Key Stuffing Archive

Key Stuffing Archive: Leo Master Contest WP Page Solemn JUN 2021 250K / --> Key Stuffing Archive May 9, 2023 Leo Master Contest WP Page Solemn JUN 2021 250K WAR AND PEACE By Leo Tostoy/Tolstoi Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don-t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist-”I really believe he is Antichrist-”I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my faithful slave,-- as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you-”sit down and tell me all the news It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna PÃ¡vlovna SchÃ©rer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress MÃ¡rya FÃ«dorovna. With these words she greeted Prince VasÃli KurÃ¡gin, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna PÃ¡vlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite. All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows: --If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10-”Annette SchÃ©rer --Heavens! what a virulent attack!- replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and sh-s, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna PÃ¡vlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa. --First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend--s mind at rest,- said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned. --Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feeling?- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna. --You are staying the whole evening, I hope?- --And the fete at the English ambassador--s? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there,- said the prince. --My daughter is coming for me to take me there --I thought today--s fete had been canceled. I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome --If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been put off,- said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed. --Don--t tease! Well, and what has been decided about NovosÃltsev--s dispatch? You know everything --What can one say about it?- replied the prince in a cold, listless tone. --What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours Prince VasÃli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna PÃ¡vlovna SchÃ©rer on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct. In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna PÃ¡vlovna burst out: --Oh, don--t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don--t understand things, but Austria never has wished, and d-s not wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander--s loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer did NovosÃltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don--t believe a word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!- She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity. --I think,- said the prince with a smile, --that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia--s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of tea?- --In a moment. Ã€ propos,- she added, becoming calm again, --I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart, who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families. He is one of the genuine Ã©migrÃ©s, the good ones. And also the AbbÃ© Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?- --I shall be delighted to meet them,- said the prince. --But tell me,- he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, --is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all accounts is a poor creature Prince VasÃli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress MÃ¡rya FÃ«dorovna to secure it for the baron. Anna PÃ¡vlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was pleased with. --Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister,- was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone. As she named the Empress, Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d--estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness. The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna PÃ¡vlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said: --Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude. --I often think,- she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation-”--I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don--t speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don--t like him,- she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. --Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don--t deserve to have them And she smiled her ecstatic smile. --I can--t help it,- said the prince. --Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity --Don--t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves- (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), --he was mentioned at Her Majesty--s and you were pitied... The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned. --What would you have me do?- he said at last. --You know I did all a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant. --And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, looking up pensively. --I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can--t be helped!- He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna PÃ¡vlovna meditated. --Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?- she asked. --They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don--t feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary BolkÃ³nskaya Prince VasÃli did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information. --Do you know,- he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, --that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year? And,- he went on after a pause, --what will it be in five years, if he g-s on like this?- Presently he added: --That--s what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours rich?- --Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Prince BolkÃ³nski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed -the King of Prussia.-- He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of KutÃºzov--s and will be here tonight --Listen, dear Annette,- said the prince, suddenly taking Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. --Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that--s all I want And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the maid of honor--s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction. --Attendez,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, reflecting, --I--ll speak to Lise, young BolkÃ³nski--s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family--s behalf that I--ll start my apprenticeship as old maid CHAPTER II Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age and character but alike in the social circle to which they belonged. Prince VasÃli--s daughter, the beautiful HÃ©lÃ¨ne, came to take her father to the ambassador--s entertainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess BolkÃ³nskaya, known as la femme la plus sÃ©duisante de PÃ©tersbourg, * was also there. She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince VasÃli--s son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced. The AbbÃ© Morio and many others had also come. * The most fascinating woman in Petersburg. To each new arrival Anna PÃ¡vlovna said, --You have not yet seen my aunt,- or --You do not know my aunt?- and very gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna PÃ¡vlovna mentioned each one--s name and then left them. Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them cared about; Anna PÃ¡vlovna observed these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her Majesty, --who, thank God, was better today And each visitor, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening. The young Princess BolkÃ³nskaya had brought some work in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect-”the shortness of her upper lip and her half-open mouth-”seemed to be her own special and peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a specially amiable mood that day. The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around her. --I have brought my work,- said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present. --Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,- she added, turning to her hostess. --You wrote that it was to be quite a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed And she spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast. --Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone else,- replied Anna PÃ¡vlovna. --You know,- said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in French, turning to a general, --my husband is deserting me? He is going to get himself killed. Tell me what this wretched war is for?- she added, addressing Prince VasÃli, and without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful HÃ©lÃ¨ne. --What a delightful woman this little princess is!- said Prince VasÃli to Anna PÃ¡vlovna. One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout young man was an illegitimate son of Count BezÃºkhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine--s time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his first appearance in society. Anna PÃ¡vlovna greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room. --It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a poor invalid,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her. Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance. Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about Her Majesty--s health. Anna PÃ¡vlovna in dismay detained him with the words: --Do you know the AbbÃ© Morio? He is a most interesting man --Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it is very interesting but hardly feasible --You think so?- rejoined Anna PÃ¡vlovna in order to say something and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbÃ©--s plan chimerical. --We will talk of it later,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna with a smile. And having got rid of this young man who did not know how to behave, she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, g-s round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna PÃ¡vlovna moved about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbÃ©. Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio. Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing. CHAPTER III Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbÃ©. Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful Princess HÃ©lÃ¨ne, Prince VasÃli--s daughter, and the little Princess BolkÃ³nskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age. The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna PÃ¡vlovna. The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna PÃ¡vlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her guests. As a clever maÃ®tre d--hÃ´tel serves up as a specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna PÃ¡vlovna served up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbÃ©, as peculiarly choice morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc d--Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d--Enghien had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular reasons for Buonaparte--s hatred of him. --Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something Ã la Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: --Contez nous Ã§ela, Vicomte The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to comply. Anna PÃ¡vlovna arranged a group round him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale. --The vicomte knew the duc personally,- whispered Anna PÃ¡vlovna to one of the guests. --The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,- said she to another. --How evidently he belongs to the best society,- said she to a third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot dish. The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile. --Come over here, HÃ©lÃ¨ne, dear,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna to the beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the center of another group. The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which she had first entered the room-”the smile of a perfectly beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders, back, and bosom-”which in the fashion of those days were very much exposed-”and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna PÃ¡vlovna. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was so lovely that not only did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect. --How lovely!- said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile. --Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,- said he, smilingly inclining his head. The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna PÃ¡vlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor--s face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile. The little princess had also left the tea table and followed HÃ©lÃ¨ne. --Wait a moment, I--ll get my work.... Now then, what are you thinking of?- she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. --Fetch me my workbag There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily arranged herself in her seat. --Now I am all right,- she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she took up her work. Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside her. Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his sister--s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions. --It--s not going to be a ghost story?- said he, sitting down beside the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if without this instrument he could not begin to speak. --Why no, my dear fellow,- said the astonished narrator, shrugging his shoulders. --Because I hate ghost stories,- said Prince Hippolyte in a tone which showed that he only understood the meaning of his words after he had uttered them. He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayÃ©e, as he called it, sh-s, and silk stockings. The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current, to the effect that the Duc d--Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress-- favors, and that in his presence Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject, and was thus at the duc--s mercy. The latter spared him, and this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death. The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated. --Charming!- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna with an inquiring glance at the little princess. --Charming!- whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it. The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna PÃ¡vlovna, who had kept a watchful eye on the young man who so alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbÃ©, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbÃ© about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man--s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why Anna PÃ¡vlovna disapproved. --The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of the people,- the abbÃ© was saying. --It is only necessary for one powerful nation like Russia-”barbaric as she is said to be-”to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the world!- --But how are you to get that balance?- Pierre was beginning. At that moment Anna PÃ¡vlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian--s face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women. --I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of the climate,- said he. Not letting the abbÃ© and Pierre escape, Anna PÃ¡vlovna, the more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the larger circle. CHAPTER IV Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski, the little princess-- husband. He was a very handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company. --You are off to the war, Prince?- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna. --General KutÃºzov,- said BolkÃ³nski, speaking French and stressing the last syllable of the general--s name like a Frenchman, --has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp... --And Lise, your wife?- --She will go to the country --Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?