him to toil with it to cleanse his own heart from vice,

And indulgently to smooth with it the heart of his neighbor. As to the first pair of gloves, a man’s, he said that Pierre could not know their meaning but must keep them. The second pair of man’s gloves he was to wear at the meetings,

And finally of the third, a pair of women’s gloves, he said: “Dear brother, these woman’s gloves are intended for you too . Give them to the woman whom you shall honor most of all. This gift will

Be a pledge of your purity of heart to her whom you select to be your worthy helpmeet in Masonry. ” And after a pause, he added: “But beware, dear brother , that these gloves do not deck hands that are unclean.

” While the Grand Master said these last words it seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed. Pierre himself grew still more confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began looking about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed. This silence was broken by one of the brethren,

Who led Pierre up to the rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of all the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a trowel, a rough stone and a squared stone, a pillar , three windows, and so on.

Then a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of the Lodge, told the password, and at last was permitted to sit down. The Grand Master began reading the statutes. They were very long, and Pierre, from joy, agitation, and embarrassment,

Was not in a state to understand what was being read . He managed to follow only the last words of the statutes and these remained in his mind. “In our temples we recognize no other distinctions,” read the Grand Master, “but those between virtue and vice.

Beware of making any distinctions which may infringe equality. Fly to a brother’s aid whoever he may be, exhort him who goeth astray, raise him that falleth, never bear malice or enmity toward thy brother. Be kindly and courteous. Kindle in all hearts the flame of virtue.

Share thy happiness with thy neighbor, and may envy never dim the purity of that bliss. Forgive thy enemy, do not avenge thyself except by doing him good. Thus fulfilling the highest law thou shalt regain traces of the ancient dignity which thou hast lost.

” He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all sides. He acknowledged no acquaintances but saw in all these men only brothers,

And burned with impatience to set to work with them. The Grand Master rapped with his mallet. All the Masons sat down in their places, and one of them read an exhortation on the necessity of humility. The Grand Master proposed that the last duty should be performed, and

The distinguished dignitary who bore the title of “Collector of Alms” went round to all the brothers. Pierre would have liked to subscribe all he had, but fearing that it might look like pride subscribed the same amount as the others. The meeting was at an end,

And on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits and way of life. Chapter 89. The day after he had been received into the Lodge,

Pierre was sitting at home reading a book and trying to fathom the significance of the Square, one side of which symbolized God , another moral things, a third physical things, and the fourth a combination of these.

Now and then his attention wandered from the book and the Square and he formed in imagination a new plan of life. On the previous evening at the Lodge, he had heard that a rumor of his duel had reached the Emperor and that it would be wiser for him to leave Petersburg.

Pierre proposed going to his estates in the south and there attending to the welfare of his serfs. He was joyfully planning this new life, when Prince Vasíli suddenly entered the room. “My dear fellow, what have you been up to in Moscow? Why have you quarreled with Hélène,

Mon cher? You are under a delusion,” said Prince Vasíli, as he entered. “I know all about it, and I can tell you positively that Hélène is as innocent before you as Christ was before the Jews.

” Pierre was about to reply, but Prince Vasíli interrupted him. “And why didn’t you simply come straight to me as to a friend? I know all about it and understand it all,” he said. “You behaved as becomes a man who values his honor, perhaps too hastily,

But we won’t go into that. But consider the position in which you are placing her and me in the eyes of society, and even of the court,” he added, lowering his voice. “She is living in Moscow and you are here. Remember, dear boy,

” and he drew Pierre’s arm downwards, “it is simply a misunderstanding. I expect you feel it so yourself. Let us write her a letter at once, and she’ll come here and all will be explained, or else, my dear boy , let me tell you it’s quite likely you’ll have to suffer for it.

” Prince Vasíli gave Pierre a significant look. “I know from reliable sources that the Dowager Empress is taking a keen interest in the whole affair. You know she is very gracious to Hélène.” Pierre tried several times to speak, but, on one hand, Prince Vasíli did not let him and, on the other,

Pierre himself feared to begin to speak in the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had firmly resolved to answer his father-in- law. Moreover, the words of the Masonic statutes, “be kindly and courteous,” recurred to him . He blinked, went red, got up and sat down again,

Struggling with himself to do what was for him the most difficult thing in life—to say an unpleasant thing to a man’s face, to say what the other, whoever he might be, did not expect.

He was so used to submitting to Prince Vasíli’s tone of careless self-assurance that he felt he would be unable to withstand it now, but he also felt that on what he said now his future depended—whether he would follow the same old road,

Or that new path so attractively shown him by the Masons, on which he firmly believed he would be reborn to a new life. “Now, dear boy,” said Prince Vasíli playfully, “say ‘yes,

’ and I’ll write to her myself, and we will kill the fatted calf.” But before Prince Vasíli had finished his playful speech, Pierre, without looking at him, and with a kind of fury that made him like his father, muttered in a whisper: “Prince, I did not ask you here.

Go, please go!” And he jumped up and opened the door for him. “Go!” he repeated, amazed at himself and glad to see the look of confusion and fear that showed itself on Prince Vasíli’s face .

“What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?” “Go!” the quivering voice repeated. And Prince Vasíli had to go without receiving any explanation. A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons, and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his estates.

His new brethren gave him letters to the Kiev and Odessa Masons and promised to write to him and guide him in his new activity. Chapter 90. The duel between Pierre and Dólokhov was hushed up and, in spite of the Emperor’s severity regarding duels at that time,

Neither the principals nor their seconds suffered for it. But the story of the duel, confirmed by Pierre’s rupture with his wife , was the talk of society. Pierre who had been regarded with patronizing condescension when he was an illegitimate son, and petted and extolled when he was the best match in Russia,

Had sunk greatly in the esteem of society after his marriage—when the marriageable daughters and their mothers had nothing to hope from him—especially as he did not know how, and did not wish, to court society’s favor. Now he alone was blamed for what had happened,

He was said to be insanely jealous and subject like his father to fits of bloodthirsty rage. And when after Pierre’s departure Hélène returned to Petersburg , she was received by all her acquaintances not only cordially, but even with a shade of deference due to her misfortune.

When conversation turned on her husband Hélène assumed a dignified expression, which with characteristic tact she had acquired though she did not understand its significance. This expression suggested that she had resolved to endure her troubles uncomplainingly and that her husband was a cross laid upon her by God.

Prince Vasíli expressed his opinion more openly. He shrugged his shoulders when Pierre was mentioned and, pointing to his forehead , remarked: “A bit touched—I always said so. ” “I said from the first,” declared Anna Pávlovna referring to Pierre, “I said at the time and before anyone else” (she insisted on her priority)

“that that senseless young man was spoiled by the depraved ideas of these days. I said so even at the time when everybody was in raptures about him, when he had just returned from abroad, and when, if you remember, he posed as a sort of Marat at one of my soirees.

And how has it ended ? I was against this marriage even then and foretold all that has happened. ” Anna Pávlovna continued to give on free evenings the same kind of soirees as before—such as she alone had the gift of arranging—at which was to be found “the cream of really good society,

The bloom of the intellectual essence of Petersburg,” as she herself put it. Besides this refined selection of society Anna Pávlovna’s receptions were also distinguished by the fact that she always presented some new and interesting person to the visitors and

That nowhere else was the state of the political thermometer of legitimate Petersburg court society so dearly and distinctly indicated. Toward the end of 1806, when all the sad details of Napoleon’s destruction of the Prussian army at Jena and Auerstädt and the surrender of most of the Prussian fortresses had been received,

When our troops had already entered Prussia and our second war with Napoleon was beginning, Anna Pávlovna gave one of her soirees. The “cream of really good society” consisted of the fascinating Hélène, forsaken by her husband, Mortemart , the delightful Prince Hippolyte who had just returned from Vienna, two diplomatists, the old aunt ,

A young man referred to in that drawing room as “a man of great merit ” (un homme de beaucoup de mérite) , a newly appointed maid of honor and her mother , and several other less noteworthy persons. The novelty Anna Pávlovna was setting before her guests that evening was Borís Drubetskóy,

Who had just arrived as a special messenger from the Prussian army and was aide- de-camp to a very important personage. The temperature shown by the political thermometer to the company that evening was this: “Whatever the European sovereigns and commanders may do to countenance Bonaparte,

And to cause me, and us in general, annoyance and mortification, our opinion of Bonaparte cannot alter. We shall not cease to express our sincere views on that subject, and can only say to the King of Prussia and others : ‘So much the worse for you.

