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War
and Peace
by
Leo Tolstoy
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After Prince Andrews engagement to Natasha, Pierre without any apparent
cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before. Firmly convinced as
he was of the truths revealed to him by his benefactor, and happy as he had been
in perfecting his inner man, to which he had devoted himself with such ardor-
all the zest of such a life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natasha
and the death of Joseph Alexeevich, the news of which reached him almost at the
same time. Only the skeleton of life remained: his house, a brilliant wife who
now enjoyed the favors of a very important personage, acquaintance with all
Petersburg, and his court service with its dull formalities. And this life
suddenly seemed to Pierre unexpectedly loathsome. He ceased keeping a diary,
avoided the company of the Brothers, began going to the Club again, drank a
great deal, and came once more in touch with the bachelor sets, leading such a
life that the Countess Helene thought it necessary to speak severely to him
about it. Pierre felt that she right, and to avoid compromising her went away to
Moscow. |
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In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the faded and
fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; as soon as, driving
through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable tapers burning
before the golden covers of the icons, the Kremlin Square with its snow
undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and hovels of the Sivtsev Vrazhok,
those old Moscovites who desired nothing, hurried nowhere, and were ending their
days leisurely; when he saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls, and the
English Club, he felt himself at home in a quiet haven. In Moscow he felt at
peace, at home, warm and dirty as in an old dressing gown. |
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Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre
like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him. For Moscow
society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual, merriest, and most
magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of the old Russian type. His
purse was always empty because it was open to everyone. |
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Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies, gypsy
choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons, churches, and books-
no one and nothing met with a refusal from him, and had it not been for two
friends who had borrowed large sums from him and taken him under their
protection, he would have given everything away. There was never a dinner or
soiree at the Club without him. As soon as he sank into his place on the sofa
after two bottles of Margaux he was surrounded, and talking, disputing, and
joking began. When there were quarrels, his kindly smile and well-timed jests
reconciled the antagonists. The Masonic dinners were dull and dreary when he was
not there. |
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When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindly smile,
yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere with
them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men. At balls he
danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and unmarried, liked him
because without making love to any of them, he was equally amiable to all,
especially after supper. "Il est charmant; il n'a pas de sexe,"* they
said of him. |
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*"He is charming; he has no sex." |
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Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were
hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow. |
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How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first
arrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for him to seek or
plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally predetermined, and
that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in his position were. He could
not have believed it! Had he not at one time longed with all his heart to
establish a republic in Russia; then himself to be a Napoleon; then to be a
philosopher; and then a strategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not
seen the possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the
sinful human race, and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection? Had
he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs? |
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But instead of all that- here he was, the wealthy husband of an
unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating and drinking
and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government a bit, a member
of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in Moscow society. For a
long time he could not reconcile himself to the idea that he was one of those
same retired Moscow gentlemen-in-waiting he had so despised seven years before. |
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Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living
this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thought of how many, like
himself, had entered that life and that Club temporarily, with all their teeth
and hair, and had only left it when not a single tooth or hair remained. |
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In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed to him
that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired
gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they were empty, stupid,
contented fellows, satisfied with their position, "while I am still
discontented and want to do something for mankind. But perhaps all these
comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a path in life
of their own, and like me were brought by force of circumstances, society, and
race- by that elemental force against which man is powerless- to the condition I
am in," said he to himself in moments of humility; and after living some
time in Moscow he no longer despised, but began to grow fond of, to respect, and
to pity his comrades in destiny, as he pitied himself. |
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Pierre longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust with
life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such acute attacks
was driven inwards and never left him for a moment. "What for? Why? What is
going on in the world?" he would ask himself in perplexity several times a
day, involuntarily beginning to reflect anew on the meaning of the phenomena of
life; but knowing by experience that there were no answers to these questions he
made haste to turn away from them, and took up a book, or hurried of to the Club
or to Apollon Nikolaevich's, to exchange the gossip of the town. |
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"Helene, who has never cared for anything but her own body and is
one of the stupidest women in the world," thought Pierre, "is regarded
by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they pay homage to
her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he was great, but now
that he has become a wretched comedian the Emperor Francis wants to offer him
his daughter in an illegal marriage. The Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy,
offer praise to God for their victory over the French on the fourteenth of June,
and the French, also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that
same fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear by
the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their neighbor, but
they do not give a ruble each to the collections for the poor, and they
intrigue, the Astraea Lodge against the Manna Seekers, and fuss about an
authentic Scotch carpet and a charter that nobody needs, and the meaning of
which the very man who wrote it does not understand. We all profess the
Christian law of forgiveness of injuries and love of our neighbors, the law in
honor of which we have built in Moscow forty times forty churches- but yesterday
a deserter was knouted to death and a minister of that same law of love and
forgiveness, a priest, gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his
execution." So thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception
which everyone accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as
if it were something new. "I understand the deception and confusion,"
he thought, "but how am I to tell them all that I see? I have tried, and
have always found that they too in the depths of their souls understand it as I
do, and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must be so! But I- what is
to become of me?" thought he. He had the unfortunate capacity many men,
especially Russians, have of seeing and believing in the possibility of goodness
and truth, but of seeing the evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able
to take a serious part in it. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes,
with evil and deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the
evil and falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he
had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under the burden
of these insoluble problems, so he abandoned himself to any distraction in order
to forget them. He frequented every kind of society, drank much, bought
pictures, engaged in building, and above all- read. |
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He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home, while his
valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and began to read.
From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleeping to gossip in drawing rooms of
the Club, from gossip to carousals and women; from carousals back to gossip,
reading, and wine. Drinking became more and more a physical and also a moral
necessity. Though the doctors warned him that with his corpulence wine was
dangerous for him, he drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having
poured several glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth he felt a
pleasant warmth in his body, an amiability toward all his fellows, and a
readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it deeply. Only
after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the terribly tangled skein
of life which previously had terrified him was not as dreadful as he had
thought. He was always conscious of some aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing
in his head after dinner or supper he chatted or listened to conversation or
read. But under the influence of wine he said to himself: "It doesn't
matter. I'll get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now-
I'll think it all out later on!" But the later on never came. |
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In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questions appeared as
insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book, and if
anyone came to see him he was glad. |
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Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when
entrenched under the enemy's fire, if they have nothing to do, try hard to find
some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To Pierre all men seemed
like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life: some in ambition, some in cards,
some in framing laws, some in women, some in toys, some in horses, some in
politics, some in sport, some in wine, and some in governmental affairs.
"Nothing is trivial, and nothing is important, it's all the same- only to
save oneself from it as best one can," thought Pierre. "Only not to
see it, that dreadful it!" |
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At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkonski and his daughter
moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander's regime had
weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed there, and this,
together with his past and his intellect and his originality, at once made
Prince Nicholas Bolkonski an object of particular respect to the Moscovites and
the center of the Moscow opposition to the government. |
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The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of
senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent events,
remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which he accepted the
role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this the old man inspired in
all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful veneration- especially of an
evening when he came in to tea in his old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and,
aroused by anyone, told his abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more
abrupt and scathing criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned
house with its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and
the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his gentle
daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted to him presented
a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors did not reflect that
besides the couple of hours during which they saw their host, there were also
twenty-two hours in the day during which the private and intimate life of the
house continued. |
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Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary.
There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures- talks with the
pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills- and she had none of
the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not go out into society;
everyone knew that her father would not let her go anywhere without him, and his
failing health prevented his going out himself, so that she was not invited to
dinners and evening parties. She had quite abandoned the hope of getting
married. She saw the coldness and malevolence with which the old prince received
and dismissed the young men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their
house. She had no friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed
in the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom she
had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to her, and for
various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom she had corresponded
for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved to be quite alien to her when
they met. Just then Julie, who by the death of her brothers had become one of
the richest heiresses in Moscow, was in the full whirl of society pleasures. She
was surrounded by young men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate
her worth. Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels
that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be decided now
or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a mournful smile that she
now had no one to write to, since Julie- whose presence gave her no pleasure was
here and they met every week. Like the old emigre who declined to marry the lady
with whom he had spent his evenings for years, she regretted Julie's presence
and having no one to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no
one to whom to confide her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then.