- --AndrÃ©,- said his wife, addressing her husband in the same coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, --the vicomte has been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle George and Buonaparte!- Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with wh-ver was touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre--s beaming face he gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile. --There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?- said he to Pierre. --I knew you would be here,- replied Pierre. --I will come to supper with you. May I?- he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story. --No, impossible!- said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing Pierre--s hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince VasÃli and his daughter got up to go and the two young men rose to let them pass. --You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,- said Prince VasÃli to the Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent his rising. --This unfortunate fete at the ambassador--s deprives me of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party,- said he, turning to Anna PÃ¡vlovna. His daughter, Princess HÃ©lÃ¨ne, passed between the chairs, lightly holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him. --Very lovely,- said Prince Andrew. --Very,- said Pierre. In passing Prince VasÃli seized Pierre--s hand and said to Anna PÃ¡vlovna: --Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever women Anna PÃ¡vlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his father to be a connection of Prince VasÃli--s. The elderly lady who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince VasÃli in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed had left her kindly and tear-worn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear. --How about my son BorÃs, Prince?- said she, hurrying after him into the anteroom. --I can--t remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what news I may take back to my poor boy Although Prince VasÃli listened reluctantly and not very politely to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might not go away. --What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he would be transferred to the Guards at once?- said she. --Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can,- answered Prince VasÃli, --but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should advise you to appeal to RumyÃ¡ntsev through Prince GolÃtsyn. That would be the best way The elderly lady was a Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya, belonging to one of the best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son. It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince VasÃli that she had obtained an invitation to Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s reception and had sat listening to the vicomte--s story. Prince VasÃli--s words frightened her, an embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment; then she smiled again and clutched Prince VasÃli--s arm more tightly. --Listen to me, Prince,- said she. --I have never yet asked you for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my father--s friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God--s sake to do this for my son-”and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,- she added hurriedly. --No, don--t be angry, but promise! I have asked GolÃtsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were,- she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes. --Papa, we shall be late,- said Princess HÃ©lÃ¨ne, turning her beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she stood waiting by the door. Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized if it is to last. Prince VasÃli knew this, and having once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But in Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya--s case he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded him of what was quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the first steps in his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of those women-”mostly mothers-”who, having once made up their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This last consideration moved him. --My dear Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna,- said he with his usual familiarity and weariness of tone, --it is almost impossible for me to do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father--s memory, I will do the impossible-”your son shall be transferred to the Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?- --My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you-”I knew your kindness!- He turned to go. --Wait-”just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards.. she faltered. --You are on good terms with Michael IlariÃ³novich KutÃºzov ... recommend BorÃs to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at rest, and then.. Prince VasÃli smiled. --No, I won--t promise that. You don--t know how KutÃºzov is pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as adjutants --No, but do promise! I won--t let you go! My dear benefactor.. --Papa,- said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before, --we shall be late --Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?- --Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?- --Certainly; but about KutÃºzov, I don--t promise --Do promise, do promise, VasÃli!- cried Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face. Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the group where the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished. CHAPTER V --And what do you think of this latest comedy, the coronation at Milan?- asked Anna PÃ¡vlovna, --and of the comedy of the people of Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions of the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one--s head whirl! It is as if the whole world had gone crazy Prince Andrew looked Anna PÃ¡vlovna straight in the face with a sarcastic smile. ---Dieu me la donne, gare Ã qui la touche!---- * They say he was very fine when he said that,- he remarked, repeating the words in Italian: ---Dio mi l--ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!---- * God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware! --I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run over,- Anna PÃ¡vlovna continued. --The sovereigns will not be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything --The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,- said the vicomte, polite but hopeless: --The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!- and he became more animated. --And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position. Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the CondÃ© coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked him to do it. --BÃ¢ton de gueules, engrÃªlÃ© de gueules d--azur-”maison CondÃ©,- said he. The princess listened, smiling. --If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer,- the vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which he is better acquainted than anyone else, d-s not listen to others but follows the current of his own thoughts, --things will have gone too far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society-”I mean good French society-”will have been forever destroyed, and then... He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna PÃ¡vlovna, who had him under observation, interrupted: --The Emperor Alexander,- said she, with the melancholy which always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, --has declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to choose their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms of its rightful king,- she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist emigrant. --That is doubtful,- said Prince Andrew. --Monsieur le Vicomte quite rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it will be difficult to return to the old regime --From what I have heard,- said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the conversation, --almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to Bonaparte--s side --It is the Buonapartists who say that,- replied the vicomte without looking at Pierre. --At the present time it is difficult to know the real state of French public opinion --Bonaparte has said so,- remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic smile. It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his remarks at him, though without looking at him. ---I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,--- Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting Napoleon--s words. ---I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.-- I do not know how far he was justified in saying so --Not in the least,- replied the vicomte. --After the murder of the duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some people,- he went on, turning to Anna PÃ¡vlovna, --he ever was a hero, after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth Before Anna PÃ¡vlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation of the vicomte--s epigram, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and though Anna PÃ¡vlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him. --The execution of the Duc d--Enghien,- declared Monsieur Pierre, --was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that deed --Dieu! Mon Dieu!- muttered Anna PÃ¡vlovna in a terrified whisper. --What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows greatness of soul?- said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work nearer to her. --Oh! Oh!- exclaimed several voices. --Capital!- said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his knee with the palm of his hand. The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued. --I say so,- he continued desperately, --because the Bourbons fled from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good, he could not stop short for the sake of one man--s life --Won--t you come over to the other table?- suggested Anna PÃ¡vlovna. But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her. --No,- cried he, becoming more and more eager, --Napoleon is great because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserved all that was good in it-”equality of citizenship and freedom of speech and of the press-”and only for that reason did he obtain power --Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have called him a great man,- remarked the vicomte. --He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!- continued Monsieur Pierre, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind. --What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... But won--t you come to this other table?- repeated Anna PÃ¡vlovna. --Rousseau--s Contrat Social,- said the vicomte with a tolerant smile. --I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas --Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,- again interjected an ironical voice. --Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon has retained in full force --Liberty and equality,- said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words were, --high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who d-s not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment of Pierre--s outburst Anna PÃ¡vlovna, despite her social experience, was horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre--s sacrilegious words had not exasperated the vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was impossible to stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the vicomte in a vigorous attack on the orator. --But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,- said she, --how do you explain the fact of a great man executing a duc-”or even an ordinary man who-”is innocent and untried?- --I should like,- said the vicomte, --to ask how monsieur explains the 18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at all like the conduct of a great man!- --And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!- said the little princess, shrugging her shoulders. --He--s a low fellow, say what you will,- remarked Prince Hippolyte. Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled. His smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he smiled, his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by another-”a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to ask forgiveness. The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw clearly that this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested. All were silent. --How do you expect him to answer you all at once?- said Prince Andrew. --Besides, in the actions of a statesman one has to distinguish between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as an emperor. So it seems to me --Yes, yes, of course!- Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of this reinforcement. --One must admit,- continued Prince Andrew, --that Napoleon as a man was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts which it is difficult to justify Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness of Pierre--s remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time to go. Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to attend, and asking them all to be seated began: --I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it. Excuse me, Vicomte-”I must tell it in Russian or the point will be lost... And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia. Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their attention to his story. --There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy. She must have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was her taste. And she had a lady--s maid, also big. She said... Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with difficulty. --She said.... Oh yes! She said, -Girl,-- to the maid, -put on a livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some calls.--- Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna PÃ¡vlovna, did however smile. --She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and her long hair came down... Here he could contain himself no longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: --And the whole world knew... And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna PÃ¡vlovna and the others appreciated Prince Hippolyte--s social tact in so agreeably ending Pierre--s unpleasant and unamiable outburst. After the anecdote the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last and next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and where. CHAPTER VI Having thanked Anna PÃ¡vlovna for her charming soiree, the guests began to take their leave. Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge red hands; he did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something particularly agreeable before going away. Besides this he was absent-minded. When he rose to go, he took up instead of his own, the general--s three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the plume, till the general asked him to restore it. All his absent-mindedness and inability to enter a room and converse in it was, however, redeemed by his kindly, simple, and modest expression. Anna PÃ¡vlovna turned toward him and, with a Christian mildness that expressed forgiveness of his indiscretion, nodded and said: --I hope to see you again, but I also hope you will change your opinions, my dear Monsieur Pierre When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but again everybody saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, --Opinions are opinions, but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am And everyone, including Anna PÃ¡vlovna, felt this. Prince Andrew had gone out into the hall, and, turning his shoulders to the footman who was helping him on with his cloak, listened indifferently to his wife--s chatter with Prince Hippolyte who had also come into the hall. Prince Hippolyte stood close to the pretty, pregnant princess, and stared fixedly at her through his eyeglass. --Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold,- said the little princess, taking leave of Anna PÃ¡vlovna. --It is settled,- she added in a low voice. Anna PÃ¡vlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match she contemplated between Anatole and the little princess-- sister-in-law. --I rely on you, my dear,- said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, also in a low tone. --Write to her and let me know how her father looks at the matter. Au revoir! --”and she left the hall. Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his face close to her, began to whisper something. Two footmen, the princess-- and his own, stood holding a shawl and a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. They listened to the French sentences which to them were meaningless, with an air of understanding but not wishing to appear to do so. The princess as usual spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh. --I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador--s,- said Prince Hippolyte ---”so dull-”. It has been a delightful evening, has it not? Delightful!- --They say the ball will be very good,- replied the princess, drawing up her downy little lip. --All the pretty women in society will be there --Not all, for you will not be there; not all,- said Prince Hippolyte smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the footman, whom he even pushed aside, he began wrapping it round the princess. Either from awkwardness or intentionally (no one could have said which) after the shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long time, as though embracing her. Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glancing at her husband. Prince Andrew--s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he seem. --Are you ready?- he asked his wife, looking past her. Prince Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest fashion reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out into the porch following the princess, whom a footman was helping into the carriage. --Princesse, au revoir,- cried he, stumbling with his tongue as well as with his feet. The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in the dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince Hippolyte, under pretense of helping, was in everyone--s way. --Allow me, sir,- said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold, disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path. --I am expecting you, Pierre,- said the same voice, but gently and affectionately. The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch waiting for the vicomte whom he had promised to take home. --Well, mon cher,- said the vicomte, having seated himself beside Hippolyte in the carriage, --your little princess is very nice, very nice indeed, quite French,- and he kissed the tips of his fingers. Hippolyte burst out laughing. --Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,- continued the vicomte. --I pity the poor husband, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, --And you were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to know how to deal with them Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew--s study like one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa, took from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was Caesar--s Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle. --What have you done to Mlle SchÃ©rer? She will be quite ill now,- said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white hands. Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his eager face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand. --That abbÃ© is very interesting but he d-s not see the thing in the right light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but-”I do not know how to express it ... not by a balance of political power... It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such abstract conversation. --One can--t everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have you at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a guardsman or a diplomatist?- asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence. Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him. --Really, I don--t yet know. I don--t like either the one or the other --But you must decide on something! Your father expects it Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbÃ© as tutor, and had remained away till he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow his father dismissed the abbÃ© and said to the young man, --Now go to Petersburg, look round, and choose your profession. I will agree to anything. Here is a letter to Prince VasÃli, and here is money. Write to me all about it, and I will help you in everything Pierre had already been choosing a career for three months, and had not decided on anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was speaking. Pierre rubbed his forehead. --But he must be a Freemason,- said he, referring to the abbÃ© whom he had met that evening. --That is all nonsense Prince Andrew again interrupted him, --let us talk business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?- --No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and wanted to tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it were a war for freedom I could understand it and should be the first to enter the army; but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world is not right Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre--s childish words. He put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to such nonsense, but it would in fact have been difficult to give any other answer than the one Prince Andrew gave to this naÃ¯ve question. --If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would be no wars,- he said. --And that would be splendid,- said Pierre. Prince Andrew smiled ironically. --Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about... --Well, why are you going to the war?- asked Pierre. --What for? I don--t know. I must. Besides that I am going... He paused. --I am going because the life I am leading here d-s not suit me!- CHAPTER VII The rustle of a woman--s dress was heard in the next room. Prince Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it had had in Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a house dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely placed a chair for her. --How is it,- she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly and fussily in the easy chair, --how is it Annette never got married? How stupid you men all are not to have married her! Excuse me for saying so, but you have no sense about women. What an argumentative fellow you are, Monsieur Pierre!- --And I am still arguing with your husband. I can--t understand why he wants to go to the war,- replied Pierre, addressing the princess with none of the embarrassment so commonly shown by young men in their intercourse with young women. The princess started. Evidently Pierre--s words touched her to the quick. --Ah, that is just what I tell him!- said she. --I don--t understand it; I don--t in the least understand why men can--t live without wars. How is it that we women don--t want anything of the kind, don--t need it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here he is Uncle--s aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so well known, so much appreciated by everyone. The other day at the AprÃ¡ksins-- I heard a lady asking, -Is that the famous Prince Andrew?-- I did indeed She laughed. --He is so well received everywhere. He might easily become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You know the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were speaking of how to arrange it. What do you think?- Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like the conversation, gave no reply. --When are you starting?- he asked. --Oh, don--t speak of his going, don--t! I won--t hear it spoken of,- said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member. --Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations must be broken off ... and then you know, AndrÃ©.. (she looked significantly at her husband) --I--m afraid, I--m afraid!- she whispered, and a shudder ran down her back. Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of frigid politeness. --What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don--t understand,- said he. --There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a whim of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up alone in the country --With my father and sister, remember,- said Prince Andrew gently. --Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects me not to be afraid Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the gist of the matter lay in that. --I still can--t understand what you are afraid of,- said Prince Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife. The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of despair. --No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have... --Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,- said Prince Andrew. --You had better go The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered. Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room. Pierre looked over his spectacles with naÃ¯ve surprise, now at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind. --Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?- exclaimed the little princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once distorted by a tearful grimace. --I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you have changed so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the war and have no pity for me. Why is it?- --Lise!- was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself regret her words. But she went on hurriedly: --You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave like that six months ago?- --Lise, I beg you to desist,- said Prince Andrew still more emphatically. Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he listened to all this, rose and approached the princess. He seemed unable to bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry himself. --Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because.... I assure you I myself have experienced ... and so ... because ... No, excuse me! An outsider is out of place here.... No, don--t distress yourself.... Good-by!- Prince Andrew caught him by the hand. --No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you --No, he thinks only of himself,- muttered the princess without restraining her angry tears. --Lise!- said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch which indicates that patience is exhausted. Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess-- pretty face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear. Her beautiful eyes glanced askance at her husband--s face, and her own assumed the timid, deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its drooping tail. --Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!- she muttered, and lifting her dress with one hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on the forehead. --Good night, Lise,- said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand as he would have done to a stranger. CHAPTER VIII The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pierre continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead with his small hand. --Let us go and have supper,- he said with a sigh, going to the door. They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining room. Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and glass bore that imprint of newness found in the households of the newly married. Halfway through supper Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and, with a look of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on his face, began to talk-”as one who has long had something on his mind and suddenly determines to speak out. --Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That--s my advice: never marry till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of, and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing-”or all that is good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes! Yes! Don--t look at me with such surprise. If you marry expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at every step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the drawing room, where you will be ranged side by side with a court lackey and an idiot!... But what--s the good?.. and he waved his arm. Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend in amazement. --My wife,- continued Prince Andrew, --is an excellent woman, one of those rare women with whom a man--s honor is safe; but, O God, what would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to whom I mention this, because I like you As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that BolkÃ³nski who had lolled in Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s easy chairs and with half-closed eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in which the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost morbid irritation. --You don--t understand why I say this,- he continued, --but it is the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his career,- said he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), --but Bonaparte when he worked went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality-”these are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am now going to the war, the greatest war there ever was, and I know nothing and am fit for nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit,- continued Prince Andrew, --and at Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s they listen to me. And that stupid set without whom my wife cannot exist, and those women.... If you only knew what those society women are, and women in general! My father is right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in everything-”that--s what women are when you see them in their true colors! When you meet them in society it seems as if there were something in them, but there--s nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don--t marry, my dear fellow; don--t marry!- concluded Prince Andrew. --It seems funny to me,- said Pierre, --that you, you should consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have everything before you, everything. And you... He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how highly he thought of his friend and how much he expected of him in the future. --How can he talk like that?- thought Pierre. He considered his friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which might be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at Prince Andrew--s calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything, and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by Andrew--s lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a sign of strength. Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life, praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels that they may run smoothly. --My part is played out,- said Prince Andrew. --What--s the use of talking about me? Let us talk about you,- he added after a silence, smiling at his reassuring thoughts. That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre--s face. --But what is there to say about me?- said Pierre, his face relaxing into a careless, merry smile. --What am I? An illegitimate son!- He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great effort to say this. --Without a name and without means... And it really.. But he did not say what --it really- was. --For the present I am free and am all right. Only I haven--t the least idea what I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance-”friendly and affectionate as it was-”expressed a sense of his own superiority. --I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our whole set. Yes, you--re all right! Choose what you will; it--s all the same. You--ll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting those KurÃ¡gins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so badly-”all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!- --What would you have, my dear fellow?- answered Pierre, shrugging his shoulders. --Women, my dear fellow; women!- --I don--t understand it,- replied Prince Andrew. --Women who are comme il faut, that--s a different matter; but the KurÃ¡gins-- set of women, -women and wine-- I don--t understand!- Pierre was staying at Prince VasÃli KurÃ¡gin--s and sharing the dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were planning to reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew--s sister. --Do you know?