Tu l’as voulu, George Dandin,’ that’s all we have to say about it! ” When Borís, who was to be served up to the guests , entered the drawing room, almost all the company had assembled, and the conversation, guided by Anna Pávlovna,

Was about our diplomatic relations with Austria and the hope of an alliance with her. Borís, grown more manly and looking fresh, rosy and self-possessed,

entered the drawing room elegantly dressed in the uniform of an aide-de-camp and was duly conducted to pay his respects to the aunt and then brought back to the general circle. Anna Pávlovna gave him her shriveled hand to kiss and introduced him to several persons whom he did not know,

Giving him a whispered description of each. “Prince Hippolyte Kurágin—charming young fellow; M. Kronq,—chargé d’affaires from Copenhagen—a profound intellect,” and simply, “Mr. Shítov—a man of great merit”—this of the man usually so described. Thanks to Anna Mikháylovna’s efforts, his own tastes, and the peculiarities of his reserved nature,

Borís had managed during his service to place himself very advantageously. He was aide-de-camp to a very important personage , had been sent on a very important mission to Prussia, and had just returned from there as a special messenger. He had become thoroughly conversant with that unwritten code with

Which he had been so pleased at Olmütz and according to which an ensign might rank incomparably higher than a general, and according to which what was needed for success in the service was not effort or work,

Or courage, or perseverance, but only the knowledge of how to get on with those who can grant rewards, and he was himself often surprised at the rapidity of his success and at the inability of others to understand these things.

In consequence of this discovery his whole manner of life, all his relations with old friends, all his plans for his future, were completely altered. He was not rich, but would spend his last groat to be better dressed than others ,

And would rather deprive himself of many pleasures than allow himself to be seen in a shabby equipage or appear in the streets of Petersburg in an old uniform. He made friends with and sought the acquaintance of only those above him in position and who could therefore be of use to him.

He liked Petersburg and despised Moscow. The remembrance of the Rostóvs’ house and of his childish love for Natásha was unpleasant to him and he had not once been to see the Rostóvs since the day of his departure for the army.

To be in Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room he considered an important step up in the service, and he at once understood his role, letting his hostess make use of whatever interest he had to offer. He himself carefully scanned each face, appraising the possibilities of establishing intimacy with each of those present,

And the advantages that might accrue. He took the seat indicated to him beside the fair Hélène and listened to the general conversation. “Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable that not even a continuity of most brilliant successes would secure them, and she doubts the means we have of gaining them.

That is the actual phrase used by the Vienna cabinet,” said the Danish chargé d’affaires. “The doubt is flattering,” said “the man of profound intellect,” with a subtle smile. “We must distinguish between the Vienna cabinet and the Emperor of Austria,

” said Mortemart. “The Emperor of Austria can never have thought of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it.” “Ah, my dear vicomte,” put in Anna Pávlovna, “L’Urope” (

For some reason she called it Urope as if that were a specially refined French pronunciation which she could allow herself when conversing with a Frenchman ) , “L’Urope ne sera jamais notre alliée sincère.” * * “Europe will never be our sincere ally.

” After that Anna Pávlovna led up to the courage and firmness of the King of Prussia, in order to draw Borís into the conversation. Borís listened attentively to each of the speakers, awaiting his turn, but managed meanwhile to look round repeatedly at his neighbor, the beautiful Hélène,

Whose eyes several times met those of the handsome young aide-de-camp with a smile. Speaking of the position of Prussia, Anna Pávlovna very naturally asked Borís to tell them about his journey to Glogau and in what state he found the Prussian army.

Borís, speaking with deliberation, told them in pure, correct French many interesting details about the armies and the court, carefully abstaining from expressing an opinion of his own about the facts he was recounting. For some time he engrossed the general attention,

And Anna Pávlovna felt that the novelty she had served up was received with pleasure by all her visitors. The greatest attention of all to Borís’ narrative was shown by Hélène . She asked him several questions about his journey and seemed greatly interested in the state of the Prussian army.

As soon as he had finished she turned to him with her usual smile. “You absolutely must come and see me,” she said in a tone that implied that, for certain considerations he could not know of, this was absolutely necessary . “On Tuesday between eight and nine.

It will give me great pleasure.” Borís promised to fulfill her wish and was about to begin a conversation with her, when Anna Pávlovna called him away on the pretext that her aunt wished to hear him. “You know her husband, of course?” said Anna Pávlovna,

Closing her eyes and indicating Hélène with a sorrowful gesture. “Ah, she is such an unfortunate and charming woman! Don’t mention him before her—please don’t! It is too painful for her! ” Chapter 91. When Borís and Anna Pávlovna returned to the others Prince Hippolyte had the ear of the company.

Bending forward in his armchair he said: “Le Roi de Prusse! ” and having said this laughed. Everyone turned toward him. “Le Roi de Prusse? ” Hippolyte said interrogatively, again laughing, and then calmly and seriously sat back in his chair. Anna Pávlovna waited for him to go on,

But as he seemed quite decided to say no more she began to tell of how at Potsdam the impious Bonaparte had stolen the sword of Frederick the Great. “It is the sword of Frederick the Great which I.. .” she began, but Hippolyte interrupted her with the words: “Le Roi de Prusse.

..” and again, as soon as all turned toward him , excused himself and said no more. Anna Pávlovna frowned. Mortemart, Hippolyte’s friend, addressed him firmly . “Come now, what about your Roi de Prusse?” Hippolyte laughed as if ashamed of laughing . “Oh, it’s nothing. I only wished to say…

” (he wanted to repeat a joke he had heard in Vienna and which he had been trying all that evening to get in) “I only wished to say that we are wrong to fight pour le Roi de Prusse!” Borís smiled circumspectly,

So that it might be taken as ironical or appreciative according to the way the joke was received. Everybody laughed. “Your joke is too bad , it’s witty but unjust,” said Anna Pávlovna, shaking her little shriveled finger at him. “We are not fighting pour le Roi de Prusse,

But for right principles. Oh, that wicked Prince Hippolyte!” she said. The conversation did not flag all evening and turned chiefly on the political news. It became particularly animated toward the end of the evening when the rewards bestowed by the Emperor were mentioned.

“You know N— N— received a snuffbox with the portrait last year?” said “the man of profound intellect. ” “Why shouldn’t S— S— get the same distinction?” “Pardon me! A snuffbox with the Emperor’s portrait is a reward but not a distinction,” said the diplomatist—“a gift,

Rather.” “There are precedents, I may mention Schwarzenberg.” “It’s impossible, ” replied another. “Will you bet? The ribbon of the order is a different matter. …” When everybody rose to go, Hélène who had spoken very little all the evening again turned to Borís,

Asking him in a tone of caressing significant command to come to her on Tuesday. “It is of great importance to me,” she said, turning with a smile toward Anna Pávlovna, and Anna Pávlovna, with the same sad smile with which she spoke of her exalted patroness,

Supported Hélène’s wish. It seemed as if from some words Borís had spoken that evening about the Prussian army, Hélène had suddenly found it necessary to see him. She seemed to promise to explain that necessity to him when he came on Tuesday. But on Tuesday evening, having come to Hélène’s splendid salon ,

Borís received no clear explanation of why it had been necessary for him to come . There were other guests and the countess talked little to him, and only as he kissed her hand on taking leave said unexpectedly and in a whisper, with a strangely unsmiling face: “Come to dinner tomorrow.

.. in the evening. You must come…. Come!” During that stay in Petersburg, Borís became an intimate in the countess’ house. Chapter 92. The war was flaming up and nearing the Russian frontier. Everywhere one heard curses on Bonaparte, “the enemy of mankind.” Militiamen and recruits were being enrolled in the villages,

And from the seat of war came contradictory news, false as usual and therefore variously interpreted. The life of old Prince Bolkónski, Prince Andrew, and Princess Mary had greatly changed since 1805. In 1806 the old prince was made one of the eight commanders in chief then appointed to supervise the enrollment decreed throughout Russia.

Despite the weakness of age, which had become particularly noticeable since the time when he thought his son had been killed, he did not think it right to refuse a duty to which he had been appointed by the Emperor himself , and this fresh opportunity for action gave him new energy and strength.