The time for Prince Andrew's return and marriage was approaching, but his
request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried out; in fact,
it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every mention of the young
Countess Rostova the old prince (who apart from that was usually in a bad
temper) lost control of himself. Another lately added sorrow arose from the
lessons she gave her six year-old nephew. To her consternation she detected in
herself in relation to little Nicholas some symptoms of her father's
irritability. However often she told herself that she must not get irritable
when teaching her nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down
to show him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge quickly
and easily into the child- who was already afraid that Auntie might at any
moment get angry- that at his slightest inattention she trembled, became
flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him by the arm and
put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner she would herself begin to
cry over her cruel, evil nature, and little Nicholas, following her example,
would sob, and without permission would leave his corner, come to her, pull her
wet hands from her face, and comfort her. But what distressed the princess most
of all was her father's irritability, which was always directed against her and
had of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to the
ground all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water, it would
never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but this loving despot-
the more cruel because he loved her and for that reason tormented himself and
her- knew how not merely to hurt and humiliate her deliberately, but to show her
that she was always to blame for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new
trait that tormented Princess Mary more than anything else; this was his
ever-increasing intimacy with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first
moment of receiving the news of his son's intentions had occurred to him in
jest- that if Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne- had evidently
pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it seemed to Princess Mary
merely to offend her, shown special endearments to the companion and expressed
his dissatisfaction with his daughter by demonstrations of love of Bourienne. |
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One day in Moscow in Princess Mary's presence (she thought her father did
it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne's
hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately. Princess Mary flushed
and ran out of the room. A few minutes later Mademoiselle Bourienne came into
Princess Mary's room smiling and making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice.
Princess Mary hastily wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle
Bourienne, and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in
angry haste at the Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: "It's horrible, vile,
inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness..." She did not finish.
"Leave my room," she exclaimed, and burst into sobs. |
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Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed
that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be served
first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from habit began with
the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious, threw his stick at Philip, and
instantly gave instructions to have him conscripted for the army. |
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"He doesn't obey... I said it twice... and he doesn't obey! She is
the first person in this house; she's my best friend," cried the prince.
"And if you allow yourself," he screamed in a fury, addressing
Princess Mary for the first time, "to forget yourself again before her as
you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master in this house. Go!
Don't let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!" |
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Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne's pardon, and also her
father's pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged for her
intervention. |
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At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her soul.
And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his spectacles in
her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or would forget something
that had just occurred, or take a false step with his failing legs and turn to
see if anyone had noticed his feebleness, or, worst of all, at dinner when there
were no visitors to excite him would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin
drop and his shaking head sink over his plate. "He is old and feeble, and I
dare to condemn him!" she thought at such moments, with a feeling of
revulsion against herself. |
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In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor- Metivier- who had
rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable as
Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever doctor. He
was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but as an equal. |
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Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on
Mademoiselle Bourienne's advice had allowed this doctor to visit him and had
grown accustomed to him. Metivier came to see the prince about twice a week. |
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On December 6- St. Nicholas' Day and the prince's name day- all Moscow
came to the prince's front door but he gave orders to admit no one and to invite
to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave to Princess Mary. |
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Metivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered it
proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne,* as he told Princess
Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that morning of his
name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had been going about the
house all the morning finding fault with everyone and pretending not to
understand what was said to him and not to be understood himself. Princess Mary
well knew this mood of quiet absorbed querulousness, which generally culminated
in a burst of rage, and she went about all that morning as though facing a
cocked and loaded gun and awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor's
arrival the morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess
Mary sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she
could hear all that passed in the study. |
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*To force the guard. |
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At first she heard only Metivier's voice, then her father's, then both
voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open, and on the
threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified Metivier with his shock
of black hair, and the prince in his dressing gown and fez, his face distorted
with fury and the pupils of his eyes rolled downwards. |
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"You don't understand?" shouted the prince, "but I do!
French spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell
you..." |
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Metivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne who
at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room. |
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"The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head.
Keep calm, I will call again tomorrow," said Metivier; and putting his
fingers to his lips he hastened away. |
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Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry:
"Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment's peace in my own
house!" |
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After Metivier's departure the old prince called his daughter in, and the
whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy had been
admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list, and not to admit
anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that scoundrel admitted? She was
the cause of it all. With her, he said, he could not have a moment's peace and
could not die quietly. |
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"No, ma'am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand
it! I cannot endure any more," he said, and left the room. Then, as if
afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying to
appear calm added: "And don't imagine I have said this in a moment of
anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be carried out- we must
part; so find some place for yourself...." But he could not restrain
himself and with the virulence of which only one who loves is capable, evidently
suffering himself, he shook his fists at her and screamed: |
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"If only some fool would marry her!" Then he slammed the door,
sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study. |
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At two o'clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner. |
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These guests- the famous Count Rostopchin, Prince Lopukhin with his
nephew, General Chatrov an old war comrade of the prince's, and of the younger
generation Pierre and Boris Drubetskoy- awaited the prince in the drawing room. |
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Boris, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been
anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkonski, and had contrived to
ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an exception to
the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house. |
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The prince's house did not belong to what is known as fashionable
society, but his little circle- though not much talked about in town- was one it
was more flattering to be received in than any other. Boris had realized this
the week before when the commander in chief in his presence invited Rostopchin
to dinner on St. Nicholas' Day, and Rostopchin had replied that he could not
come: |
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"On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince
Nicholas Bolkonski." |
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"Oh, yes, yes!" replied the commander in chief. "How is
he?..." |
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The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned
drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of a court of
justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince Nicholas came in serious
and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter and more diffident than usual.
The guests were reluctant to address her, feeling that she was in no mood for
their conversation. Count Rostopchin alone kept the conversation going, now
relating the latest town news, and now the latest political gossip. |
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Lopukhin and the old general occasionally took part in the conversation.
Prince Bolkonski listened as a presiding judge receives a report, only now and
then, silently or by a brief word, showing that he took heed of what was being
reported to him. The tone of the conversation was such as indicated that no one
approved of what was being done in the political world. Incidents were related
evidently confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse,
but whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped, or
was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the sovereign
himself. |
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At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon's
seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's territory, and the Russian Note, hostile to
Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts. |
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"Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,"
said Count Rostopchin, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before.
"One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the crowned heads.
Now the Pope's turn has come and Bonaparte doesn't scruple to depose the head of
the Catholic Church- yet all keep silent! Our sovereign alone has protested
against the seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg's territory, and even..."