- said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy thought, --seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading such a life I can--t decide or think properly about anything. One--s head aches, and one spends all one--s money. He asked me for tonight, but I won--t go --You give me your word of honor not to go?- --On my honor!- CHAPTER IX It was past one o--clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab intending to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more he felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole KurÃ¡gin was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits of a kind Pierre was very fond of. --I should like to go to KurÃ¡gin--s,- thought he. But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed to that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that his promise to Prince Andrew was of no account, because before he gave it he had already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering; --besides,- thought he, --all such -words of honor-- are conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all the same!- Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went to KurÃ¡gin--s. Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards-- barracks, in which Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs, and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks, and oversh-s were lying about; there was a smell of alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance. Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously round an open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and trying to set him at the others. --I bet a hundred on Stevens!- shouted one. --Mind, no holding on!- cried another. --I bet on DÃ³lokhov!- cried a third. --KurÃ¡gin, you part our hands --There, leave Bruin alone; here--s a bet on --At one draught, or he loses!- shouted a fourth. --Jacob, bring a bottle!- shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine linen shirt unfastened in front. --Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is PÃ©tya! Good man!- cried he, addressing Pierre. Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes, particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober ring, cried from the window: --Come here; part the bets!- This was DÃ³lokhov, an officer of the SemÃ«nov regiment, a notorious gambler and duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily. --I don--t understand. What--s it all about?- --Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here,- said Anatole, and taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre. --First of all you must drink!- Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre--s glass while explaining that DÃ³lokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge of the third floor window with his legs hanging out. --Go on, you must drink it all,- said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, --or I won--t let you go!- --No, I won--t,- said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up to the window. DÃ³lokhov was holding the Englishman--s hand and clearly and distinctly repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to Anatole and Pierre. DÃ³lokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache, so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played continually round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it impossible not to notice his face. DÃ³lokhov was a man of small means and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, DÃ³lokhov lived with him and had placed himself on such a footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him more than they did Anatole. DÃ³lokhov could play all games and nearly always won. However much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. Both KurÃ¡gin and DÃ³lokhov were at that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of Petersburg. The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and shouts of the gentlemen around. Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but could not move it. He smashed a pane. --You have a try, Hercules,- said he, turning to Pierre. Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with a crash. --Take it right out, or they--ll think I--m holding on,- said DÃ³lokhov. --Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?- said Anatole. --First-rate,- said Pierre, looking at DÃ³lokhov, who with a bottle of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible. DÃ³lokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window sill. --Listen!- cried he, standing there and addressing those in the room. All were silent. --I bet fifty imperials--”he spoke French that the Englishman might understand him, but he did not speak it very well-”--I bet fifty imperials ... or do you wish to make it a hundred?- added he, addressing the Englishman. --No, fifty,- replied the latter. --All right. Fifty imperials ... that I will drink a whole bottle of rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this spot- (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window) --and without holding on to anything. Is that right?- --Quite right,- said the Englishman. Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons of his coat and looking down at him-”the Englishman was short-”began repeating the terms of the wager to him in English. --Wait!- cried DÃ³lokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window sill to attract attention. --Wait a bit, KurÃ¡gin. Listen! If anyone else d-s the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you understand?- The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating DÃ³lokhov--s words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar of the Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the window sill, leaned over, and looked down. --Oh! Oh! Oh!- he muttered, looking down from the window at the stones of the pavement. --Shut up!- cried DÃ³lokhov, pushing him away from the window. The lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs. Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily, DÃ³lokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and placed them on the window sill, though it was already quite light. DÃ³lokhov--s back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older than the others present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and angry look and wanted to seize hold of DÃ³lokhov--s shirt. --I say, this is folly! He--ll be killed,- said this more sensible man. Anatole stopped him. --Don--t touch him! You--ll startle him and then he--ll be killed. Eh?... What then?... Eh?- DÃ³lokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged himself on his seat. --If anyone comes meddling again,- said he, emitting the words separately through his thin compressed lips, --I will throw him down there. Now then!- Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the window and from DÃ³lokhov--s back. Anatole stood erect with staring eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. DÃ³lokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was thrown further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still higher and his head tilting yet further back. --Why is it so long?- thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had elapsed. Suddenly DÃ³lokhov made a backward movement with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered his eyes and thought he would never open them again. Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around. He looked up: DÃ³lokhov was standing on the window sill, with a pale but radiant face. --It--s empty He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. DÃ³lokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum. --Well done!... Fine fellow!... There--s a bet for you!... Devil take you!- came from different sides. The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money. DÃ³lokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the window sill. --Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I--ll do the same thing!- he suddenly cried. --Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a bottle. I--ll do it.... Bring a bottle!- --Let him do it, let him do it,- said DÃ³lokhov, smiling. --What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go giddy even on a staircase,- exclaimed several voices. --I--ll drink it! Let--s have a bottle of rum!- shouted Pierre, banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to climb out of the window. They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who touched him was sent flying. --No, you--ll never manage him that way,- said Anatole. --Wait a bit and I--ll get round him.... Listen! I--ll take your bet tomorrow, but now we are all going to -”-”--s --Come on then,- cried Pierre. --Come on!... And we--ll take Bruin with us And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from the ground, and began dancing round the room with it. CHAPTER X Prince VasÃli kept the promise he had given to Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son BorÃs on the evening of Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an exception made, and BorÃs transferred into the regiment of SemÃ«nov Guards with the rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to KutÃºzov--s staff despite all Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna--s endeavors and entreaties. Soon after Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s reception Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the RostÃ³vs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where her darling BÃ³ry, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to RadzivÃlov. It was St. Natalia--s day and the name day of two of the RostÃ³vs-”the mother and the youngest daughter-”both named Nataly. Ever since the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going continually, bringing visitors to the Countess RostÃ³va--s big house on the PovarskÃ¡ya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing room with the visitors who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in relays. The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbearing-”she had had twelve. A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna DrubetskÃ¡ya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner. --I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher,- or --ma chÃ¨re--”he called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation in his tone, --my dear,- whether they were above or below him in rank-”--I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended, ma chÃ¨re! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!- These words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spreading out his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, he would call DmÃtri VasÃlevich, a man of good family and the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the enormous table would say: --Well, DmÃtri, you--ll see that things are all as they should be? That--s right! The great thing is the serving, that--s it And with a complacent sigh he would return to the drawing room. --MÃ¡rya LvÃ³vna KarÃ¡gina and her daughter!- announced the countess-- gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing room. The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband--s portrait on it. --I--m quite worn out by these callers. However, I--ll see her and no more. She is so affected. Ask her in,- she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if saying: --Very well, finish me off A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling. --Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child ... at the RazumÃ³vski--s ball ... and Countess AprÃ¡ksina ... I was so delighted.. came the sounds of animated feminine voices, interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which last out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, --I am so delighted... Mamma--s health... and Countess AprÃ¡ksina.. and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of Catherine--s day, Count BezÃºkhov, and about his illegitimate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s reception. --I am so sorry for the poor count,- said the visitor. --He is in such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is enough to kill him!- --What is that?- asked the countess as if she did not know what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of Count BezÃºkhov--s distress some fifteen times. --That--s what comes of a modern education,- exclaimed the visitor. --It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do as he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has been doing such terrible things that he has been expelled by the police --You don--t say so!- replied the countess. --He chose his friends badly,- interposed Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --Prince VasÃli--s son, he, and a certain DÃ³lokhov have, it is said, been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it. DÃ³lokhov has been degraded to the ranks and BezÃºkhov--s son sent back to Moscow. Anatole KurÃ¡gin--s father managed somehow to get his son--s affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg --But what have they been up to?- asked the countess. --They are regular brigands, especially DÃ³lokhov,- replied the visitor. --He is a son of MÃ¡rya IvÃ¡novna DÃ³lokhova, such a worthy woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his back!- --What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!- shouted the count, dying with laughter. --Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?- Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing. --It was all they could do to rescue the poor man,- continued the visitor. --And to think it is Cyril VladÃmirovich BezÃºkhov--s son who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daughters to consider --Why do you say this young man is so rich?- asked the countess, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed an air of inattention. --His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is illegitimate The visitor made a gesture with her hand. --I should think he has a score of them Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in society. --The fact of the matter is,- said she significantly, and also in a half whisper, --everyone knows Count Cyril--s reputation.... He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite --How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!- remarked the countess. --I have never seen a handsomer man --He is very much altered now,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --Well, as I was saying, Prince VasÃli is the next heir through his wife, but the count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his education, and wrote to the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death-”and he is so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from Petersburg-”no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Prince VasÃli. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it all very well for Prince VasÃli told me himself. Besides, Cyril VladÃmirovich is my mother--s second cousin. He--s also my BÃ³ry--s godfather,- she added, as if she attached no importance at all to the fact. --Prince VasÃli arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on some inspection business,- remarked the visitor. --Yes, but between ourselves,- said the princess, --that is a pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril VladÃmirovich, hearing how ill he is --But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke,- said the count; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the young ladies. --I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman cut!- And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats well and, in particular, drinks well. --So do come and dine with us!- he said. CHAPTER XI Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably, but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they now rose and took their leave. The visitor--s daughter was already smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock, darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket. The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread his arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had run in. --Ah, here she is!- he exclaimed laughing. --My pet, whose name day it is. My dear pet!