He was continually traveling through the three provinces entrusted to him, was pedantic in the fulfillment of his duties, severe to cruel with his subordinates, and went into everything down to the minutest details himself. Princess Mary had ceased taking lessons in mathematics from her father, and when

The old prince was at home went to his study with the wet nurse and little Prince Nicholas ( as his grandfather called him). The baby Prince Nicholas lived with his wet nurse and nurse Sávishna in the late princess’ rooms and Princess Mary spent most of the day in the nursery,

Taking a mother’s place to her little nephew as best she could. Mademoiselle Bourienne, too, seemed passionately fond of the boy, and Princess Mary often deprived herself to give her friend the pleasure of dandling the little angel—as she called her nephew—and playing with him.

Near the altar of the church at Bald Hills there was a chapel over the tomb of the little princess, and in this chapel was a marble monument brought from Italy, representing an angel with outspread wings ready to fly upwards. The angel’s upper lip was slightly raised as though about to smile,

And once on coming out of the chapel Prince Andrew and Princess Mary admitted to one another that the angel’s face reminded them strangely of the little princess. But what was still stranger, though of this Prince Andrew said nothing to his sister,

Was that in the expression the sculptor had happened to give the angel’s face, Prince Andrew read the same mild reproach he had read on the face of his dead wife : “Ah, why have you done this to me?” Soon after Prince Andrew’s return the old prince made over to him a large estate,

Boguchárovo, about twenty-five miles from Bald Hills . Partly because of the depressing memories associated with Bald Hills, partly because Prince Andrew did not always feel equal to bearing with his father’s peculiarities, and partly because he needed solitude, Prince Andrew made use of Boguchárovo, began building and spent most of his time there.

After the Austerlitz campaign Prince Andrew had firmly resolved not to continue his military service, and when the war recommenced and everybody had to serve, he took a post under his father in the recruitment so as to avoid active service.

The old prince and his son seemed to have changed roles since the campaign of 1805. The old man, roused by activity, expected the best results from the new campaign, while Prince Andrew on the contrary, taking no part in the war and secretly regretting this, saw only the dark side. On February 26, 1807,

The old prince set off on one of his circuits . Prince Andrew remained at Bald Hills as usual during his father’s absence. Little Nicholas had been unwell for four days. The coachman who had driven the old prince to town returned bringing papers and letters for Prince Andrew.

Not finding the young prince in his study the valet went with the letters to Princess Mary’s apartments, but did not find him there. He was told that the prince had gone to the nursery. “If you please, your excellency, Pétrusha has brought some papers,

” said one of the nursemaids to Prince Andrew who was sitting on a child’s little chair while, frowning and with trembling hands , he poured drops from a medicine bottle into a wineglass half full of water. “What is it?” he said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally,

He poured too many drops into the glass. He threw the mixture onto the floor and asked for some more water. The maid brought it. There were in the room a child’s cot, two boxes , two armchairs, a table, a child’s table, and the little chair on which Prince Andrew was sitting.

The curtains were drawn, and a single candle was burning on the table , screened by a bound music book so that the light did not fall on the cot. “My dear, ” said Princess Mary, addressing her brother from beside the cot where she was standing,

“better wait a bit… later…” “Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things off—and this is what comes of it! ” said Prince Andrew in an exasperated whisper, evidently meaning to wound his sister. “My dear, really… it’s better not to wake him… he’s asleep,

” said the princess in a tone of entreaty. Prince Andrew got up and went on tiptoe up to the little bed, wineglass in hand. “Perhaps we’d really better not wake him, ” he said hesitating. “As you please… really… I think so… but as you please,

” said Princess Mary, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion had prevailed. She drew her brother’s attention to the maid who was calling him in a whisper. It was the second night that neither of them had slept, watching the boy who was in a high fever.

These last days, mistrusting their household doctor and expecting another for whom they had sent to town, they had been trying first one remedy and then another. Worn out by sleeplessness and anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and reproached and disputed with each other.

“Pétrusha has come with papers from your father,” whispered the maid. Prince Andrew went out. “Devil take them!” he muttered, and after listening to the verbal instructions his father had sent and taking the correspondence and his father’s letter, he returned to the nursery. “Well?” he asked. “Still the same. Wait, for heaven’s sake.

Karl Ivánich always says that sleep is more important than anything,” whispered Princess Mary with a sigh. Prince Andrew went up to the child and felt him. He was burning hot. “Confound you and your Karl Ivánich!” He took the glass with the drops and again went up to the cot.

“Andrew, don’t!” said Princess Mary. But he scowled at her angrily though also with suffering in his eyes, and stooped glass in hand over the infant. “But I wish it,” he said. “I beg you—give it him!

” Princess Mary shrugged her shoulders but took the glass submissively and calling the nurse began giving the medicine. The child screamed hoarsely. Prince Andrew winced and , clutching his head, went out and sat down on a sofa in the next room . He still had all the letters in his hand.

Opening them mechanically he began reading . The old prince, now and then using abbreviations, wrote in his large elongated hand on blue paper as follows: Have just this moment received by special messenger very joyful news —if it’s not false.

Bennigsen seems to have obtained a complete victory over Buonaparte at Eylau. In Petersburg everyone is rejoicing, and the rewards sent to the army are innumerable . Though he is a German—I congratulate him! I can’t make out what the commander at Kórchevo—a certain Khandrikóv—is up to;

Till now the additional men and provisions have not arrived. Gallop off to him at once and say I’ll have his head off if everything is not here in a week. Have received another letter about the Preussisch-Eylau battle from Pétenka—he took part in it—and it’s all true.

When mischief-makers don’t meddle even a German beats Buonaparte. He is said to be fleeing in great disorder. Mind you gallop off to Kórchevo without delay and carry out instructions! Prince Andrew sighed and broke the seal of another envelope. It was a closely written letter of two sheets from Bilíbin.

He folded it up without reading it and reread his father’s letter, ending with the words: “Gallop off to Kórchevo and carry out instructions!” “No, pardon me, I won’t go now till the child is better,” thought he, going to the door and looking into the nursery.

Princess Mary was still standing by the cot, gently rocking the baby. “Ah yes, and what else did he say that’s unpleasant?” thought Prince Andrew, recalling his father’s letter. “Yes, we have gained a victory over Bonaparte, just when I’m not serving.

Yes, yes, he’s always poking fun at me…. Ah, well! Let him !” And he began reading Bilíbin’s letter which was written in French. He read without understanding half of it, read only to forget,

If but for a moment, what he had too long been thinking of so painfully to the exclusion of all else. Chapter 93. Bilíbin was now at army headquarters in a diplomatic capacity, and though he wrote in French and used French jests and French idioms,

He described the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and self-derision genuinely Russian. Bilíbin wrote that the obligation of diplomatic discretion tormented him , and he was happy to have in Prince Andrew a reliable correspondent to whom he

Could pour out the bile he had accumulated at the sight of all that was being done in the army. The letter was old, having been written before the battle at Preussisch-Eylau. “Since the day of our brilliant success at Austerlitz, ” wrote Bilíbin, “as you know, my dear prince, I never leave headquarters.

I have certainly acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me; what I have seen during these last three months is incredible. “I begin ab ovo. ‘The enemy of the human race ,’ as you know, attacks the Prussians.

The Prussians are our faithful allies who have only betrayed us three times in three years. We take up their cause, but it turns out that ‘the enemy of the human race’ pays no heed to our fine speeches

And in his rude and savage way throws himself on the Prussians without giving them time to finish the parade they had begun, and in two twists of the hand he breaks them to smithereens and installs himself in the palace at Potsdam. “‘I most ardently desire,’ writes the King of Prussia to Bonaparte,

‘that Your Majesty should be received and treated in my palace in a manner agreeable to yourself, and in so far as circumstances allowed, I have hastened to take all steps to that end . May I have succeeded!

’ The Prussian generals pride themselves on being polite to the French and lay down their arms at the first demand. “The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the King of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender.

… All this is absolutely true. “In short, hoping to settle matters by taking up a warlike attitude, it turns out that we have landed ourselves in war, and what is more, in war on our own frontiers, with and for the King of Prussia.

We have everything in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely, a commander in chief. As it was considered that the Austerlitz success might have been more decisive had the commander in chief not been so young, all our octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski and Kámenski the latter was preferred.

The general comes to us, Suvórov-like, in a kibítka, and is received with acclamations of joy and triumph. “On the 4th, the first courier arrives from Petersburg. The mails are taken to the field marshal’s room, for he likes to do everything himself.

I am called in to help sort the letters and take those meant for us. The field marshal looks on and waits for letters addressed to him. We search, but none are to be found. The field marshal grows impatient and sets to work himself and finds letters from the Emperor to Count T.