Count Rostopchin paused, feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which
censure was impossible. |
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"Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of
Oldenburg," said Prince Bolkonski. "He shifts the Dukes about as I
might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Bogucharovo or my Ryazan estates." |
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"The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable strength
of character and resignation," remarked Boris, joining in respectfully. |
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He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor
of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkonski glanced at the young man as if
about to say something in reply, but changed his mind, evidently considering him
too young. |
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"I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was
surprised how badly the Note was worded," remarked Count Rostopchin in the
casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him. |
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Pierre looked at Rostopchin with naive astonishment, not understanding
why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note. |
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"Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded," he asked,
"so long as its substance is forcible?" |
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"My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be
easy to have a good style," returned Count Rostopchin. |
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Pierre now understood the count's dissatisfaction with the wording of the
Note. |
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"One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,"
remarked the old prince. "There in Petersburg they are always writing- not
notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written a whole volume of laws
for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!" and he laughed unnaturally. |
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There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared
his throat to draw attention. |
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"Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The
figure cut by the new French ambassador." |
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"Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His
Majesty's presence." |
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"His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the
march past," continued the general, "and it seems the ambassador took
no notice and allowed himself to reply that: 'We in France pay no attention to
such trifles!' The Emperor did not condescend to reply. At the next review, they
say, the Emperor did not once deign to address him." |
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All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was
impossible to pass any judgment. |
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"Impudent fellows!" said the prince. "You know Metivier? I
turned him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him spite of
my request that they should let no one in," he went on, glancing angrily at
his daughter. |
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And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and the
reasons that convinced him that Metivier was a spy. Though these reasons were
very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder. |
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After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate
the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him. |
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He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled, clean-shaven
cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told her that he had not
forgotten the morning's talk, that his decision remained in force, and only the
presence of visitors hindered his speaking of it to her now. |
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When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old men
sat together. |
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Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the
impending war. |
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He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we
sought alliances with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European affairs,
into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. "We ought not to fight
either for or against Austria. Our political interests are all in the East, and
in regard to Bonaparte the only thing is to have an armed frontier and a firm
policy, and he will never dare to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in
1807!" |
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"How can we fight the French, Prince?" said Count Rostopchin.
"Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at our
youths, look at our ladies! The French are our Gods: Paris is our Kingdom of
Heaven." |
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He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone. |
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"French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you
turned Metivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and a
scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to a party last
night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman Catholics and had the
Pope's indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays. And they themselves sit there
nearly naked, like the signboards at our Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when
one looks at our young people, Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great's
old cudgel out of the museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the
nonsense jumps out of them." |
|
|
All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchin with a smile and
wagged his head approvingly. |
|
|
"Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well!" said Rostopchin,
getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the prince. |
|
|
"Good-by, my dear fellow.... His words are music, I never tire of
hearing him!" said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and offering
his cheek to be kissed. |
|
|
Following Rostopchin's example the others also rose. |
|
|
Princess Mary as she sat listening to the old men's talk and
faultfinding, understood nothing of what she heard; she only wondered whether
the guests had all observed her father's hostile attitude toward her. She did
not even notice the special attentions and amiabilities shown her during dinner
by Boris Drubetskoy, who was visiting them for the third time already. |
|
|
Princess Mary turned with absent-minded questioning look to Pierre, who
hat in hand and with a smile on his face was the last of the guests to approach
her after the old prince had gone out and they were left alone in the drawing
room. |
|
|
"May I stay a little longer?" he said, letting his stout body
sink into an armchair beside her. |
|
|
"Oh yes," she answered. "You noticed nothing?" her
look asked. |
|
|
Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood. He looked straight before
him and smiled quietly. |
|
|
"Have you known that young man long, Princess?" he asked. |
|
|
"Who?" |
|
|
"Drubetskoy." |
|
|
"No, not long..." |
|
|
"Do you like him?" |
|
|
"Yes, he is an agreeable young man.... Why do you ask me that?"
said Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning's conversation with her
father. |
|
|
"Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from
Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an heiress." |
|
|
"You have observed that?" said Princess Mary. |
|
|
"Yes," returned Pierre with a smile, "and this young man
now manages matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress there he is too. I
can read him like a book. At present he is hesitating whom to lay siege to- you
or Mademoiselle Julie Karagina. He is very attentive to her." |
|
|
"He visits them?" |
|
|
"Yes, very often. And do you know the new way of courting?"
said Pierre with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good
humored raillery for which he so often reproached himself in his diary. |
|
|
"No," replied Princess Mary. |
|
|
"To please Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy. He is
very melancholy with Mademoiselle Karagina," said Pierre. |
|
|
"Really?" asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierre's kindly
face and still thinking of her own sorrow. "It would be a relief,"
thought she, "if I ventured to confide what I am feeling to someone. I
should like to tell everything to Pierre. He is kind and generous. It would be a
relief. He would give me advice." |
|
|
"Would you marry him?" |
|
|
"Oh, my God, Count, there are moments when I would marry
anybody!" she cried suddenly to her own surprise and with tears in her
voice. "Ah, how bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel
that..." she went on in a trembling voice, "that you can do nothing
for him but grieve him, and to know that you cannot alter this. Then there is
only one thing left- to go away, but where could I go?" |
|
|
"What is wrong? What is it, Princess?" |
|
|
But without finishing what she was saying, Princess Mary burst into
tears. |
|
|
"I don't know what is the matter with me today. Don't take any
notice- forget what I have said!" |
|
|
Pierre's gaiety vanished completely. He anxiously questioned the
princess, asked her to speak out fully and confide her grief to him; but she
only repeated that she begged him to forget what she had said, that she did not
remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble except the one he knew
of- that Prince Andrew's marriage threatened to cause a rupture between father
and son. |
|
|
"Have you any news of the Rostovs?" she asked, to change the
subject. "I was told they are coming soon. I am also expecting Andrew any
day. I should like them to meet here." |
|
|
"And how does he now regard the matter?" asked Pierre,
referring to the old prince. |
|
|
Princess Mary shook her head. |
|
|
"What is to be done? In a few months the year will be up. The thing
is impossible. I only wish I could spare my brother the first moments. I wish
they would come sooner. I hope to be friends with her. You have known them a
long time," said Princess Mary. "Tell me honestly the whole truth:
what sort of girl is she, and what do you think of her?- The real truth, because
you know Andrew is risking so much doing this against his father's will that I
should like to know..." |
|
|
An undefined instinct told Pierre that these explanations, and repeated
requests to be told the whole truth, expressed ill-will on the princess' part
toward her future sister-in-law and a wish that he should disapprove of Andrew's
choice; but in reply he said what he felt rather than what he thought. |
|
|
"I don't know how to answer your question," he said, blushing
without knowing why. "I really don't know what sort of girl she is; I can't
analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I don't know. That
is all one can say about her." |
|
|
Princess Mary sighed, and the expression on her face said: "Yes,
that's what I expected and feared." |
|
|
"Is she clever?" she asked. |
|
|
Pierre considered. |
|
|
"I think not," he said, "and yet- yes. She does not deign
to be clever.... Oh no, she is simply enchanting, and that is all." |
|
|
Princess Mary again shook her head disapprovingly. |
|
|
"Ah, I so long to like her! Tell her so if you see her before I
do." |
|
|
"I hear they are expected very soon," said Pierre. |
|
|
Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future
sister-in-law as soon as the Rostovs arrived and to try to accustom the old
prince to her. |
|
|
Boris had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so with
the same object in view he came to Moscow. There he wavered between the two
richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary. Though Princess Mary despite her
plainness seemed to him more attractive than Julie, he, without knowing why,
felt awkward about paying court to her. When they had last met on the old
prince's name day, she had answered at random all his attempts to talk
sentimentally, evidently not listening to what he was saying. |
|
|
Julie on the contrary accepted his attentions readily, though in a manner
peculiar to herself. |
|
|
She was twenty-seven. After the death of her brothers she had become very
wealthy. She was by now decidedly plain, but thought herself not merely as
good-looking as before but even far more attractive. She was confirmed in this
delusion by the fact that she had become a very wealthy heiress and also by the
fact that the older she grew the less dangerous she became to men, and the more
freely they could associate with her and avail themselves of her suppers,
soirees, and the animated company that assembled at her house, without incurring
any obligation. A man who would have been afraid ten years before of going every
day to the house when there was a girl of seventeen there, for fear of
compromising her and committing himself, would now go boldly every day and treat
her not as a marriageable girl but as a sexless acquaintance. |
|
|
That winter the Karagins' house was the most agreeable and hospitable in
Moscow. In addition to the formal evening and dinner parties, a large company,
chiefly of men, gathered there every day, supping at midnight and staying till
three in the morning. Julie never missed a ball, a promenade, or a play. Her
dresses were always of the latest fashion. But in spite of that she seemed to be
disillusioned about everything and told everyone that she did not believe either
in friendship or in love, or any of the joys of life, and expected peace only
"yonder." She adopted the tone of one who has suffered a great
disappointment, like a girl who has either lost the man she loved or been
cruelly deceived by him. Though nothing of the kind had happened to her she was
regarded in that light, and had even herself come to believe that she had
suffered much in life. This melancholy, which did not prevent her amusing
herself, did not hinder the young people who came to her house from passing the
time pleasantly. Every visitor who came to the house paid his tribute to the
melancholy mood of the hostess, and then amused himself with society gossip,
dancing, intellectual games, and bouts rimes, which were in vogue at the
Karagins'. Only a few of these young men, among them Boris, entered more deeply
into Julie's melancholy, and with these she had prolonged conversations in
private on the vanity of all worldly things, and to them she showed her albums
filled with mournful sketches, maxims, and verses. |
|
|
To Boris, Julie was particularly gracious: she regretted his early
disillusionment with life, offered him such consolation of friendship as she who
had herself suffered so much could render, and showed him her album. Boris
sketched two trees in the album and wrote: "Rustic trees, your dark
branches shed gloom and melancholy upon me." |
|
|
On another page he drew a tomb, and wrote: |
|
|
La mort est secourable et la mort est tranquille. |
|
|
Ah! contre les douleurs il n'y a pas d'autre asile.* |
|
|
*Death gives relief and death is peaceful. |
|
|
Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge. Julia said this was charming |
|
|
"There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy,"
she said to Boris, repeating word for word a passage she had copied from a book.