- --Ma chÃ¨re, there is a time for everything,- said the countess with feigned severity. --You spoil her, IlyÃ¡,- she added, turning to her husband. --How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name day,- said the visitor. --What a charming child,- she added, addressing the mother. This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life-”with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers-”was just at that charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the lace of her mother--s mantilla-”not paying the least attention to her severe remark-”and began to laugh. She laughed, and in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced from the folds of her frock. --Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see.. was all NatÃ¡sha managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even the prim visitor could not help joining in. --Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,- said the mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: --She is my youngest girl NatÃ¡sha, raising her face for a moment from her mother--s mantilla, glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face. The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it necessary to take some part in it. --Tell me, my dear,- said she to NatÃ¡sha, --is Mimi a relation of yours? A daughter, I suppose?- NatÃ¡sha did not like the visitor--s tone of condescension to childish things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously. Meanwhile the younger generation: BorÃs, the officer, Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna--s son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count--s eldest son; SÃ³nya, the count--s fifteen-year-old niece, and little PÃ©tya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had been more amusing than the drawing room talk of society scandals, the weather, and Countess AprÃ¡ksina. Now and then they glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their laughter. The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. BorÃs was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but failed. BorÃs on the contrary at once found his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he had known that doll Mimi when she was still quite a young lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at NatÃ¡sha. She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. BorÃs did not laugh. --You were meaning to go out, weren--t you, Mamma? Do you want the carriage?- he asked his mother with a smile. --Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready,- she answered, returning his smile. BorÃs quietly left the room and went in search of NatÃ¡sha. The plump boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their program had been disturbed. CHAPTER XII The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not counting the young lady visitor and the countess-- eldest daughter (who was four years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up person), were Nicholas and SÃ³nya, the niece. SÃ³nya was a slender little brunette with a tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long lashes, thick black plaits coiling twice round her head, and a tawny tint in her complexion and especially in the color of her slender but graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her movements, by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs, and by a certain coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded one of a pretty, half-grown kitten which promises to become a beautiful little cat. She evidently considered it proper to show an interest in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes watched her cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant impose upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had settled down only to spring up with more energy and again play with her cousin as soon as they too could, like NatÃ¡sha and BorÃs, escape from the drawing room. --Ah yes, my dear,- said the count, addressing the visitor and pointing to Nicholas, --his friend BorÃs has become an officer, and so for friendship--s sake he is leaving the university and me, his old father, and entering the military service, my dear. And there was a place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department! Isn--t that friendship?- remarked the count in an inquiring tone. --But they say that war has been declared,- replied the visitor. --They--ve been saying so a long while,- said the count, --and they--ll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it. My dear, there--s friendship for you,- he repeated. --He--s joining the hussars The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head. --It--s not at all from friendship,- declared Nicholas, flaring up and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. --It is not from friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and they were both regarding him with a smile of approbation. --Schubert, the colonel of the PÃ¡vlograd Hussars, is dining with us today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him. It can--t be helped!- said the count, shrugging his shoulders and speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him. --I have already told you, Papa,- said his son, --that if you don--t wish to let me go, I--ll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere except in the army; I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.-”I don--t know how to hide what I feel As he spoke he kept glancing with the flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at SÃ³nya and the young lady visitor. The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at any moment to start her gambols again and display her kittenish nature. --All right, all right!- said the old count. --He always flares up! This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think of how he rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,- he added, not noticing his visitor--s sarcastic smile. The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie KarÃ¡gina turned to young RostÃ³v. --What a pity you weren--t at the ArkhÃ¡rovs-- on Thursday. It was so dull without you,- said she, giving him a tender smile. The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a coquettish smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the heart of SÃ³nya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of his talk he glanced round at her. She gave him a passionately angry glance, and hardly able to restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile on her lips, she got up and left the room. All Nicholas-- animation vanished. He waited for the first pause in the conversation, and then with a distressed face left the room to find SÃ³nya. --How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their sleeves!- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went out. --Cousinage-”dangereux voisinage,- * she added. * Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood. --Yes,- said the countess when the brightness these young people had brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question no one had put but which was always in her mind, --and how much suffering, how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might rejoice in them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is always, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so dangerous both for girls and boys --It all depends on the bringing up,- remarked the visitor. --Yes, you--re quite right,- continued the countess. --Till now I have always, thank God, been my children--s friend and had their full confidence,- said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who imagine that their children have no secrets from them. --I know I shall always be my daughters-- first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with his impulsive nature, d-s get into mischief (a boy can--t help it), he will all the same never be like those Petersburg young men --Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters,- chimed in the count, who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by deciding that everything was splendid. --Just fancy: wants to be an hussar. What--s one to do, my dear?- --What a charming creature your younger girl is,- said the visitor; --a little volcano!- --Yes, a regular volcano,- said the count. --Takes after me! And what a voice she has; though she--s my daughter, I tell the truth when I say she--ll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an Italian to give her lessons --Isn--t she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to train it at that age --Oh no, not at all too young!- replied the count. --Why, our mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen --And she--s in love with BorÃs already. Just fancy!- said the countess with a gentle smile, looking at BorÃs and went on, evidently concerned with a thought that always occupied her: --Now you see if I were to be severe with her and to forbid it ... goodness knows what they might be up to on the sly- (she meant that they would be kissing), --but as it is, I know every word she utters. She will come running to me of her own accord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I spoil her, but really that seems the best plan. With her elder sister I was stricter --Yes, I was brought up quite differently,- remarked the handsome elder daughter, Countess VÃ©ra, with a smile. But the smile did not enhance VÃ©ra--s beauty as smiles generally do; on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and therefore unpleasant, expression. VÃ©ra was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone-”the visitors and countess alike-”turned to look at her as if wondering why she had said it, and they all felt awkward. --People are always too clever with their eldest children and try to make something exceptional of them,- said the visitor. --What--s the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess was too clever with VÃ©ra,- said the count. --Well, what of that? She--s turned out splendidly all the same,- he added, winking at VÃ©ra. The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to dinner. --What manners! I thought they would never go,- said the countess, when she had seen her guests out. CHAPTER XIII When NatÃ¡sha ran out of the drawing room she only went as far as the conservatory. There she paused and stood listening to the conversation in the drawing room, waiting for BorÃs to come out. She was already growing impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not coming at once, when she heard the young man--s discreet steps approaching neither quickly nor slowly. At this NatÃ¡sha dashed swiftly among the flower tubs and hid there. BorÃs paused in the middle of the room, looked round, brushed a little dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror examined his handsome face. NatÃ¡sha, very still, peered out from her ambush, waiting to see what he would do. He stood a little while before the glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. NatÃ¡sha was about to call him but changed her mind. --Let him look for me,- thought she. Hardly had BorÃs gone than SÃ³nya, flushed, in tears, and muttering angrily, came in at the other door. NatÃ¡sha checked her first impulse to run out to her, and remained in her hiding place, watching-”as under an invisible cap-”to see what went on in the world. She was experiencing a new and peculiar pleasure. SÃ³nya, muttering to herself, kept looking round toward the drawing room door. It opened and Nicholas came in. --SÃ³nya, what is the matter with you? How can you?- said he, running up to her. --It--s nothing, nothing; leave me alone!- sobbed SÃ³nya. --Ah, I know what it is --Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!- --SÃ³-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like that, for a mere fancy?- said Nicholas taking her hand. SÃ³nya did not pull it away, and left off crying. NatÃ¡sha, not stirring and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with sparkling eyes. --What will happen now?- thought she. --SÃ³nya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are everything!- said Nicholas. --And I will prove it to you --I don--t like you to talk like that --Well, then, I won--t; only forgive me, SÃ³nya!- He drew her to him and kissed her. --Oh, how nice,- thought NatÃ¡sha; and when SÃ³nya and Nicholas had gone out of the conservatory she followed and called BorÃs to her. --BorÃs, come here,- said she with a sly and significant look. --I have something to tell you. Here, here!- and she led him into the conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding. BorÃs followed her, smiling. --What is the something?- asked he. She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she had thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up. --Kiss the doll,- said she. BorÃs looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not reply. --Don--t you want to? Well, then, come here,- said she, and went further in among the plants and threw down the doll. --Closer, closer!- she whispered. She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity and fear appeared on her flushed face. --And me? Would you like to kiss me?- she whispered almost inaudibly, glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying from excitement. BorÃs blushed. --How funny you are!- he said, bending down to her and blushing still more, but he waited and did nothing. Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him so that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and, tossing back her hair, kissed him full on the lips. Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of the tubs and stood, hanging her head. --NatÃ¡sha,- he said, --you know that I love you, but... --You are in love with me?- NatÃ¡sha broke in. --Yes, I am, but please don--t let us do like that.... In another four years ... then I will ask for your hand NatÃ¡sha considered. --Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,- she counted on her slender little fingers. --All right! Then it--s settled?- A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face. --Settled!- replied BorÃs. --Forever?- said the little girl. --Till death itself?- She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into the adjoining sitting room. CHAPTER XIV After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that she gave orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to invite to dinner all who came --to congratulate The countess wished to have a tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte talk with the friend of her childhood, Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she returned from Petersburg. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, drew her chair nearer to that of the countess. --With you I will be quite frank,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --There are not many left of us old friends! That--s why I so value your friendship Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna looked at VÃ©ra and paused. The countess pressed her friend--s hand. --VÃ©ra,- she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a favorite, --how is it you have so little tact? Don--t you see you are not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or.. The handsome VÃ©ra smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all hurt. --If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,- she replied as she rose to go to her own room. But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples sitting, one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully. SÃ³nya was sitting close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses for her, the first he had ever written. BorÃs and NatÃ¡sha were at the other window and ceased talking when VÃ©ra entered. SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha looked at VÃ©ra with guilty, happy faces. It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love; but apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in VÃ©ra. --How often have I asked you not to take my things?