, Prince V., and others. Then he bursts into one of his wild furies and rages at everyone and everything, seizes the letters, opens them, and reads those from the Emperor addressed to others. ‘Ah! So that’s the way they treat me! No confidence in me!

Ah, ordered to keep an eye on me! Very well then! Get along with you! ’ So he writes the famous order of the day to General Bennigsen: “‘I am wounded and cannot ride and consequently cannot command the army. You have brought your army corps to Pultúsk, routed:

Here it is exposed, and without fuel or forage, so something must be done, and, as you yourself reported to Count Buxhöwden yesterday, you must think of retreating to our frontier—which do today. ’ “‘From all my riding,’ he writes to the Emperor,

‘I have got a saddle sore which, coming after all my previous journeys, quite prevents my riding and commanding so vast an army, so I have passed on the command to the general next in seniority, Count Buxhöwden, having sent him my whole staff and all that belongs to it,

Advising him if there is a lack of bread, to move farther into the interior of Prussia, for only one day’s ration of bread remains, and in some regiments none at all, as reported by the division commanders, Ostermann and Sedmorétzki,

And all that the peasants had has been eaten up. I myself will remain in hospital at Ostrolenka till I recover. In regard to which I humbly submit my report, with the information that if the army remains

In its present bivouac another fortnight there will not be a healthy man left in it by spring. “‘Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is already in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and glorious task for which he was chosen.

I shall await your most gracious permission here in hospital, that I may not have to play the part of a secretary rather than commander in the army. My removal from the army does not produce the slightest stir—a blind man has left it.

There are thousands such as I in Russia .’ “The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all, isn’t it logical? “This is the first act. Those that follow are naturally increasingly interesting and entertaining .

After the field marshal’s departure it appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle. Buxhöwden is commander in chief by seniority, but General Bennigsen does not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who are

Within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity to fight a battle ‘on his own hand’ as the Germans say. He does so. This is the battle of Pultúsk, which is considered a great victory but in my opinion was nothing of the kind.

We civilians, as you know, have a very bad way of deciding whether a battle was won or lost. Those who retreat after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to that it is we who lost the battle of Pultúsk.

In short, we retreat after the battle but send a courier to Petersburg with news of a victory, and General Bennigsen, hoping to receive from Petersburg the post of commander in chief as a reward for his victory, does not give up the command of the army to General Buxhöwden.

During this interregnum we begin a very original and interesting series of maneuvers. Our aim is no longer, as it should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to avoid General Buxhöwden who by right of seniority should be our chief. So energetically do we pursue this aim that

After crossing an unfordable river we burn the bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy , who at the moment is not Bonaparte but Buxhöwden. General Buxhöwden was all but attacked and captured by a superior enemy force as a result of one of these maneuvers that enabled us to escape him.

Buxhöwden pursues us—we scuttle. He hardly crosses the river to our side before we recross to the other. At last our enemy, Buxhöwden , catches us and attacks. Both generals are angry, and the result is a challenge on Buxhöwden’s part and an epileptic fit on Bennigsen’s. But at the critical moment the courier

Who carried the news of our victory at Pultúsk to Petersburg returns bringing our appointment as commander in chief, and our first foe, Buxhöwden, is vanquished; we can now turn our thoughts to the second, Bonaparte. But as it turns out, just at that moment a third enemy rises before us—namely the Orthodox Russian soldiers,

Loudly demanding bread, meat , biscuits, fodder, and whatnot! The stores are empty, the roads impassable. The Orthodox begin looting , and in a way of which our last campaign can give you no idea. Half

The regiments form bands and scour the countryside and put everything to fire and sword . The inhabitants are totally ruined, the hospitals overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere. Twice the marauders even attack our headquarters, and the commander in chief has to ask for a battalion to disperse them.

During one of these attacks they carried off my empty portmanteau and my dressing gown. The Emperor proposes to give all commanders of divisions the right to shoot marauders, but I much fear this will oblige one half the army to shoot the other.

” At first Prince Andrew read with his eyes only, but after a while, in spite of himself (although he knew how far it was safe to trust Bilíbin) , what he had read began to interest him more and more. When he had read thus far,

He crumpled the letter up and threw it away. It was not what he had read that vexed him, but the fact that the life out there in which he had now no part could perturb him. He shut his eyes ,

Rubbed his forehead as if to rid himself of all interest in what he had read, and listened to what was passing in the nursery. Suddenly he thought he heard a strange noise through the door. He was seized with alarm lest something should have happened to the child while he was reading the letter.

He went on tiptoe to the nursery door and opened it. Just as he went in he saw that the nurse was hiding something from him with a scared look and that Princess Mary was no longer by the cot.

“My dear,” he heard what seemed to him her despairing whisper behind him. As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, he was seized by an unreasoning panic—it occurred to him that the child was dead. All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.

“All is over,” he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He went to the cot in confusion , sure that he would find it empty and that the nurse had been hiding the dead baby.

He drew the curtain aside and for some time his frightened, restless eyes could not find the baby. At last he saw him: the rosy boy had tossed about till he lay across the bed with his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking his lips in his sleep and breathing evenly.

Prince Andrew was as glad to find the boy like that, as if he had already lost him. He bent over him and, as his sister had taught him, tried with his lips whether the child was still feverish. The soft forehead was moist.

Prince Andrew touched the head with his hand; even the hair was wet, so profusely had the child perspired. He was not dead, but evidently the crisis was over and he was convalescent. Prince Andrew longed to snatch up, to squeeze, to hold to his heart, this helpless little creature, but dared not do so.

He stood over him, gazing at his head and at the little arms and legs which showed under the blanket. He heard a rustle behind him and a shadow appeared under the curtain of the cot. He did not look round , but still gazing at the infant’s face listened to his regular breathing.

The dark shadow was Princess Mary, who had come up to the cot with noiseless steps, lifted the curtain, and dropped it again behind her. Prince Andrew recognized her without looking and held out his hand to her. She pressed it. “He has perspired,” said Prince Andrew. “I was coming to tell you so.

” The child moved slightly in his sleep, smiled, and rubbed his forehead against the pillow. Prince Andrew looked at his sister. In the dim shadow of the curtain her luminous eyes shone more brightly than usual from the tears of joy that were in them.

She leaned over to her brother and kissed him , slightly catching the curtain of the cot. Each made the other a warning gesture and stood still in the dim light beneath the curtain as if not wishing to leave that seclusion where they three were shut off from all the world.

Prince Andrew was the first to move away, ruffling his hair against the muslin of the curtain. “Yes , this is the one thing left me now, ” he said with a sigh. Chapter 94. Soon after his admission to the Masonic Brotherhood,

Pierre went to the Kiev province, where he had the greatest number of serfs, taking with him full directions which he had written down for his own guidance as to what he should do on his estates. When

He reached Kiev he sent for all his stewards to the head office and explained to them his intentions and wishes. He told them that steps would be taken immediately to free his serfs—and that till then they were not to be overburdened with labor,

Women while nursing their babies were not to be sent to work, assistance was to be given to the serfs, punishments were to be admonitory and not corporal, and hospitals, asylums, and schools were to be established on all the estates.

Some of the stewards (there were semiliterate foremen among them)listened with alarm, supposing these words to mean that the young count was displeased with their management and embezzlement of money, some after their first fright were amused by Pierre’s lisp and the new words they had not heard before,

Others simply enjoyed hearing how the master talked, while the cleverest among them , including the chief steward, understood from this speech how they could best handle the master for their own ends. The chief steward expressed great sympathy with Pierre’s intentions,

But remarked that besides these changes it would be necessary to go into the general state of affairs which was far from satisfactory. Despite Count Bezúkhov’s enormous wealth, since he had come into an income which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year ,

Pierre felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him an allowance of ten thousand rubles. He had a dim perception of the following budget: About 80,000 went in payments on all the estates to the Land Bank, about 30,000 went for the upkeep of the estate near Moscow,

The town house, and the allowance to the three princesses; about 15,000 was given in pensions and the same amount for asylums; 150,000 alimony was sent to the countess; about 70, 000 went for interest on debts. The building of a new church, previously begun,

Had cost about 10,000 in each of the last two years, and he did not know how the rest, about 100,000 rubles, was spent, and almost every year he was obliged to borrow. Besides this the chief steward wrote every year telling him of fires and bad harvests,

Or of the necessity of rebuilding factories and workshops. So the first task Pierre had to face was one for which he had very little aptitude or inclination—practical business. He discussed estate affairs every day with his chief steward. But he felt that this did not forward matters at all.