"It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness and despair,
showing the possibility of consolation." |
|
|
In reply Boris wrote these lines: |
|
|
Aliment de poison d'une ame trop sensible, |
|
|
Toi, sans qui le bonheur me serait impossible, |
|
|
Tendre melancholie, ah, viens me consoler, |
|
|
Viens calmer les tourments de ma sombre retraite, |
|
|
Et mele une douceur secrete |
|
|
A ces pleurs que je sens couler.* |
|
|
*Poisonous nourishment of a too sensitive soul, |
|
|
Thou, without whom happiness would for me be impossible, |
|
|
Tender melancholy, ah, come to console me, |
|
|
Come to calm the torments of my gloomy retreat, |
|
|
And mingle a secret sweetness |
|
|
With these tears that I feel to be flowing. |
|
|
For Boris, Julie played most doleful nocturnes on her harp. Boris read
Poor Liza aloud to her, and more than once interrupted the reading because of
the emotions that choked him. Meeting at large gatherings Julie and Boris looked
on one another as the only souls who understood one another in a world of
indifferent people. |
|
|
Anna Mikhaylovna, who often visited the Karagins, while playing cards
with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie's dowry (she was to have two
estates in Penza and the Nizhegorod forests). Anna Mikhaylovna regarded the
refined sadness that united her son to the wealthy Julie with emotion, and
resignation to the Divine will. |
|
|
"You are always charming and melancholy, my dear Julie," she
said to the daughter. "Boris says his soul finds repose at your house. He
has suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive," said she to the
mother. "Ah, my dear, I can't tell you how fond I have grown of Julie
latterly," she said to her son. "But who could help loving her? She is
an angelic being! Ah, Boris, Boris!"- she paused. "And how I pity her
mother," she went on; "today she showed me her accounts and letters
from Penza (they have enormous estates there), and she, poor thing, has no one
to help her, and they do cheat her so!" |
|
|
Boris smiled almost imperceptibly while listening to his mother. He
laughed blandly at her naive diplomacy but listened to what she had to say, and
sometimes questioned her carefully about the Penza and Nizhegorod estates. |
|
|
Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholy adorer and
was ready to accept it; but some secret feeling of repulsion for her, for her
passionate desire to get married, for her artificiality, and a feeling of horror
at renouncing the possibility of real love still restrained Boris. His leave was
expiring. He spent every day and whole days at the Karagins', and every day on
thinking the matter over told himself that he would propose tomorrow. But in
Julie's presence, looking at her red face and chin (nearly always powdered), her
moist eyes, and her expression of continual readiness to pass at once from
melancholy to an unnatural rapture of married bliss, Boris could not utter the
decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded himself as the
possessor of those Penza and Nizhegorod estates and had apportioned the use of
the income from them. Julie saw Boris' indecision, and sometimes the thought
occurred to her that she was repulsive to him, but her feminine self-deception
immediately supplied her with consolation, and she told herself that he was only
shy from love. Her melancholy, however, began to turn to irritability, and not
long before Boris' departure she formed a definite plan of action. Just as
Boris' leave of absence was expiring, Anatole Kuragin made his appearance in
Moscow, and of course in the Karagins' drawing room, and Julie, suddenly
abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and very attentive to Kuragin. |
|
|
"My dear," said Anna Mikhaylovna to her son, "I know from
a reliable source that Prince Vasili has sent his son to Moscow to get him
married to Julie. I am so fond of Julie that I should be sorry for her. What do
you think of it, my dear?" |
|
|
The idea of being made a fool of and of having thrown away that whole
month of arduous melancholy service to Julie, and of seeing all the revenue from
the Penza estates which he had already mentally apportioned and put to proper
use fall into the hands of another, and especially into the hands of that idiot
Anatole, pained Boris. He drove to the Karagins' with the firm intention of
proposing. Julie met him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she
had enjoyed yesterday's ball, and asked when he was leaving. Though Boris had
come intentionally to speak of his love and therefore meant to be tender, he
began speaking irritably of feminine inconstancy, of how easily women can turn
from sadness to joy, and how their moods depend solely on who happens to be
paying court to them. Julie was offended and replied that it was true that a
woman needs variety, and the same thing over and over again would weary anyone. |
|
|
"Then I should advise you..." Boris began, wishing to sting
her; but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might have
to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and have vainly wasted his
efforts- which was a thing he never allowed to happen. |
|
|
He checked himself in the middle of the sentence, lowered his eyes to
avoid seeing her unpleasantly irritated and irresolute face, and said: |
|
|
"I did not come here at all to quarrel with you. On the
contrary..." |
|
|
He glanced at her to make sure that he might go on. Her irritability had
suddenly quite vanished, and her anxious, imploring eyes were fixed on him with
greedy expectation. "I can always arrange so as not to see her often,"
thought Boris. "The affair has been begun and must be finished!" He
blushed hotly, raised his eyes to hers, and said: |
|
|
"You know my feelings for you!" |
|
|
There was no need to say more: Julie's face shone with triumph and
self-satisfaction; but she forced Boris to say all that is said on such
occasions- that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more than her.
She knew that for the Penza estates and Nizhegorod forests she could demand
this, and she received what she demanded. |
|
|
The affianced couple, no longer alluding to trees that shed gloom and
melancholy upon them, planned the arrangements of a splendid house in
Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding. |
|
|
At the end of January old Count Rostov went to Moscow with Natasha and
Sonya. The countess was still unwell and unable to travel but it was impossible
to wait for her recovery. Prince Andrew was expected in Moscow any day, the
trousseau had to be ordered and the estate near Moscow had to be sold, besides
which the opportunity of presenting his future daughter-in-law to old Prince
Bolkonski while he was in Moscow could not be missed. The Rostovs' Moscow house
had not been heated that winter and, as they had come only for a short time and
the countess was not with them, the count decided to stay with Marya Dmitrievna
Akhrosimova, who had long been pressing her hospitality on them. |
|
|
Late one evening the Rostovs' four sleighs drove into Marya Dmitrievna's
courtyard in the old Konyusheny street. Marya Dmitrievna lived alone. She had
already married off her daughter, and her sons were all in the service. |
|
|
She held herself as erect, told everyone her opinion as candidly, loudly,
and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach to others for any
weakness, passion, or temptation- the possibility of which she did not admit.