- she said. --You have a room of your own,- and she took the inkstand from Nicholas. --In a minute, in a minute,- he said, dipping his pen. --You always manage to do things at the wrong time,- continued VÃ©ra. --You came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt ashamed of you Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very reason no one replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered in the room with the inkstand in her hand. --And at your age what secrets can there be between NatÃ¡sha and BorÃs, or between you two? It--s all nonsense!- --Now, VÃ©ra, what d-s it matter to you?- said NatÃ¡sha in defense, speaking very gently. She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affectionate to everyone. --Very silly,- said VÃ©ra. --I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!- --All have secrets of their own,- answered NatÃ¡sha, getting warmer. --We don--t interfere with you and Berg --I should think not,- said VÃ©ra, --because there can never be anything wrong in my behavior. But I--ll just tell Mamma how you are behaving with BorÃs --NatÃ¡lya IlynÃchna behaves very well to me,- remarked BorÃs. --I have nothing to complain of --Don--t, BorÃs! You are such a diplomat that it is really tiresome,- said NatÃ¡sha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly. (She used the word --diplomat,- which was just then much in vogue among the children, in the special sense they attached to it.) --Why d-s she bother me?- And she added, turning to VÃ©ra, --You--ll never understand it, because you--ve never loved anyone. You have no heart! You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing more- (this nickname, bestowed on VÃ©ra by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), --and your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with Berg as much as you please,- she finished quickly. --I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors.. --Well, now you--ve done what you wanted,- put in Nicholas-”--said unpleasant things to everyone and upset them. Let--s go to the nursery All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room. --The unpleasant things were said to me,- remarked VÃ©ra, --I said none to anyone --Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!- shouted laughing voices through the door. The handsome VÃ©ra, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf. Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still colder and calmer. In the drawing room the conversation was still going on. --Ah, my dear,- said the countess, --my life is not all roses either. Don--t I know that at the rate we are living our means won--t last long? It--s all the Club and his easygoing nature. Even in the country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows what besides! But don--t let--s talk about me; tell me how you managed everything. I often wonder at you, Annette-”how at your age you can rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It--s quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn--t possibly do it --Ah, my love,- answered Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, --God grant you never know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love to distraction! One learns many things then,- she added with a certain pride. --That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of those big people I write a note: -Princess So-and-So desires an interview with So and-So,-- and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or four times-”till I get what I want. I don--t mind what they think of me --Well, and to whom did you apply about BÃ³ry?- asked the countess. --You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas is going as a cadet. There--s no one to interest himself for him. To whom did you apply?- --To Prince VasÃli. He was so kind. He at once agreed to everything, and put the matter before the Emperor,- said Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she had endured to gain her end. --Has Prince VasÃli aged much?- asked the countess. --I have not seen him since we acted together at the RumyÃ¡ntsovs-- theatricals. I expect he has forgotten me. He paid me attentions in those days,- said the countess, with a smile. --He is just the same as ever,- replied Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, --overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his head at all. He said to me, -I am sorry I can do so little for you, dear Princess. I am at your command.-- Yes, he is a fine fellow and a very kind relation. But, Nataly, you know my love for my son: I would do anything for his happiness! And my affairs are in such a bad way that my position is now a terrible one,- continued Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, sadly, dropping her voice. --My wretched lawsuit takes all I have and makes no progress. Would you believe it, I have literally not a penny and don--t know how to equip BorÃs She took out her handkerchief and began to cry. --I need five hundred rubles, and have only one twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a state.... My only hope now is in Count Cyril VladÃmirovich BezÃºkhov. If he will not assist his godson-”you know he is BÃ³ry--s godfather-”and allow him something for his maintenance, all my trouble will have been thrown away.... I shall not be able to equip him The countess-- eyes filled with tears and she pondered in silence. --I often think, though, perhaps it--s a sin,- said the princess, --that here lives Count Cyril VladÃmirovich BezÃºkhov so rich, all alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life worth? It--s a burden to him, and BÃ³ry--s life is only just beginning... --Surely he will leave something to BorÃs,- said the countess. --Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so selfish. Still, I will take BorÃs and go to see him at once, and I shall speak to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it--s really all the same to me when my son--s fate is at stake The princess rose. --It--s now two o--clock and you dine at four. There will just be time And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make the most of time, Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna sent someone to call her son, and went into the anteroom with him. --Good-by, my dear,- said she to the countess who saw her to the door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, --Wish me good luck --Are you going to Count Cyril VladÃmirovich, my dear?- said the count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom, and he added: --If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He has been to the house, you know, and danced with the children. Be sure to invite him, my dear. We will see how TarÃ¡s distinguishes himself today. He says Count OrlÃ³v never gave such a dinner as ours will be!- CHAPTER XV --My dear BorÃs,- said Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna to her son as Countess RostÃ³va--s carriage in which they were seated drove over the straw covered street and turned into the wide courtyard of Count Cyril VladÃmirovich BezÃºkhov--s house. --My dear BorÃs,- said the mother, drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle and laying it timidly and tenderly on her son--s arm, --be affectionate and attentive to him. Count Cyril VladÃmirovich is your godfather after all, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice to him, as you so well know how to be --If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of it.. answered her son coldly. --But I have promised and will do it for your sake Although the hall porter saw someone--s carriage standing at the entrance, after scrutinizing the mother and son (who without asking to be announced had passed straight through the glass porch between the rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly at the lady--s old cloak, he asked whether they wanted the count or the princesses, and, hearing that they wished to see the count, said his excellency was worse today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone. --We may as well go back,- said the son in French. --My dear!- exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him. BorÃs said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking off his cloak. --My friend,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna in gentle tones, addressing the hall porter, --I know Count Cyril VladÃmirovich is very ill... that--s why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him, my friend... I only need see Prince VasÃli SergÃ©evich: he is staying here, is he not? Please announce me The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs, and turned away. --Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya to see Prince VasÃli SergÃ©evich,- he called to a footman dressed in knee breeches, sh-s, and a swallow-tail coat, who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing. The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a large Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down sh-s briskly ascended the carpeted stairs. --My dear,- she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a touch, --you promised me!- The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly. They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led to the apartments assigned to Prince VasÃli. Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall, were about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as they entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Prince VasÃli came out-”wearing a velvet coat with a single star on his breast, as was his custom when at home-”taking leave of a good-looking, dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg doctor, Lorrain. --Then it is certain?- said the prince. --Prince, humanum est errare, * but.. replied the doctor, swallowing his r--s, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French accent. * To err is human. --Very well, very well.. Seeing Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna and her son, Prince VasÃli dismissed the doctor with a bow and approached them silently and with a look of inquiry. The son noticed that an expression of profound sorrow suddenly clouded his mother--s face, and he smiled slightly. --Ah, Prince! In what sad circumstances we meet again! And how is our dear invalid?- said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive look fixed on her. Prince VasÃli stared at her and at BorÃs questioningly and perplexed. BorÃs bowed politely. Prince VasÃli without acknowledging the bow turned to Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, answering her query by a movement of the head and lips indicating very little hope for the patient. --Is it possible?- exclaimed Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --Oh, how awful! It is terrible to think.... This is my son,- she added, indicating BorÃs. --He wanted to thank you himself BorÃs bowed again politely. --Believe me, Prince, a mother--s heart will never forget what you have done for us --I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna,- said Prince VasÃli, arranging his lace frill, and in tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna whom he had placed under an obligation, assuming an air of much greater importance than he had done in Petersburg at Anna SchÃ©rer--s reception. --Try to serve well and show yourself worthy,- added he, addressing BorÃs with severity. --I am glad.... Are you here on leave?- he went on in his usual tone of indifference. --I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,- replied BorÃs, betraying neither annoyance at the prince--s brusque manner nor a desire to enter into conversation, but speaking so quietly and respectfully that the prince gave him a searching glance. --Are you living with your mother?- --I am living at Countess RostÃ³va--s,- replied BorÃs, again adding, --your excellency --That is, with IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v who married Nataly ShinshinÃ¡,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --I know, I know,- answered Prince VasÃli in his monotonous voice. --I never could understand how Nataly made up her mind to marry that unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stupid fellow, and a gambler too, I am told --But a very kind man, Prince,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna with a pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count RostÃ³v deserved this censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. --What do the doctors say?- asked the princess after a pause, her worn face again expressing deep sorrow. --They give little hope,- replied the prince. --And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kindness to me and BorÃs. He is his godson,- she added, her tone suggesting that this fact ought to give Prince VasÃli much satisfaction. Prince VasÃli became thoughtful and frowned. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna saw that he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count BezÃºkhov--s fortune, and hastened to reassure him. --If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,- said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern, --I know his character: noble, upright ... but you see he has no one with him except the young princesses.... They are still young... She bent her head and continued in a whisper: --Has he performed his final duty, Prince? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill. We women, Prince,- and she smiled tenderly, --always know how to say these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful it may be for me. I am used to suffering Evidently the prince understood her, and also understood, as he had done at Anna PÃ¡vlovna--s, that it would be difficult to get rid of Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna?- said he. --Let us wait until evening. The doctors are expecting a crisis --But one cannot delay, Prince, at such a moment! Consider that the welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the duties of a Christian.. A door of one of the inner rooms opened and one of the princesses, the count--s niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The length of her body was strikingly out of proportion to her short legs. Prince VasÃli turned to her. --Well, how is he?- --Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise.. said the princess, looking at Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna as at a stranger. --Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna with a happy smile, ambling lightly up to the count--s niece. --I have come, and am at your service to help you nurse my uncle. I imagine what you have gone through,- and she sympathetically turned up her eyes. The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left the room as Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position she had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince VasÃli to take a seat beside her. --BorÃs,- she said to her son with a smile, --I shall go in to see the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile and don--t forget to give him the RostÃ³vs-- invitation. They ask him to dinner. I suppose he won--t go?- she continued, turning to the prince. --On the contrary,- replied the prince, who had plainly become depressed, --I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of that young man.... Here he is, and the count has not once asked for him He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted BorÃs down one flight of stairs and up another, to Pierre--s rooms. CHAPTER XVI Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for himself in Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count RostÃ³v--s was true. Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father--s house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade would be already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father-”who were never favorably disposed toward him-”would have used it to turn the count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to his father--s part of the house. Entering the drawing room, where the princesses spent most of their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom were sitting at embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the eldest who was reading-”the one who had met Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. The two younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which made her much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper. The eldest princess paused in her reading and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the second assumed precisely the same expression; while the youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile probably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her wool down through the canvas and, scarcely able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the pattern. --How do you do, cousin?