He felt that these consultations were detached from real affairs and did not link up with them or make them move. On the one hand, the chief steward put the state of things to him in the very worst light,

Pointing out the necessity of paying off the debts and undertaking new activities with serf labor, to which Pierre did not agree. On the other hand, Pierre demanded that steps should be taken to liberate the serfs, which the steward met by showing the necessity of first paying off the loans from the Land Bank,

And the consequent impossibility of a speedy emancipation. The steward did not say it was quite impossible, but suggested selling the forests in the province of Kostromá, the land lower down the river, and the Crimean estate, in order to make it possible:

All of which operations according to him were connected with such complicated measures—the removal of injunctions, petitions, permits, and so on—that Pierre became quite bewildered and only replied: “Yes, yes, do so.

” Pierre had none of the practical persistence that would have enabled him to attend to the business himself and so he disliked it and only tried to pretend to the steward that he was attending to it. The steward for

His part tried to pretend to the count that he considered these consultations very valuable for the proprietor and troublesome to himself. In Kiev Pierre found some people he knew , and strangers hastened to make his acquaintance and joyfully welcomed the rich newcomer, the largest landowner of the province.

Temptations to Pierre’s greatest weakness—the one to which he had confessed when admitted to the Lodge—were so strong that he could not resist them . Again whole days, weeks, and months of his life passed in as great a rush and were as much occupied with evening parties,

Dinners, lunches, and balls, giving him no time for reflection, as in Petersburg. Instead of the new life he had hoped to lead he still lived the old life, only in new surroundings.

Of the three precepts of Freemasonry Pierre realized that he did not fulfill the one which enjoined every Mason to set an example of moral life, and that of the seven virtues he lacked two—morality and the love of death. He consoled himself with the thought that he

Fulfilled another of the precepts—that of reforming the human race—and had other virtues —love of his neighbor, and especially generosity. In the spring of 1807 he decided to return to Petersburg. On the way he intended to visit all his estates and see

For himself how far his orders had been carried out and in what state were the serfs whom God had entrusted to his care and whom he intended to benefit . The chief steward, who considered the young count’s attempts almost insane—unprofitable to himself, to the count,

And to the serfs—made some concessions. Continuing to represent the liberation of the serfs as impracticable, he arranged for the erection of large buildings—schools, hospitals, and asylums—on all the estates before the master arrived. Everywhere preparations were made not for ceremonious welcomes (which he knew Pierre would not like)

, but for just such gratefully religious ones, with offerings of icons and the bread and salt of hospitality, as, according to his understanding of his master, would touch and delude him. The southern spring, the comfortable rapid traveling in a Vienna carriage,

And the solitude of the road, all had a gladdening effect on Pierre. The estates he had not before visited were each more picturesque than the other; the serfs everywhere seemed thriving and touchingly grateful for the benefits conferred on them.

Everywhere were receptions, which though they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the depth of his heart. In one place the peasants presented him with bread and salt and an icon of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, asking permission, as a mark of their gratitude for the benefits he had conferred on them,

To build a new chantry to the church at their own expense in honor of Peter and Paul, his patron saints. In another place the women with infants in arms met him to thank him for releasing them from hard work.

On a third estate the priest, bearing a cross, came to meet him surrounded by children whom, by the count’s generosity, he was instructing in reading, writing , and religion. On all his estates Pierre saw with his own eyes brick buildings erected or in course of erection,

All on one plan, for hospitals, schools, and almshouses, which were soon to be opened. Everywhere he saw the stewards’ accounts, according to which the serfs’ manorial labor had been diminished, and heard the touching thanks of deputations of serfs in their full-skirted blue coats. What Pierre did not know was that the place where

They presented him with bread and salt and wished to build a chantry in honor of Peter and Paul was a market village where a fair was held on St. of Peter and Paul was a market village where a fair was held on St.

Peter’s day, and that the richest peasants (who formed the deputation) had begun the chantry long before, but that nine tenths of the peasants in that villages were in a state of the greatest poverty. He did not know that since the nursing mothers were no longer sent to work on his land,

They did still harder work on their own land. He did not know that the priest who met him with the cross oppressed the peasants by his exactions, and that the pupils’ parents wept at having to let him take their children and secured their release by heavy payments.

He did not know that the brick buildings, built to plan, were being built by serfs whose manorial labor was thus increased, though lessened on paper. He did not know that where the steward had shown him in the accounts that the serfs’ payments had been diminished by a third,

Their obligatory manorial work had been increased by a half. And so Pierre was delighted with his visit to his estates and quite recovered the philanthropic mood in which he had left Petersburg, and wrote enthusiastic letters to his “brother-instructor” as he called the Grand Master.

“How easy it is, how little effort it needs, to do so much good,” thought Pierre, “and how little attention we pay to it!” He was pleased at the gratitude he received, but felt abashed at receiving it. This gratitude reminded him of how much more he might do for these simple,

Kindly people. The chief steward , a very stupid but cunning man who saw perfectly through the naïve and intelligent count and played with him as with a toy, seeing the effect these prearranged receptions had on Pierre,

Pressed him still harder with proofs of the impossibility and above all the uselessness of freeing the serfs, who were quite happy as it was. Pierre in his secret soul agreed with the steward that it would be difficult to imagine happier people ,

And that God only knew what would happen to them when they were free, but he insisted, though reluctantly, on what he thought right. The steward promised to do all in his power to carry out the count’s wishes, seeing clearly that not only would

The count never be able to find out whether all measures had been taken for the sale of the land and forests and to release them from the Land Bank , but would probably never even inquire and would never know that the newly erected buildings

Were standing empty and that the serfs continued to give in money and work all that other people’s serfs gave—that is to say, all that could be got out of them. Chapter 95. Returning from his journey through South Russia in the happiest state of mind,

Pierre carried out an intention he had long had of visiting his friend Bolkónski , whom he had not seen for two years. Boguchárovo lay in a flat uninteresting part of the country among fields and forests of fir and birch, which were partly cut down.

The house lay behind a newly dug pond filled with water to the brink and with banks still bare of grass. It was at the end of a village that stretched along the highroad in the midst of a young copse in which were a few fir trees.

The homestead consisted of a threshing floor, outhouses, stables, a bathhouse , a lodge, and a large brick house with semicircular façade still in course of construction . Round the house was a garden newly laid out. The fences and gates were new and solid;

Two fire pumps and a water cart, painted green, stood in a shed ; the paths were straight, the bridges were strong and had handrails. Everything bore an impress of tidiness and good management. Some domestic serfs Pierre met, in reply to inquiries as to where the prince lived,

Pointed out a small newly built lodge close to the pond. Antón, a man who had looked after Prince Andrew in his boyhood, helped Pierre out of his carriage, said that the prince was at home, and showed him into a clean little anteroom. Pierre was struck by the modesty of the small though clean

House after the brilliant surroundings in which he had last met his friend in Petersburg . He quickly entered the small reception room with its still-unplastered wooden walls redolent of pine , and would have gone farther, but Antón ran ahead on tiptoe and knocked at a door. “Well, what is it?

” came a sharp, unpleasant voice. “A visitor,” answered Antón. “Ask him to wait, ” and the sound was heard of a chair being pushed back. Pierre went with rapid steps to the door and suddenly came face to face with Prince Andrew,

Who came out frowning and looking old. Pierre embraced him and lifting his spectacles kissed his friend on the cheek and looked at him closely. “Well, I did not expect you, I am very glad,” said Prince Andrew. Pierre said nothing; he looked fixedly at his friend with surprise.

He was struck by the change in him. His words were kindly and there was a smile on his lips and face, but his eyes were dull and lifeless and in spite of his evident wish to do so he could not give them a joyous and glad sparkle.

Prince Andrew had grown thinner, paler , and more manly-looking, but what amazed and estranged Pierre till he got used to it were his inertia and a wrinkle on his brow indicating prolonged concentration on some one thought.

As is usually the case with people meeting after a prolonged separation, it was long before their conversation could settle on anything. They put questions and gave brief replies about things they knew ought to be talked over at length.

At last the conversation gradually settled on some of the topics at first lightly touched on: their past life , plans for the future, Pierre’s journeys and occupations, the war, and so on.

The preoccupation and despondency which Pierre had noticed in his friend’s look was now still more clearly expressed in the smile with which he listened to Pierre, especially when he spoke with joyful animation of the past or the future.