From early in the morning, wearing a dressing jacket, she attended to her
household affairs, and then she drove out: on holy days to church and after the
service to jails and prisons on affairs of which she never spoke to anyone. On
ordinary days, after dressing, she received petitioners of various classes, of
whom there were always some. Then she had dinner, a substantial and appetizing
meal at which there were always three or four guests; after dinner she played a
game of boston, and at night she had the newspapers or a new book read to her
while she knitted. She rarely made an exception and went out to pay visits, and
then only to the most important persons in the town. |
|
|
She had not yet gone to bed when the Rostovs arrived and the pulley of
the hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the Rostovs and their
servants. Marya Dmitrievna, with her spectacles hanging down on her nose and her
head flung back, stood in the hall doorway looking with a stern, grim face at
the new arrivals. One might have thought she was angry with the travelers and
would immediately turn them out, had she not at the same time been giving
careful instructions to the servants for the accommodation of the visitors and
their belongings. |
|
|
"The count's things? Bring them here," she said, pointing to
the portmanteaus and not greeting anyone. "The young ladies'? There to the
left. Now what are you dawdling for?" she cried to the maids. "Get the
samovar ready!... You've grown plumper and prettier," she remarked, drawing
Natasha (whose cheeks were glowing from the cold) to her by the hood. "Foo!
You are cold! Now take off your things, quick!" she shouted to the count
who was going to kiss her hand. "You're half frozen, I'm sure! Bring some
rum for tea!... Bonjour, Sonya dear!" she added, turning to Sonya and
indicating by this French greeting her slightly contemptuous though affectionate
attitude toward her. |
|
|
When they came in to tea, having taken off their outdoor things and
tidied themselves up after their journey, Marya Dmitrievna kissed them all in
due order. |
|
|
"I'm heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was
high time," she said, giving Natasha a significant look. "The old man
is here and his son's expected any day. You'll have to make his aquaintance. But
we'll speak of that later on," she added, glancing at Sonya with a look
that showed she did not want to speak of it in her presence. "Now
listen," she said to the count. "What do you want tomorrow? Whom will
you send for? Shinshin?" she crooked one of her fingers. "The
sniveling Anna Mikhaylovna? That's two. She's here with her son. The son is
getting married! Then Bezukhov, eh? He is here too, with his wife. He ran away
from her and she came galloping after him. He dined with me on Wednesday. As for
them"- and she pointed to the girls- "tomorrow I'll take them first to
the Iberian shrine of the Mother of God, and then we'll drive to the
Super-Rogue's. I suppose you'll have everything new. Don't judge by me: sleeves
nowadays are this size! The other day young Princess Irina Vasilevna came to see
me; she was an awful sight- looked as if she had put two barrels on her arms.
You know not a day passes now without some new fashion.... And what have you to
do yourself?" she asked the count sternly. |
|
|
"One thing has come on top of another: her rags to buy, and now a
purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house. If you will be
so kind, I'll fix a time and go down to the estate just for a day, and leave my
lassies with you." |
|
|
"All right. All right. They'll be safe with me, as safe as in
Chancery! I'll take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and pet them a
bit," said Marya Dmitrievna, touching her goddaughter and favorite,
Natasha, on the cheek with her large hand. |
|
|
Next morning Marya Dmitrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian shrine
of the Mother of God and to Madame Suppert-Roguet, who was so afraid of Marya
Dmitrievna that she always let her have costumes at a loss merely to get rid of
her. Marya Dmitrievna ordered almost the whole trousseau. When they got home she
turned everybody out of the room except Nataisha, and then called her pet to her
armchair. |
|
|
"Well, now we'll talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed. You've
hooked a fine fellow! I am glad for your sake and I've known him since he was so
high." She held her hand a couple of feet from the ground. Natasha blushed
happily. "I like him and all his family. Now listen! You know that old
Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son's marrying. The old fellow's crotchety! Of
course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without him, but it's not nice
to enter a family against a father's will. One wants to do it peacefully and
lovingly. You're a clever girl and you'll know how to manage. Be kind, and use
your wits. Then all will be well." |
|
|
Natasha remained silent, from shyness Marya Dmitrievna supposed, but
really because she disliked anyone interfering in what touched her love of
Prince Andrew, which seemed to her so apart from all human affairs that no one
could understand it. She loved and knew Prince Andrew, he loved her only, and
was to come one of these days and take her. She wanted nothing more. |
|
|
"You see I have known him a long time and am also fond of Mary, your
future sister-in-law. 'Husbands' sisters bring up blisters,' but this one
wouldn't hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two together. Tomorrow you'll
go with your father to see her. Be very nice and affectionate to her: you're
younger than she. When he comes, he'll find you already know his sister and
father and are liked by them. Am I right or not? Won't that be best?" |
|
|
"Yes, it will," Natasha answered reluctantly. |
|
|
Next day, by Marya Dmitrievna's advice, Count Rostov took Natasha to call
on Prince Nicholas Bolkonski. The count did not set out cheerfully on this
visit, at heart he felt afraid. He well remembered the last interview he had had
with the old prince at the time of the enrollment, when in reply to an
invitation to dinner he had had to listen to an angry reprimand for not having
provided his full quota of men. Natasha, on the other hand, having put on her
best gown, was in the highest spirits. "They can't help liking me,"
she thought. "Everybody always has liked me, and I am so willing to do
anything they wish, so ready to be fond of him- for being his father- and of
her- for being his sister- that there is no reason for them not to like
me..." |
|
|
They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvizhenka and entered the
vestibule. |
|
|
"Well, the Lord have mercy on us!" said the count, half in
jest, half in earnest; but Natasha noticed that her father was flurried on
entering the anteroom and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince and
princess were at home. |
|
|
When they had been announced a perturbation was noticeable among the
servants. The footman who had gone to announce them was stopped by another in
the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a maidservant ran into
the hall and hurriedly said something, mentioning the princess. At last an old,
cross looking footman came and announced to the Rostovs that the prince was not
receiving, but that the princess begged them to walk up. The first person who
came to meet the visitors was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted the father and
daughter with special politeness and showed them to the princess' room. The
princess, looking excited and nervous, her face flushed in patches, ran in to
meet the visitors, treading heavily, and vainly trying to appear cordial and at
ease. From the first glance Princess Mary did not like Natasha. She thought her
too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and vain. She did not at all realize
that before having seen her future sister-in-law she was prejudiced against her
by involuntary envy of her beauty, youth, and happiness, as well as by jealousy
of her brother's love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her,
Princess Mary was agitated just then because on the Rostovs' being announced,
the old prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that Princess Mary
might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted to him. She had
decided to receive them, but feared lest the prince might at any moment indulge
in some freak, as he seemed much upset by the Rostovs' visit. |
|
|
"There, my dear princess, I've brought you my songstress," said
the count, bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince might
appear. "I am so glad you should get to know one another... very sorry the
prince is still ailing," and after a few more commonplace remarks he rose.
"If you'll allow me to leave my Natasha in your hands for a quarter of an
hour, Princess, I'll drive round to see Anna Semenovna, it's quite near in the
Dogs' Square, and then I'll come back for her." |
|
|
The count had devised this diplomatic ruse (as he afterwards told his
daughter) to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk to one
another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of encountering the
old prince, of whom he was afraid. He did not mention this to his daughter, but
Natasha noticed her father's nervousness and anxiety and felt mortified by it.
She blushed for him, grew still angrier at having blushed, and looked at the
princess with a bold and defiant expression which said that she was not afraid
of anybody. The princess told the count that she would be delighted, and only
begged him to stay longer at Anna Semenovna's, and he departed. |
|
|
Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary- who wished to
have a tete-a-tete with Natasha- Mademoiselle Bourienne remained in the room and
persistently talked about Moscow amusements and theaters. Natasha felt offended
by the hesitation she had noticed in the anteroom, by her father's nervousness,
and by the unnatural manner of the princess who- she thought- was making a favor
of receiving her, and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess
Mary, whom she thought very plain, affected, and dry. Natasha suddenly shrank
into herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated Princess
Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome, constrained conversation, they
heard the sound of slippered feet rapidly approaching. Princess Mary looked
frightened. |
|
|
The door opened and the old prince, in a dress, ing gown and a white
nightcap, came in. |
|
|
"Ah, madam!" he began. "Madam, Countess... Countess
Rostova, if I am not mistaken... I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me... I did
not know, madam. God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with a
visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you to excuse
me... God is my witness, I didn't know-" he repeated, stressing the word
"God" so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that Princess Mary stood with
downcast eyes not daring to look either at her father or at Natasha. |
|
|
Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do.