It was as if Prince Andrew would have liked to sympathize with what Pierre was saying, but could not. The latter began to feel that it was in bad taste to speak of his enthusiasms, dreams, and hopes of happiness or goodness, in Prince Andrew’s presence.

He was ashamed to express his new Masonic views, which had been particularly revived and strengthened by his late tour. He checked himself, fearing to seem naïve, yet he felt an irresistible desire to show his friend as soon as possible that he was now a quite different,

And better, Pierre than he had been in Petersburg. “I can’t tell you how much I have lived through since then. I hardly know myself again. ” “Yes, we have altered much, very much , since then,” said Prince Andrew. “Well, and you? What are your plans?” “Plans!” repeated Prince Andrew ironically.

“My plans?” he said, as if astonished at the word. “Well, you see , I’m building. I mean to settle here altogether next year. …” Pierre looked silently and searchingly into Prince Andrew’s face, which had grown much older. “No, I meant to ask…” Pierre began, but Prince Andrew interrupted him.

“But why talk of me?… Talk to me, yes , tell me about your travels and all you have been doing on your estates. ” Pierre began describing what he had done on his estates, trying as far as possible to conceal his own part in the improvements that had been made.

Prince Andrew several times prompted Pierre’s story of what he had been doing, as though it were all an old-time story, and he listened not only without interest but even as if ashamed of what Pierre was telling him. Pierre felt uncomfortable and even depressed in his friend’s company and at last became silent.

“I’ll tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Prince Andrew , who evidently also felt depressed and constrained with his visitor, “I am only bivouacking here and have just come to look round. I am going back to my sister today . I will introduce you to her.

But of course you know her already,” he said , evidently trying to entertain a visitor with whom he now found nothing in common. “We will go after dinner. And would you now like to look round my place? ” They went out and walked about till dinnertime,

Talking of the political news and common acquaintances like people who do not know each other intimately. Prince Andrew spoke with some animation and interest only of the new homestead he was constructing and its buildings, but even here, while on the scaffolding,

In the midst of a talk explaining the future arrangements of the house, he interrupted himself: “However, this is not at all interesting. Let us have dinner, and then we’ll set off. ” At dinner, conversation turned on Pierre’s marriage. “I was very much surprised when I heard of it,

” said Prince Andrew. Pierre blushed, as he always did when it was mentioned, and said hurriedly: “I will tell you some time how it all happened. But you know it is all over, and forever.” “Forever ?” said Prince Andrew.

“Nothing’s forever.” “But you know how it all ended, don’t you? You heard of the duel? ” “And so you had to go through that too!” “One thing I thank God for is that I did not kill that man, ” said Pierre. “Why so?” asked Prince Andrew.

“To kill a vicious dog is a very good thing really .” “No, to kill a man is bad—wrong. ” “Why is it wrong?” urged Prince Andrew . “It is not given to man to know what is right and what is wrong . Men always did and always will err,

And in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.” “What does harm to another is wrong, ” said Pierre, feeling with pleasure that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrew was roused, had begun to talk, and wanted to express what had brought him to his present state.

“And who has told you what is bad for another man? ” he asked. “Bad! Bad!” exclaimed Pierre. “We all know what is bad for ourselves. ” “Yes, we know that, but the harm I am conscious of in myself is something I cannot inflict on others, ” said Prince Andrew,

Growing more and more animated and evidently wishing to express his new outlook to Pierre. He spoke in French. “I only know two very real evils in life : remorse and illness. The only good is the absence of those evils. To live for myself avoiding those two evils is my whole philosophy now.

” “And love of one’s neighbor , and self-sacrifice?” began Pierre. “No, I can’t agree with you! To live only so as not to do evil and not to have to repent is not enough. I lived like that, I lived for myself and ruined my life. And only now when I am living,

or at least trying” (Pierre’s modesty made him correct himself)“to live for others, only now have I understood all the happiness of life. No, I shall not agree with you, and you do not really believe what you are saying. ” Prince Andrew looked silently at Pierre with an ironic smile.

“When you see my sister, Princess Mary , you’ll get on with her, ” he said. “Perhaps you are right for yourself,” he added after a short pause, “but everyone lives in his own way.

You lived for yourself and say you nearly ruined your life and only found happiness when you began living for others. I experienced just the reverse. I lived for glory.—And after all what is glory? The same love of others, a desire to do something for them , a desire for their approval.

—So I lived for others, and not almost, but quite, ruined my life. And I have become calmer since I began to live only for myself.” “But what do you mean by living only for yourself? ” asked Pierre, growing excited. “What about your son, your sister,

And your father?” “But that’s just the same as myself—they are not others, ” explained Prince Andrew. “The others, one’s neighbors, le prochain , as you and Princess Mary call it, are the chief source of all error and evil. Le prochain—your Kiev peasants to whom you want to do good.

” And he looked at Pierre with a mocking, challenging expression. He evidently wished to draw him on . “You are joking,” replied Pierre, growing more and more excited. “What error or evil can there be in my wishing to do good,

And even doing a little—though I did very little and did it very badly? What evil can there be in it if unfortunate people, our serfs, people like ourselves,

Were growing up and dying with no idea of God and truth beyond ceremonies and meaningless prayers and are now instructed in a comforting belief in future life, retribution, recompense, and consolation? What evil and error are there in it,

If people were dying of disease without help while material assistance could so easily be rendered, and I supplied them with a doctor, a hospital, and an asylum for the aged? And is it not a palpable, unquestionable good if a peasant , or a woman with a baby,

Has no rest day or night and I give them rest and leisure?” said Pierre, hurrying and lisping. “And I have done that though badly and to a small extent; but I have done something toward it and you cannot persuade me that it was not a good action,

And more than that, you can’t make me believe that you do not think so yourself. And the main thing is,” he continued, “that I know, and know for certain, that the enjoyment of doing this good is the only sure happiness in life.

” “Yes, if you put it like that it’s quite a different matter, ” said Prince Andrew. “I build a house and lay out a garden, and you build hospitals. The one and the other may serve as a pastime. But what’s right and what’s good must be judged by one who knows all,

But not by us. Well, you want an argument,” he added, “come on then . ” They rose from the table and sat down in the entrance porch which served as a veranda. “Come, let’s argue then,” said Prince Andrew, “You talk of schools,” he went on,

Crooking a finger, “education and so forth; that is, you want to raise him ” (pointing to a peasant who passed by them taking off his cap) “from his animal condition and awaken in him spiritual needs, while it seems to me that animal happiness is the only happiness possible,

And that is just what you want to deprive him of. I envy him, but you want to make him what I am, without giving him my means. Then you say, ‘lighten his toil.’ But as I see it, physical labor is as essential to him,

As much a condition of his existence, as mental activity is to you or me. You can’t help thinking. I go to bed after two in the morning, thoughts come and I can’t sleep but toss about till dawn , because I think and can’t help thinking,

Just as he can’t help plowing and mowing ; if he didn’t, he would go to the drink shop or fall ill. Just as I could not stand his terrible physical labor but should die of it in a week,

So he could not stand my physical idleness, but would grow fat and die . The third thing—what else was it you talked about? ” and Prince Andrew crooked a third finger. “Ah, yes, hospitals, medicine. He has a fit, he is dying, and you come and bleed him and patch him up.

He will drag about as a cripple , a burden to everybody, for another ten years. It would be far easier and simpler for him to die. Others are being born and there are plenty of them as it is.

It would be different if you grudged losing a laborer—that’s how I regard him—but you want to cure him from love of him. And he does not want that. And besides, what a notion that medicine ever cured anyone! Killed them , yes!” said he, frowning angrily and turning away from Pierre.

Prince Andrew expressed his ideas so clearly and distinctly that it was evident he had reflected on this subject more than once, and he spoke readily and rapidly like a man who has not talked for a long time. His glance became more animated as his conclusions became more hopeless . “Oh, that is dreadful,

Dreadful!” said Pierre. “I don’t understand how one can live with such ideas. I had such moments myself not long ago, in Moscow and when traveling , but at such times I collapsed so that I don’t live at all—everything seems hateful to me.

.. myself most of all. Then I don’t eat, don’t wash… and how is it with you? …” “Why not wash? That is not cleanly,” said Prince Andrew; “on the contrary one must try to make one’s life as pleasant as possible. I’m alive , that is not my fault,

So I must live out my life as best I can without hurting others. ” “But with such ideas what motive have you for living? One would sit without moving, undertaking nothing….” “Life as it is leaves one no peace. I should be thankful to do nothing,

But here on the one hand the local nobility have done me the honor to choose me to be their marshal; it was all I could do to get out of it. They could not understand that I have not the necessary qualifications for it—the kind of good-

Natured, fussy shallowness necessary for the position. Then there’s this house, which must be built in order to have a nook of one’s own in which to be quiet. And now there’s this recruiting.” “Why aren’t you serving in the army?” “After Austerlitz!