Mademoiselle Bourienne alone smiled agreeably. |
|
|
"I beg you to excuse me, excuse me! God is my witness, I did not
know," muttered the old man, and after looking Natasha over from head to
foot he went out. |
|
|
Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this
apparition and began speaking about the prince's indisposition. Natasha and
Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the longer they did so
without saying what they wanted to say, the greater grew their antipathy to one
another. |
|
|
When the count returned, Natasha was impolitely pleased and hastened to
get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who could place
her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an hour with her without
once mentioning Prince Andrew. "I couldn't begin talking about him in the
presence of that Frenchwoman," thought Natasha. The same thought was
meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She knew what she ought to have said to
Natasha, but she had been unable to say it because Mademoiselle Bourienne was in
the way, and because, without knowing why, she felt it very difficult to speak
of the marriage. When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary went
up hurriedly to Natasha, took her by the hand, and said with a deep sigh: |
|
|
"Wait, I must..." |
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|
Natasha glanced at her ironically without knowing why. |
|
|
"Dear Natalie," said Princess Mary, "I want you to know
that I am glad my brother has found happiness...." |
|
|
She paused, feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natasha noticed
this and guessed its reason. |
|
|
"I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now,"
she said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears choking
her. |
|
|
"What have I said and what have I done?" thought she, as soon
as she was out of the room. |
|
|
They waited a long time for Natasha to come to dinner that day. She sat
in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sonya stood
beside her, kissing her hair. |
|
|
"Natasha, what is it about?" she asked. "What do they
matter to you? It will all pass, Natasha." |
|
|
"But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I..." |
|
|
"Don't talk about it, Natasha. It wasn't your fault so why should
you mind? Kiss me," said Sonya. |
|
|
Natasha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed her
wet face against her. |
|
|
"I can't tell you, I don't know. No one's to blame," said
Natasha- "It's my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why doesn't he
come?..." |
|
|
She came in to dinner with red eyes. Marya Dmitrievna, who knew how the
prince had received the Rostovs, pretended not to notice how upset Natasha was
and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count and the other guests. |
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|
That evening the Rostovs went to the Opera, for which Marya Dmitrievna
had taken a box. |
|
|
Natasha did not want to go, but could not refuse Marya Dmitrievna's kind
offer which was intended expressly for her. When she came ready dressed into the
ballroom to await her father, and looking in the large mirror there saw that she
was pretty, very pretty, she felt even more sad, but it was a sweet, tender
sadness. |
|
|
"O God, if he were here now I would not behave as I did then, but
differently. I would not be silly and afraid of things, I would simply embrace
him, cling to him, and make him look at me with those searching inquiring eyes
with which he has so often looked at me, and then I would make him laugh as he
used to laugh. And his eyes- how I see those eyes!" thought Natasha.
"And what do his father and sister matter to me? I love him alone, him,
him, with that face and those eyes, with his smile, manly and yet childlike....
No, I had better not think of him; not think of him but forget him, quite forget
him for the present. I can't bear this waiting and I shall cry in a
minute!" and she turned away from the glass, making an effort not to cry.
"And how can Sonya love Nicholas so calmly and quietly and wait so long and
so patiently?" thought she, looking at Sonya, who also came in quite ready,
with a fan in her hand. "No, she's altogether different. I can't!" |
|
|
Natasha at that moment felt so softened and tender that it was not enough
for her to love and know she was beloved, she wanted now, at once, to embrace
the man she loved, to speak and hear from him words of love such as filled her
heart. While she sat in the carriage beside her father, pensively watching the
lights of the street lamps flickering on the frozen window, she felt still
sadder and more in love, and forgot where she was going and with whom. Having
fallen into the line of carriages, the Rostovs' carriage drove up to the
theater, its wheels squeaking over the snow. Natasha and Sonya, holding up their
dresses, jumped out quickly. The count got out helped by the footmen, and,
passing among men and women who were entering and the program sellers, they all
three went along the corridor to the first row of boxes. Through the closed
doors the music was already audible. |
|
|
"Natasha, your hair!..." whispered Sonya. |
|
|
An attendant deferentially and quickly slipped before the ladies and
opened the door of their box. The music sounded louder and through the door rows
of brightly lit boxes in which ladies sat with bare arms and shoulders, and
noisy stalls brilliant with uniforms, glittered before their eyes. A lady
entering the next box shot a glance of feminine envy at Natasha. The curtain had
not yet risen and the overture was being played. Natasha, smoothing her gown,
went in with Sonya and sat down, scanning the brilliant tiers of boxes opposite.
A sensation she had not experienced for a long time- that of hundreds of eyes
looking at her bare arms and neck- suddenly affected her both agreeably and
disagreeably and called up a whole crowd of memories, desires and emotions
associated with that feeling. |
|
|
The two remarkably pretty girls, Natasha and Sonya, with Count Rostov who
had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general attention.
Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natasha's engagement to Prince Andrew, and
knew that the Rostovs had lived in the country ever since, and all looked with
curiosity at a fiancee who was making one of the best matches in Russia. |
|
|
Natasha's looks, as everyone told her, had improved in the country, and
that evening thanks to her agitation she was particularly pretty. She struck
those who saw her by her fullness of life and beauty, combined with her
indifference to everything about her. Her black eyes looked at the crowd without
seeking anyone, and her delicate arm, bare to above the elbow, lay on the velvet
edge of the box, while, evidently unconsciously, she opened and closed her hand
in time to the music, crumpling her program. "Look, there's Alenina,"
said Sonya, "with her mother, isn't it?" |
|
|
"Dear me, Michael Kirilovich has grown still stouter!" remarked
the count. |
|
|
"Look at our Anna Mikhaylovna- what a headdress she has on!" |
|
|
"The Karagins, Julie- and Boris with them. One can see at once that
they're engaged...." |
|
|
"Drubetskoy has proposed?" |
|
|
"Oh yes, I heard it today," said Shinshin, coming into the
Rostovs' box. |
|
|
Natasha looked in the direction in which her father's eyes were turned
and saw Julie sitting beside her mother with a happy look on her face and a
string of pearls round her thick red neck- which Natasha knew was covered with
powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning over with an ear to Julie's
mouth, was Boris' handsome smoothly brushed head. He looked the Rostovs from
under his brows and said something, smiling, to his betrothed. |
|
|
"They are talking about us, about me and him!" thought Natasha.