” said Prince Andrew gloomily. “No, thank you very much! I have promised myself not to serve again in the active Russian army. And I won’t—not even if Bonaparte were here at Smolénsk threatening Bald Hills—even then I wouldn’t serve in the Russian army!

Well, as I was saying,” he continued, recovering his composure, “now there’s this recruiting. My father is chief in command of the Third District, and my only way of avoiding active service is to serve under him. ” “Then you are serving?” “I am.” He paused a little while.

“And why do you serve ?” “Why, for this reason! My father is one of the most remarkable men of his time. But he is growing old, and though not exactly cruel he has too energetic a character. He is so accustomed to unlimited power that he is terrible,

And now he has this authority of a commander in chief of the recruiting, granted by the Emperor. If I had been two hours late a fortnight ago he would have had a paymaster’s clerk at Yúkhnovna hanged,

” said Prince Andrew with a smile. “So I am serving because I alone have any influence with my father, and now and then can save him from actions which would torment him afterwards. ” “Well, there you see!” “Yes, but it is not as you imagine,

” Prince Andrew continued. “I did not, and do not , in the least care about that scoundrel of a clerk who had stolen some boots from the recruits; I should even have been very glad to see him hanged, but I was sorry for my father—that again is for myself.

” Prince Andrew grew more and more animated. His eyes glittered feverishly while he tried to prove to Pierre that in his actions there was no desire to do good to his neighbor. “There now , you wish to liberate your serfs,” he continued; “that is a very good thing,

But not for you—I don’t suppose you ever had anyone flogged or sent to Siberia —and still less for your serfs. If they are beaten, flogged, or sent to Siberia , I don’t suppose they are any the worse off. In Siberia they lead the same animal life, and the stripes on their bodies heal,

And they are happy as before . But it is a good thing for proprietors who perish morally, bring remorse upon themselves , stifle this remorse and grow callous, as a result of being able to inflict punishments justly and unjustly.

It is those people I pity, and for their sake I should like to liberate the serfs. You may not have seen, but I have seen, how good men brought up in those traditions of unlimited power, in time when they grow more irritable, become cruel and harsh,

Are conscious of it, but cannot restrain themselves and grow more and more miserable. ” Prince Andrew spoke so earnestly that Pierre could not help thinking that these thoughts had been suggested to Prince Andrew by his father’s case. He did not reply. “So that’s what I’m sorry for—human dignity,

Peace of mind, purity , and not the serfs’ backs and foreheads, which, beat and shave as you may, always remain the same backs and foreheads. ” “No, no! A thousand times no! I shall never agree with you,” said Pierre.

Chapter 96. In the evening Andrew and Pierre got into the open carriage and drove to Bald Hills. Prince Andrew, glancing at Pierre, broke the silence now and then with remarks which showed that he was in a good temper. Pointing to the fields, he spoke of the improvements he was making in his husbandry.

Pierre remained gloomily silent, answering in monosyllables and apparently immersed in his own thoughts. He was thinking that Prince Andrew was unhappy, had gone astray, did not see the true light , and that he, Pierre, ought to aid, enlighten, and raise him. But as soon as he thought of what he should say,

He felt that Prince Andrew with one word , one argument, would upset all his teaching, and he shrank from beginning, afraid of exposing to possible ridicule what to him was precious and sacred. “No, but why do you think so?” Pierre suddenly began,

Lowering his head and looking like a bull about to charge, “why do you think so? You should not think so.” “Think? What about?” asked Prince Andrew with surprise. “About life, about man’s destiny. It can’t be so. I myself thought like that,

And do you know what saved me? Freemasonry! No, don’t smile. Freemasonry is not a religious ceremonial sect, as I thought it was: Freemasonry is the best expression of the best, the eternal, aspects of humanity.” And he began to explain Freemasonry as he understood it to Prince Andrew.

He said that Freemasonry is the teaching of Christianity freed from the bonds of State and Church, a teaching of equality, brotherhood, and love. “Only our holy brotherhood has the real meaning of life, all the rest is a dream,” said Pierre. “Understand, my dear fellow, that outside this union all is filled

With deceit and falsehood and I agree with you that nothing is left for an intelligent and good man but to live out his life, like you, merely trying not to harm others. But make our fundamental convictions your own, join our brotherhood, give yourself up to us, let yourself be guided,

And you will at once feel yourself, as I have felt myself, a part of that vast invisible chain the beginning of which is hidden in heaven, ” said Pierre. Prince Andrew, looking straight in front of him, listened in silence to Pierre’s words.

More than once, when the noise of the wheels prevented his catching what Pierre said, he asked him to repeat it, and by the peculiar glow that came into Prince Andrew’s eyes and by his silence, Pierre saw that his

Words were not in vain and that Prince Andrew would not interrupt him or laugh at what he said. They reached a river that had overflowed its banks and which they had to cross by ferry. While the carriage and horses were being placed on it, they also stepped on the raft.

Prince Andrew, leaning his arms on the raft railing, gazed silently at the flooding waters glittering in the setting sun. “Well, what do you think about it?” Pierre asked. “Why are you silent?” “What do I think about it? I am listening to you.

It’s all very well…. You say: join our brotherhood and we will show you the aim of life, the destiny of man, and the laws which govern the world. But who are we? Men. How is it you know everything? Why do I alone not see what you see?

You see a reign of goodness and truth on earth, but I don’t see it. ” Pierre interrupted him. “Do you believe in a future life?” he asked. “A future life?” Prince Andrew repeated, but Pierre , giving him no time to reply,

Took the repetition for a denial, the more readily as he knew Prince Andrew’s former atheistic convictions. “You say you can’t see a reign of goodness and truth on earth. Nor could I, and it cannot be seen if one looks on our life here as the end of everything. On earth,

here on this earth” (Pierre pointed to the fields), “there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the universe, in the whole universe there is a kingdom of truth , and we who are now the children of earth are—eternally—children of the whole universe.

Don’t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast harmonious whole? Don’t I feel that I form one link, one step, between the lower and higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of beings in whom the Deity—the Supreme Power if you prefer the term—is manifest?

If I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man, why should I suppose it breaks off at me and does not go farther and farther? I feel that I cannot vanish, since nothing vanishes in this world,

But that I shall always exist and always have existed. I feel that beyond me and above me there are spirits, and that in this world there is truth.” “Yes, that is Herder’s theory, ” said Prince Andrew, “but it is not that which can convince me, dear friend—life and death are what convince.

What convinces is when one sees a being dear to one, bound up with one’s own life, before whom one was to blame and had hoped to make it right” (Prince Andrew’s voice trembled and he turned away), “and suddenly that being is seized with pain,

Suffers, and ceases to exist…. Why? It cannot be that there is no answer. And I believe there is…. That’s what convinces, that is what has convinced me, ” said Prince Andrew. “Yes , yes, of course,” said Pierre, “isn’t that what I’m saying?” “No.

All I say is that it is not argument that convinces me of the necessity of a future life , but this: when you go hand in hand with someone and all at once that person vanishes there,

Into nowhere, and you yourself are left facing that abyss, and look in. And I have looked in. …” “Well, that’s it then! You know that there is a there and there is a Someone? There is the future life. The Someone is —God.” Prince Andrew did not reply.

The carriage and horses had long since been taken off, onto the farther bank, and reharnessed. The sun had sunk half below the horizon and an evening frost was starring the puddles near the ferry, but Pierre and Andrew , to the astonishment of the footmen,

Coachmen, and ferrymen, still stood on the raft and talked. “If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and man’s highest happiness consists in striving to attain them. We must live, we must love ,

And we must believe that we live not only today on this scrap of earth , but have lived and shall live forever, there, in the Whole,” said Pierre, and he pointed to the sky. Prince Andrew stood leaning on the railing of the raft listening to Pierre,

And he gazed with his eyes fixed on the red reflection of the sun gleaming on the blue waters. There was perfect stillness. Pierre became silent. The raft had long since stopped and only the waves of the current beat softly against it below.