"And he no doubt is calming her jealousy of me. They needn't trouble
themselves! If only they knew how little I am concerned about any of them." |
|
|
Behind them sat Anna Mikhaylovna wearing a green headdress and with a
happy look of resignation to the will of God on her face. Their box was pervaded
by that atmosphere of an affianced couple which Natasha knew so well and liked
so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all that had been so
humiliating in her morning's visit. |
|
|
"What right has he not to wish to receive me into his family? Oh,
better not think of it- not till he comes back!" she told herself, and
began looking at the faces, some strange and some familiar, in the stalls. In
the front, in the very center, leaning back against the orchestra rail, stood
Dolokhov in a Persian dress, his curly hair brushed up into a huge shock. He
stood in full view of the audience, well aware that he was attracting everyone's
attention, yet as much at ease as though he were in his own room. Around him
thronged Moscow's most brilliant young men, whom he evidently dominated. |
|
|
The count, laughing, nudged the blushing Sonya and pointed to her former
adorer. |
|
|
"Do you recognize him?" said he. "And where has he sprung
from?" he asked, turning to Shinshin. "Didn't he vanish
somewhere?" |
|
|
"He did," replied Shinshin. "He was in the Caucasus and
ran away from there. They say he has been acting as minister to some ruling
prince in Persia, where he killed the Shah's brother. Now all the Moscow ladies
are mad about him! It's 'Dolokhov the Persian' that does it! We never hear a
word but Dolokhov is mentioned. They swear by him, they offer him to you as they
would a dish of choice sterlet. Dolokhov and Anatole Kuragin have turned all our
ladies' heads." |
|
|
A tall, beautiful woman with a mass of plaited hair and much exposed
plump white shoulders and neck, round which she wore a double string of large
pearls, entered the adjoining box rustling her heavy silk dress and took a long
time settling into her place. |
|
|
Natasha involuntarily gazed at that neck, those shoulders, and pearls and
coiffure, and admired the beauty of the shoulders and the pearls. While Natasha
was fixing her gaze on her for the second time the lady looked round and,
meeting the count's eyes, nodded to him and smiled. She was the Countess
Bezukhova, Pierre's wife, and the count, who knew everyone in society, leaned
over and spoke to her. |
|
|
"Have you been here long, Countess?" he inquired. "I'll
call, I'll call to kiss your hand. I'm here on business and have brought my
girls with me. They say Semenova acts marvelously. Count Pierre never used to
forget us. Is he here?" |
|
|
"Yes, he meant to look in," answered Helene, and glanced
attentively at Natasha. |
|
|
Count Rostov resumed his seat. |
|
|
"Handsome, isn't she?" he whispered to Natasha. |
|
|
"Wonderful!" answered Natasha. "She's a woman one could
easily fall in love with." |
|
|
Just then the last chords of the overture were heard and the conductor
tapped with his stick. Some latecomers took their seats in the stalls, and the
curtain rose. |
|
|
As soon as it rose everyone in the boxes and stalls became silent, and
all the men, old and young, in uniform and evening dress, and all the women with
gems on their bare flesh, turned their whole attention with eager curiosity to
the stage. Natasha too began to look at it. |
|
|
The floor of the stage consisted of smooth boards, at the sides was some
painted cardboard representing trees, and at the back was a cloth stretched over
boards. In the center of the stage sat some girls in red bodices and white
skirts. One very fat girl in a white silk dress sat apart on a low bench, to the
back of which a piece of green cardboard was glued. They all sang something.
When they had finished their song the girl in white went up to the prompter's
box and a man with tight silk trousers over his stout legs, and holding a plume
and a dagger, went up to her and began singing, waving his arms about. |
|
|
First the man in the tight trousers sang alone, then she sang, then they
both paused while the orchestra played and the man fingered the hand of the girl
in white, obviously awaiting the beat to start singing with her. They sang
together and everyone in the theater began clapping and shouting, while the man
and woman on the stage- who represented lovers- began smiling, spreading out
their arms, and bowing. |
|
|
After her life in the country, and in her present serious mood, all this
seemed grotesque and amazing to Natasha. She could not follow the opera nor even
listen to the music; she saw only the painted cardboard and the queerly dressed
men and women who moved, spoke, and sang so strangely in that brilliant light.
She knew what it was all meant to represent, but it was so pretentiously false
and unnatural that she first felt ashamed for the actors and then amused at
them. She looked at the faces of the audience, seeking in them the same sense of
ridicule and perplexity she herself experienced, but they all seemed attentive
to what was happening on the stage, and expressed delight which to Natasha
seemed feigned. "I suppose it has to be like this!" she thought. She
kept looking round in turn at the rows of pomaded heads in the stalls and then
at the seminude women in the boxes, especially at Helene in the next box, who-
apparently quite unclothed- sat with a quiet tranquil smile, not taking her eyes
off the stage. And feeling the bright light that flooded the whole place and the
warm air heated by the crowd, Natasha little by little began to pass into a
state of intoxication she had not experienced for a long while. She did not
realize who and where she was, nor what was going on before her. As she looked
and thought, the strangest fancies unexpectedly and disconnectedly passed
through her mind: the idea occurred to her of jumping onto the edge of the box
and singing the air the actress was singing, then she wished to touch with her
fan an old gentleman sitting not far from her, then to lean over to Helene and
tickle her. |
|
|
At a moment when all was quiet before the commencement of a song, a door
leading to the stalls on the side nearest the Rostovs' box creaked, and the
steps of a belated arrival were heard. "There's Kuragin!" whispered
Shinshin. Countess Bezukhova turned smiling to the newcomer, and Natasha,
following the direction of that look, saw an exceptionally handsome adjutant
approaching their box with a self-assured yet courteous bearing. This was
Anatole Kuragin whom she had seen and noticed long ago at the ball in
Petersburg. He was now in an adjutant's uniform with one epaulet and a shoulder
knot. He moved with a restrained swagger which would have been ridiculous had he
not been so good-looking and had his handsome face not worn such an expression
of good-humored complacency and gaiety. Though the performance was proceeding,
he walked deliberately down the carpeted gangway, his sword and spurs slightly
jingling and his handsome perfumed head held high. Having looked at Natasha he
approached his sister, laid his well gloved hand on the edge of her box, nodded
to her, and leaning forward asked a question, with a motion toward Natasha. |
|
|
"Mais charmante!" said he, evidently referring to Natasha, who
did not exactly hear his words but understood them from the movement of his
lips. Then he took his place in the first row of the stalls and sat down beside
Dolokhov, nudging with his elbow in a friendly and offhand way that Dolokhov
whom others treated so fawningly. He winked at him gaily, smiled, and rested his
foot against the orchestra screen. |
|
|
"How like the brother is to the sister," remarked the count.
"And how handsome they both are!" |
|
|
Shinshin, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of
Kuragin's in Moscow, and Natasha tried to overhear it just because he had said
she was "charmante." |
|
|
The first act was over. In the stalls everyone began moving about, going
out and coming in. |
|
|
Boris came to the Rostovs' box, received their congratulations very
simply, and raising his eyebrows with an absent-minded smile conveyed to Natasha
and Sonya his fiancee's invitation to her wedding, and went away. Natasha with a
gay, coquettish smile talked to him, and congratulated on his approaching
wedding that same Boris with whom she had formerly been in love. In the state of
intoxication she was in, everything seemed simple and natural. |
|
|
The scantily clad Helene smiled at everyone in the same way, and Natasha
gave Boris a similar smile. |
|
|
Helene's box was filled and surrounded from the stalls by the most
distinguished and intellectual men, who seemed to vie with one another in their
wish to let everyone see that they knew her. |
|
|
During the whole of that entr'acte Kuragin stood with Dolokhov in front
of the orchestra partition, looking at the Rostovs' box. Natasha knew he was
talking about her and this afforded her pleasure. She even turned so that he
should see her profile in what she thought was its most becoming aspect. Before
the beginning of the second act Pierre appeared in the stalls. The Rostovs had
not seen him since their arrival. His face looked sad, and he had grown still
stouter since Natasha last saw him. He passed up to the front rows, not noticing
anyone. Anatole went up to him and began speaking to him, looking at and
indicating the Rostovs' box. On seeing Natasha Pierre grew animated and, hastily
passing between the rows, came toward their box. When he got there he leaned on
his elbows and, smiling, talked to her for a long time. While conversing with
Pierre, Natasha heard a man's voice in Countess Bezukhova's box and something
told her it was Kuragin. She turned and their eyes met. Almost smiling, he gazed
straight into her eyes with such an enraptured caressing look that it seemed
strange to be so near him, to look at him like that, to be so sure he admired
her, and not to be acquainted with him. |
|
|
In the second act there was scenery representing tombstones, there was a
round hole in the canvas to represent the moon, shades were raised over the
footlights, and from horns and contrabass came deep notes while many people
appeared from right and left wearing black cloaks and holding things like
daggers in their hands. They began waving their arms. Then some other people ran
in and began dragging away the maiden who had been in white and was now in light
blue. They did not drag her away at once, but sang with her for a long time and
then at last dragged her off, and behind the scenes something metallic was
struck three times and everyone knelt down and sang a prayer. All these things
were repeatedly interrupted by the enthusiastic shouts of the audience. |
|
|
During this act every time Natasha looked toward the stalls she saw
Anatole Kuragin with an arm thrown across the back of his chair, staring at her.
She was pleased to see that he was captivated by her and it did not occur to her
that there was anything wrong in it. |
|
|
When the second act was over Countess Bezukhova rose, turned to the
Rostovs' box- her whole bosom completely exposed- beckoned the old count with a
gloved finger, and paying no attention to those who had entered her box began
talking to him with an amiable smile. |
|
|
"Do make me acquainted with your charming daughters," said she.
"The whole town is singing their praises and I don't even know then!" |
|
|
Natasha rose and curtsied to the splendid countess. She was so pleased by
praise from this brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure. |
|
|
"I want to become a Moscovite too, now," said Helene. "How
is it you're not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country?" |
|
|
Countess Bezukhova quite deserved her reputation of being a fascinating
woman. She could say what she did not think- especially what was flattering-
quite simply and naturally. |
|
|
"Dear count, you must let me look after your daughters! Though I am
not staying here long this time- nor are you- I will try to amuse them. I have
already heard much of you in Petersburg and wanted to get to know you,"
said she to Natasha with her stereotyped and lovely smile. "I had heard
about you from my page, Drubetskoy. Have you heard he is getting married? And
also from my husband's friend Bolkonski, Prince Andrew Bolkonski," she went
on with special emphasis, implying that she knew of his relation to Natasha. To
get better acquainted she asked that one of the young ladies should come into
her box for the rest of the performance, and Natasha moved over to it. |
|
|
The scene of the third act represented a palace in which many candles
were burning and pictures of knights with short beards hung on the walls. In the
middle stood what were probably a king and a queen. The king waved his right arm
and, evidently nervous, sang something badly and sat down on a crimson throne.
The maiden who had been first in white and then in light blue, now wore only a
smock, and stood beside the throne with her hair down. She sang something
mournfully, addressing the queen, but the king waved his arm severely, and men
and women with bare legs came in from both sides and began dancing all together.
Then the violins played very shrilly and merrily and one of the women with thick
bare legs and thin arms, separating from the others, went behind the wings,
adjusted her bodice, returned to the middle of the stage, and began jumping and
striking one foot rapidly against the other. In the stalls everyone clapped and
shouted "bravo!" Then one of the men went into a corner of the stage.
The cymbals and horns in the orchestra struck up more loudly, and this man with
bare legs jumped very high and waved his feet about very rapidly. (He was
Duport, who received sixty thousand rubles a year for this art.) Everybody in
the stalls, boxes, and galleries began clapping and shouting with all their
might, and the man stopped and began smiling and bowing to all sides. Then other
men and women danced with bare legs. Then the king again shouted to the sound of
music, and they all began singing. But suddenly a storm came on, chromatic
scales and diminished sevenths were heard in the orchestra, everyone ran off,
again dragging one of their number away, and the curtain dropped. Once more
there was a terrible noise and clatter among the audience, and with rapturous
faces everyone began shouting: "Duport! Duport! Duport!" Natasha no
longer thought this strange. She look about with pleasure, smiling joyfully. |
|
|
"Isn't Duport delightful?" Helene asked her. |
|
|
"Oh, yes," replied Natasha. |
|
|
During the entr'acte a whiff of cold air came into Helene's box, the door
opened, and Anatole entered, stooping and trying not to brush against anyone. |
|
|
"Let me introduce my brother to you," said Helene, her eyes
shifting uneasily from Natasha to Anatole. |
|
|
Natasha turned her pretty little head toward the elegant young officer
and smiled at him over her bare shoulder. Anatole, who was as handsome at close
quarters as at a distance, sat down beside her and told her he had long wished
to have this happiness- ever since the Naryshkins' ball in fact, at which he had
had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing her. Kuragin was much more sensible
and simple with women than among men. He talked boldly and naturally, and
Natasha was strangely and agreeably struck by the fact that there was nothing
formidable in this man about whom there was so much talk, but that on the
contrary his smile was most naive, cheerful, and good-natured. |
|
|
Kuragin asked her opinion of the performance and told her how at a
previous performance Semenova had fallen down on the stage. |
|
|
"And do you know, Countess," he said, suddenly addressing her
as an old, familiar acquaintance, "we are getting up a costume tournament;
you ought to take part in it! It will be great fun. We shall all meet at the
Karagins'! Please come! No! Really, eh?" said he. |
|
|
While saying this he never removed his smiling eyes from her face, her
neck, and her bare arms. Natasha knew for certain that he was enraptured by her.
This pleased her, yet his presence made her feel constrained and oppressed. When
she was not looking at him she felt that he was looking at her shoulders, and
she involuntarily caught his eye so that he should look into hers rather than
this. But looking into his eyes she was frightened, realizing that there was not
that barrier of modesty she had always felt between herself and other men. She
did not know how it was that within five minutes she had come to feel herself
terribly near to this man. When she turned away she feared he might seize her
from behind by her bare arm and kiss her on the neck. They spoke of most
ordinary things, yet she felt that they were closer to one another than she had
ever been to any man. Natasha kept turning to Helene and to her father, as if
asking what it all meant, but Helene was engaged in conversation with a general
and did not answer her look, and her father's eyes said nothing but what they
always said: "Having a good time? Well, I'm glad of it!" |
|
|
During one of these moments of awkward silence when Anatole's prominent
eyes were gazing calmly and fixedly at her, Natasha, to break the silence, asked
him how he liked Moscow. She asked the question and blushed. She felt all the
time that by talking to him she was doing something improper. Anatole smiled as
though to encourage her. |
|
|
"At first I did not like it much, because what makes a town pleasant
ce sont les jolies femmes,* isn't that so? But now I like it very much
indeed," he said, looking at her significantly. "You'll come to the
costume tournament, Countess? Do come!" and putting out his hand to her
bouquet and dropping his voice, he added, "You will be the prettiest there.
Do come, dear countess, and give me this flower as a pledge!" |
|
|
*Are the pretty women. |
|
|
Natasha did not understand what he was saying any more than he did
himself, but she felt that his incomprehensible words had an improper intention.
She did not know what to say and turned away as if she had not heard his remark.
But as soon as she had turned away she felt that he was there, behind, so close
behind her. |
|
|
"How is he now? Confused? Angry? Ought I to put it right?" she
asked herself, and she could not refrain from turning round. She looked straight
into his eyes, and his nearness, self-assurance, and the good-natured tenderness
of his smile vanquished her. She smiled just as he was doing, gazing straight
into his eyes. And again she felt with horror that no barrier lay between him
and her. |
|
|
The curtain rose again. Anatole left the box, serene and gay. Natasha
went back to her father in the other box, now quite submissive to the world she
found herself in. All that was going on before her now seemed quite natural, but
on the other hand all her previous thoughts of her betrothed, of Princess Mary,
or of life in the country did not once recur to her mind and were as if
belonging to a remote past. |
|
|
In the fourth act there was some sort of devil who sang waving his arm
about, till the boards were withdrawn from under him and he disappeared down
below. That was the only part of the fourth act that Natasha saw. She felt
agitated and tormented, and the cause of this was Kuragin whom she could not
help watching. As they were leaving the theater Anatole came up to them, called
their carriage, and helped them in. As he was putting Natasha in he pressed her
arm above the elbow. Agitated and flushed she turned round. He was looking at
her with glittering eyes, smiling tenderly. |
|
|
Only after she had reached home was Natasha able clearly to think over
what had happened to her, and suddenly remem | | | |