Prince Andrew felt as if the sound of the waves kept up a refrain to Pierre’s words, whispering: “It is true, believe it.” He sighed, and glanced with a radiant, childlike, tender look at Pierre’s face, flushed and rapturous, but yet shy before his superior friend.

“Yes, if it only were so!” said Prince Andrew. “However, it is time to get on, ” he added, and, stepping off the raft, he looked up at the sky to which Pierre had pointed, and for the first time since Austerlitz saw that high, everlasting sky he had seen while lying on that battlefield;

And something that had long been slumbering, something that was best within him, suddenly awoke, joyful and youthful, in his soul. It vanished as soon as he returned to the customary conditions of his life, but he knew that this feeling which he did not know how to develop existed within him.

His meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in Prince Andrew’s life. Though outwardly he continued to live in the same old way, inwardly he began a new life. Chapter 97. It was getting dusk when Prince Andrew and Pierre drove up to the front entrance of the house at Bald Hills.

As they approached the house, Prince Andrew with a smile drew Pierre’s attention to a commotion going on at the back porch . A woman, bent with age, with a wallet on her back, and a short, long-haired ,

Young man in a black garment had rushed back to the gate on seeing the carriage driving up. Two women ran out after them, and all four, looking round at the carriage, ran in dismay up the steps of the back porch. “Those are Mary’s ‘God’s folk,

’” said Prince Andrew. “They have mistaken us for my father. This is the one matter in which she disobeys him. He orders these pilgrims to be driven away , but she receives them. ” “But what are ‘God’s folk’?” asked Pierre. Prince Andrew had no time to answer.

The servants came out to meet them, and he asked where the old prince was and whether he was expected back soon. The old prince had gone to the town and was expected back any minute. Prince Andrew led Pierre to his own apartments,

Which were always kept in perfect order and readiness for him in his father’s house; he himself went to the nursery. “Let us go and see my sister ,” he said to Pierre when he returned. “I have not found her yet, she is hiding now, sitting with her ‘God’s folk.

’ It will serve her right, she will be confused, but you will see her ‘God’s folk. ’ It’s really very curious.” “What are ‘God’s folk’?” asked Pierre. “Come, and you’ll see for yourself.” Princess Mary really was disconcerted and red patches came on her face when they went in.

In her snug room, with lamps burning before the icon stand, a young lad with a long nose and long hair, wearing a monk’s cassock, sat on the sofa beside her, behind a samovar. Near them, in an armchair, sat a thin, shriveled, old woman, with a meek expression on her childlike face.

“Andrew, why didn’t you warn me?” said the princess, with mild reproach , as she stood before her pilgrims like a hen before her chickens. “Charmée de vous voir. Je suis très contente de vous voir, ” * she said to Pierre as he kissed her hand. She had known him as a child,

And now his friendship with Andrew, his misfortune with his wife, and above all his kindly, simple face disposed her favorably toward him. She looked at him with her beautiful radiant eyes and seemed to say, “I like you very much, but please don’t laugh at my people.” After exchanging the first greetings,

They sat down. * “Delighted to see you. I am very glad to see you.” “Ah, and Ivánushka is here too!” said Prince Andrew, glancing with a smile at the young pilgrim. “Andrew!” said Princess Mary, imploringly. “Il faut que vous sachiez que c’est une femme,

” * said Prince Andrew to Pierre. “Andrew, au nom de Dieu !” *(2) Princess Mary repeated. !” *(2) Princess Mary repeated. * “You must know that this is a woman. ” *(2) “For heaven’s sake.

” It was evident that Prince Andrew’s ironical tone toward the pilgrims and Princess Mary’s helpless attempts to protect them were their customary long-established relations on the matter. “Mais, ma bonne amie,” said Prince Andrew, “vous devriez au contraire m’être reconnaissante de ce que j’explique à Pierre votre intimité avec ce jeune homme.

” * * “But, my dear, you ought on the contrary to be grateful to me for explaining to Pierre your intimacy with this young man. ” “Really?” said Pierre, gazing over his spectacles with curiosity and seriousness (for which Princess Mary was specially grateful to him) into Ivánushka’s face, who ,

Seeing that she was being spoken about, looked round at them all with crafty eyes . Princess Mary’s embarrassment on her people’s account was quite unnecessary. They were not in the least abashed. The old woman, lowering her eyes but casting side glances at the newcomers ,

Had turned her cup upside down and placed a nibbled bit of sugar beside it , and sat quietly in her armchair, though hoping to be offered another cup of tea . Ivánushka, sipping out of her saucer, looked with sly womanish eyes from under her brows at the young men.

“Where have you been? To Kiev?” Prince Andrew asked the old woman. “I have, good sir, ” she answered garrulously. “Just at Christmastime I was deemed worthy to partake of the holy and heavenly sacrament at the shrine of the saint.

And now I’m from Kolyázin, master, where a great and wonderful blessing has been revealed. ” “And was Ivánushka with you?” “I go by myself, benefactor, ” said Ivánushka, trying to speak in a bass voice. “I only came across Pelagéya in Yúkhnovo.

…” Pelagéya interrupted her companion; she evidently wished to tell what she had seen. “In Kolyázin, master, a wonderful blessing has been revealed.” “What is it? Some new relics?” asked Prince Andrew. “Andrew, do leave off ,” said Princess Mary. “Don’t tell him, Pelagéya.” “No… why not, my dear, why shouldn’t I ?

I like him. He is kind, he is one of God’s chosen, he’s a benefactor , he once gave me ten rubles, I remember. When I was in Kiev,

Crazy Cyril says to me (he’s one of God’s own and goes barefoot summer and winter), he says, ‘Why are you not going to the right place? Go to Kolyázin where a wonder-working icon of the Holy Mother of God has been revealed. ’ On hearing those words I said good-

By to the holy folk and went .” All were silent, only the pilgrim woman went on in measured tones, drawing in her breath. “So I come, master, and the people say to me: ‘A great blessing has been revealed, holy oil trickles from the cheeks of our blessed Mother,

The Holy Virgin Mother of God.’…” “All right, all right, you can tell us afterwards,” said Princess Mary , flushing. “Let me ask her, ” said Pierre. “Did you see it yourselves?” he inquired. “Oh , yes, master, I was found worthy. Such a brightness on the face like the light of heaven,

And from the blessed Mother’s cheek it drops and drops….” “But, dear me , that must be a fraud! ” said Pierre, naïvely, who had listened attentively to the pilgrim . “Oh, master, what are you saying? ” exclaimed the horrified Pelagéya, turning to Princess Mary for support. “They impose on the people,

” he repeated. “Lord Jesus Christ!” exclaimed the pilgrim woman , crossing herself. “Oh, don’t speak so, master! There was a general who did not believe , and said, ‘The monks cheat,’ and as soon as he’d said it he went blind .

And he dreamed that the Holy Virgin Mother of the Kiev catacombs came to him and said, ‘Believe in me and I will make you whole.’ So he begged: ‘Take me to her, take me to her.’ It’s the real truth I’m telling you, I saw it myself.

So he was brought, quite blind, straight to her, and he goes up to her and falls down and says, ‘Make me whole,’ says he, ‘and I’ll give thee what the Tsar bestowed on me. ’ I saw it myself, master, the star is fixed into the icon.

Well, and what do you think? He received his sight ! It’s a sin to speak so. God will punish you,” she said admonishingly, turning to Pierre. “How did the star get into the icon? ” Pierre asked. “And was the Holy Mother promoted to the rank of general?

” said Prince Andrew, with a smile. Pelagéya suddenly grew quite pale and clasped her hands. “Oh, master, master, what a sin! And you who have a son!” she began, her pallor suddenly turning to a vivid red. “Master , what have you said?

God forgive you!” And she crossed herself. “Lord forgive him! My dear, what does it mean? …” she asked, turning to Princess Mary. She got up and , almost crying, began to arrange her wallet. She evidently felt frightened and ashamed to have accepted charity in a house where such things could be said,

And was at the same time sorry to have now to forgo the charity of this house. “Now, why need you do it?” said Princess Mary. “Why did you come to me?…” “Come, Pelagéya , I was joking,” said Pierre. “Princesse, ma parole, je n’ai pas voulu l’offenser. * I did not mean anything,

I was only joking,” he said, smiling shyly and trying to efface his offense. “It was all my fault, and Andrew was only joking.” * “Princess , on my word, I did not wish to offend her.” Pelagéya stopped doubtfully, but in Pierre’s face there was such a look of sincere penitence,

And Prince Andrew glanced so meekly now at her and now at Pierre, that she was gradually reassured

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