- said Pierre. --You don--t recognize me?- --I recognize you only too well, too well --How is the count? Can I see him?- asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual, but unabashed. --The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you have done your best to increase his mental sufferings --Can I see the count?- Pierre again asked. --Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle--s beef tea is ready-”it is almost time,- she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance. Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and said: --Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see him And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the sister with the mole. Next day Prince VasÃli had arrived and settled in the count--s house. He sent for Pierre and said to him: --My dear fellow, if you are going to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill, and you must not see him at all Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in his rooms upstairs. When BorÃs appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his room, stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall, as if running a sword through an invisible f-, and glaring savagely over his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating. --England is done for,- said he, scowling and pointing his finger at someone unseen. --Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the rights of man, is sentenced to.. But before Pierre-”who at that moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured London-”could pronounce Pitt--s sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left Moscow when BorÃs was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him, but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took BorÃs by the hand with a friendly smile. --Do you remember me?- asked BorÃs quietly with a pleasant smile. --I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not well --Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,- answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was. BorÃs felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face. --Count RostÃ³v asks you to come to dinner today,- said he, after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable. --Ah, Count RostÃ³v!- exclaimed Pierre joyfully. --Then you are his son, IlyÃ¡? Only fancy, I didn--t know you at first. Do you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It--s such an age.. --You are mistaken,- said BorÃs deliberately, with a bold and slightly sarcastic smile. --I am BorÃs, son of Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna DrubetskÃ¡ya. RostÃ³v, the father, is IlyÃ¡, and his son is Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquit-s or bees. --Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I--ve mixed everything up. One has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are BorÃs? Of course. Well, now we know where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve d-sn--t make a mess of things!- BorÃs knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve--s name. --We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal than with politics,- said he in his quiet ironical tone. --I know nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip,- he continued. --Just now they are talking about you and your father Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion--s sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret. But BorÃs spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into Pierre--s eyes. --Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,- BorÃs went on. --Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will.. --Yes, it is all very horrid,- interrupted Pierre, --very horrid Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say something disconcerting to himself. --And it must seem to you,- said BorÃs flushing slightly, but not changing his tone or attitude, --it must seem to you that everyone is trying to get something out of the rich man?- --So it d-s,- thought Pierre. --But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that your father is rich, I don--t regard myself as a relation of his, and neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized BorÃs under the elbow in his quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than BorÃs, began to speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation. --Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know very well.. But BorÃs again interrupted him. --I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You must excuse me,- said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put at ease by him, --but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to dinner at the RostÃ³vs--?- And BorÃs, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it, became quite pleasant again. --No, but I say,- said Pierre, calming down, --you are a wonderful fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you don--t know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite understand. I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the courage, but it--s splendid. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It--s queer,- he added after a pause, --that you should have suspected me!- He began to laugh. --Well, what of it! I hope we--ll get better acquainted,- and he pressed BorÃs-- hand. --Do you know, I have not once been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I am sorry for him as a man, but what can one do?- --And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?- asked BorÃs with a smile. Pierre saw that BorÃs wished to change the subject, and being of the same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne expedition. A footman came in to summon BorÃs-”the princess was going. Pierre, in order to make BorÃs-- better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles into BorÃs-- eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary f- with his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant, intelligent, and resolute young man. As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a lonely life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man and made up his mind that they would be friends. Prince VasÃli saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes and her face was tearful. --It is dreadful, dreadful!- she was saying, --but cost me what it may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He must not be left like this. Every moment is precious. I can--t think why his nieces put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare him!... Adieu, Prince! May God support you.. --Adieu, ma bonne,- answered Prince VasÃli turning away from her. --Oh, he is in a dreadful state,- said the mother to her son when they were in the carriage. --He hardly recognizes anybody --I don--t understand, Mamma-”what is his attitude to Pierre?- asked the son. --The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it --But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?- --Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!- --Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma.. --Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!- exclaimed the mother. CHAPTER XVII After Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril VladÃmirovich BezÃºkhov, Countess RostÃ³va sat for a long time all alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang. --What is the matter with you, my dear?- she said crossly to the maid who kept her waiting some minutes. --Don--t you wish to serve me? Then I--ll find you another place The countess was upset by her friend--s sorrow and humiliating poverty, and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always found expression in calling her maid --my dear- and speaking to her with exaggerated politeness. --I am very sorry, ma--am,- answered the maid. --Ask the count to come to me The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather guilty look as usual. --Well, little countess? What a sautÃ© of game au madÃ¨re we are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for TarÃ¡s were not ill-spent. He is worth it!- He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling his gray hair. --What are your commands, little countess?- --You see, my dear... What--s that mess?- she said, pointing to his waistcoat. --It--s the sautÃ©, most likely,- she added with a smile. --Well, you see, Count, I want some money Her face became sad. --Oh, little countess!- ... and the count began bustling to get out his pocketbook. --I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,- and taking out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband--s waistcoat. --Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who--s there?- he called out in a tone only used by persons who are certain that those they call will rush to obey the summons. --Send DmÃtri to me!- DmÃtri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count--s house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room. --This is what I want, my dear fellow,- said the count to the deferential young man who had entered. --Bring me.. he reflected a moment, --yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don--t bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones for the countess --Yes, DmÃtri, clean ones, please,- said the countess, sighing deeply. --When would you like them, your excellency?- asked DmÃtri. --Allow me to inform you... But, don--t be uneasy,- he added, noticing that the count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always a sign of approaching anger. --I was forgetting... Do you wish it brought at once?- --Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess --What a treasure that DmÃtri is,- added the count with a smile when the young man had departed. --There is never any -impossible-- with him. That--s a thing I hate! Everything is possible --Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,- said the countess. --But I am in great need of this sum --You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,- said the count, and having kissed his wife--s hand he went back to his study. When Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna returned from Count BezÃºkhov--s the money, all in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess-- little table, and Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna noticed that something was agitating her. --Well, my dear?- asked the countess. --Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word.. --Annette, for heaven--s sake don--t refuse me,- the countess began, with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dignified, elderly face, and she took the money from under the handkerchief. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment. --This is for BorÃs from me, for his outfit Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were kindhearted, and because they-”friends from childhood-”had to think about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over.... But those tears were pleasant to them both. CHAPTER XVIII Countess RostÃ³va, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen into his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From time to time he went out to ask: --Hasn--t she come yet?- They were expecting MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna AkhrosÃmova, known in society as le terrible dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for common sense and frank plainness of speech. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna was known to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her, laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told good stories about her, while none the less all without exception respected and feared her. In the count--s room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they talked of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew it had appeared. The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he egged on against each other. One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and, having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor, ShinshÃn, a cousin of the countess--, a man with --a sharp tongue- as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards, irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an officer in the SemÃ«nov regiment with whom BorÃs was to travel to join the army, and about whom NatÃ¡sha had teased her elder sister VÃ©ra, speaking of Berg as her --intended The count sat between them and listened attentively. His favorite occupation when not playing boston, a card game he was very fond of, was that of listener, especially when he succeeded in setting two loquacious talkers at one another. --Well, then, old chap, mon trÃ¨s honorable Alphonse KÃ¡rlovich,- said ShinshÃn, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian expressions with the choicest French phrases-”which was a peculiarity of his speech. --Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur l--Ã©tat; * you want to make something out of your company?- * You expect to make an income out of the government. --No, Peter NikolÃ¡evich; I only want to show that in the cavalry the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just consider my own position now, Peter NikolÃ¡evich.. Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk circumstantially and with evident satisfaction. --Consider my position, Peter NikolÃ¡evich. Were I in the cavalry I should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and thirty,- said he, looking at ShinshÃn and the count with a joyful, pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must always be the chief desire of everyone else. --Besides that, Peter NikolÃ¡evich, by exchanging into the Guards I shall be in a more prominent position,- continued Berg, --and vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to put a little aside and to send something to my father,- he went on, emitting a smoke ring. --La balance y est... * A German knows how to skin a flint, as the proverb says,- remarked ShinshÃn, moving his pipe to the other side of his mouth and winking at the count. * So that squares matters. The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that ShinshÃn was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime the company commander might get killed and he, as senior in the company, might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently enjoyed narrating all this, and did not seem to suspect that others, too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily sedate, and the naÃ¯vetÃ© of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that he disarmed his hearers. --Well, my boy, you--ll get along wherever you go-”foot or horse-”that I--ll warrant,- said ShinshÃn, patting him on the shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa. Berg smiled joyously. The count, followed by his guests, went into the drawing room. It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests, expecting the summons to zakÃºska, * avoid engaging in any long conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. The host and hostess look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another, and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are waiting for-”some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish that is not yet ready. * Hors d---uvres. Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across, blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make him talk, but he went on naÃ¯vely looking around through his spectacles as if in search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman. --You have only lately arrived?- the countess asked him. --Oui, madame,- replied he, looking around him. --You have not yet seen my husband?- --Non, madame He smiled quite inappropriately. --You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it--s very interesting --Very interesting The countess exchanged glances with Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. The latter understood that she was being asked to entertain this young man, and sitting down beside him she began to speak about his father; but he answered her, as he had the countess, only in monosyllables. The other guests were all conversing with one another. --The RazumÃ³vskis... It was charming... You are very kind... Countess AprÃ¡ksina.. was heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the ballroom. --MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna?- came her voice from there. --Herself,- came the answer in a rough voice, and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna entered the room. All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except the very oldest rose. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout, holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if rolling them up. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna always spoke in Russian. --Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her children,- she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all others. --Well, you old sinner,- she went on, turning to the count who was kissing her hand, --you--re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay? Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just see how these nestlings are growing up,- and she pointed to the girls. --You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not... --Well,- said she, --how--s my Cossack?- (MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna always called NatÃ¡sha a Cossack) and she stroked the child--s arm as she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. --I know she--s a scamp of a girl, but I like her She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and, having given them to the rosy NatÃ¡sha, who beamed with the pleasure of her saint--s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to Pierre. --Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,- said she, assuming a soft high tone of voice. --Come here, my friend.. and she ominously tucked up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a childlike way through his spectacles. --Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your case it--s my evident duty She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to follow, for this was clearly only a prelude. --A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his deathbed and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a bear! For shame, sir, for shame! It would be better if you went to the war She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could hardly keep from laughing. --Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?- said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. The count went in first with MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, the countess followed on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna with ShinshÃn. Berg gave his arm to VÃ©ra. The smiling Julie KarÃ¡gina went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their places. Then the strains of the count--s household band were replaced by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat the countess with MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna on her right and Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna on her left, the other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat the count, with the hussar colonel on his left and ShinshÃn and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the grown-up young people: VÃ©ra beside Berg, and Pierre beside BorÃs; and on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal decanters and fruit vases, the count kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his neighbors-- glasses, not neglecting his own. The countess in turn, without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. At the ladies-- end an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the men--s end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so much that the count held him up as a pattern to the other guests. Berg with tender smiles was saying to VÃ©ra that love is not an earthly but a heavenly feeling. BorÃs was telling his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging glances with NatÃ¡sha, who was sitting opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines. These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a napkin, from behind the next man--s shoulders and whispered: --Dry Madeira-... --Hungarian-... or --Rhine wine- as the case might be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count--s monogram that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other guests. NatÃ¡sha, who sat opposite, was looking at BorÃs as girls of thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny lively little girl--s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing why. Nicholas sat at some distance from SÃ³nya, beside Julie KarÃ¡gina, to whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. SÃ³nya wore a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines, and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for knowledge. CHAPTER XIX At the men--s end of the table the talk grew more and more animated. The colonel told them that the declaration of war had already appeared in Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself seen, had that day been forwarded by courier to the commander in chief. --And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?- remarked ShinshÃn. --He has stopped Austria--s cackle and I fear it will be our turn next The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to the service and patriotically Russian. He resented ShinshÃn--s remark. --It is for the reasson, my goot sir,- said he, speaking with a German accent, --for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell as ze sanctity of its alliances.. he spoke this last word with particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter. Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he repeated from the opening words of the manifesto: ... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor--s sole and absolute aim-”to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations-”has now decided him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a new condition for the attainment of that purpose. --Zat, my dear sir, is vy.. he concluded, drinking a tumbler of wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval. --Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* -Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but turn spindles at home!--?- said ShinshÃn, puckering his brows and smiling. --Cela nous convient Ã merveille.*(2) SuvÃ³rov now-”he knew what he was about; yet they beat him Ã plate couture,*(3) and where are we to find SuvÃ³rovs now? Je vous demande un peu,- *(4) said he, continually changing from French to Russian. * Do you know the proverb? *(2) That suits us down to the ground. *(3) Hollow. *(4) I just ask you that. --Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!- said the colonel, thumping the table; --and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible-... he dwelt particularly on the word possible... --as po-o-ossible,- he ended, again turning to the count. --Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and zere--s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar, how do you judge of it?- he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with eyes and ears intent on the colonel. --I am quite of your opinion,- replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning his plate round and moving his wineglasses about with as much decision and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great danger. --I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,- he concluded, conscious-”as were others-”after the words were uttered that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and were therefore awkward. --What you said just now was splendid!- said his partner Julie. SÃ³nya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking. Pierre listened to the colonel--s speech and nodded approvingly. --That--s fine,- said he. --The young man--s a real hussar!- shouted the colonel, again thumping the table. --What are you making such a noise about over there?- MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna--s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the table. --What are you thumping the table for?- she demanded of the hussar, --and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French are here?- --I am speaking ze truce,- replied the hussar with a smile. --It--s all about the war,- the count shouted down the table. --You know my son--s going, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna? My son is going --I have four sons in the army but still I don--t fret. It is all in God--s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a battle,- replied MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna--s deep voice, which easily carried the whole length of the table. --That--s true!- Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies-- at the one end and the men--s at the other. --You won--t ask,- NatÃ¡sha--s little brother was saying; --I know you won--t ask!- --I will,- replied NatÃ¡sha. Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her mother: --Mamma!- rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice, audible the whole length of the table. --What is it?- asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her daughter--s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head. The conversation was hushed. --Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?- and NatÃ¡sha--s voice sounded still more firm and resolute. The countess tried to frown, but could not. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna shook her fat finger. --Cossack!- she said threateningly. Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the elders. --You had better take care!- said the countess. --Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?- NatÃ¡sha again cried boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in good part. SÃ³nya and fat little PÃ©tya doubled up with laughter. --You see! I have asked,- whispered NatÃ¡sha to her little brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again. --Ice pudding, but you won--t get any,- said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. NatÃ¡sha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she braved even MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. --MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don--t like ice cream --Carrot ices --No! What kind, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna? What kind?- she almost screamed; --I want to know!- MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna--s answer but at the incredible boldness and smartness of this little girl who had dared to treat MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna in this fashion. NatÃ¡sha only desisted when she had been told that there would be pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was served round. The band again struck up, the count and countess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to --congratulate- the countess, and reached across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the guests returned to the drawing room and to the count--s study. CHAPTER XX The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston, and the count--s visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms, some in the sitting room, some in the library. The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything. The young people, at the countess-- instigation, gathered round the clavichord and harp. Julie by general request played first. After she had played a little air with variations on the harp, she joined the other young ladies in begging NatÃ¡sha and Nicholas, who were noted for their musical talent, to sing something. NatÃ¡sha, who was treated as though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of this but at the same time felt shy. --What shall we sing?- she said. ---The Brook,--- suggested Nicholas. --Well, then, let--s be quick. BorÃs, come here,- said NatÃ¡sha. --But where is SÃ³nya?- She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room ran to look for her. Running into SÃ³nya--s room and not finding her there, NatÃ¡sha ran to the nursery, but SÃ³nya was not there either. NatÃ¡sha concluded that she must be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was the place of mourning for the younger female generation in the RostÃ³v household. And there in fact was SÃ³nya lying face downward on Nurse--s dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and sobbing so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook. NatÃ¡sha--s face, which had been so radiantly happy all that saint--s day, suddenly changed: her eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed down her broad neck and the corners of her mouth drooped. --SÃ³nya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!- And NatÃ¡sha--s large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she began to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that SÃ³nya was crying. SÃ³nya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and hid her face still deeper in the bed. NatÃ¡sha wept, sitting on the blue-striped feather bed and hugging her friend. With an effort SÃ³nya sat up and began wiping her eyes and explaining. --Nicholas is going away in a week--s time, his... papers... have come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry,- and she showed a paper she held in her hand-”with the verses Nicholas had written, --still, I should not cry, but you can--t... no one can understand... what a soul he has!- And she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul. --It--s all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and BorÃs also,- she went on, gaining a little strength; --he is nice... there are no difficulties in your way.... But Nicholas is my cousin... one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it can--t be done. And besides, if she tells Mamma- (SÃ³nya looked upon the countess as her mother and called her so) --that I am spoiling Nicholas-- career and am heartless and ungrateful, while truly... God is my witness,- and she made the sign of the cross, --I love her so much, and all of you, only VÃ©ra... And what for? What have I done to her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice everything, only I have nothing... SÃ³nya could not continue, and again hid her face in her hands and in the feather bed. NatÃ¡sha began consoling her, but her face showed that she understood all the gravity of her friend--s trouble. --SÃ³nya,- she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true reason of her friend--s sorrow, --I--m sure VÃ©ra has said something to you since dinner? Hasn--t she?- --Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some others, and she found them on my table and said she--d show them to Mamma, and that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him to marry me, but that he--ll marry Julie. You see how he--s been with her all day... NatÃ¡sha, what have I done to deserve it?.. And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before. NatÃ¡sha lifted her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting her. --SÃ³nya, don--t believe her, darling! Don--t believe her! Do you remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don--t quite remember how, but don--t you remember that it could all be arranged and how nice it all was? There--s Uncle ShinshÃn--s brother has married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know. And BorÃs says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all about it. And he is so clever and so good!- said NatÃ¡sha. --Don--t you cry, SÃ³nya, dear love, darling SÃ³nya!- and she kissed her and laughed. --VÃ©ra--s spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right and she won--t say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself, and he d-sn--t care at all for Julie NatÃ¡sha kissed her on the hair. SÃ³nya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should. --Do you think so?... Really? Truly?- she said, quickly smoothing her frock and hair. --Really, truly!- answered NatÃ¡sha, pushing in a crisp lock that had strayed from under her friend--s plaits. Both laughed. --Well, let--s go and sing -The Brook.--- --Come along!- --Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!- said NatÃ¡sha, stopping suddenly. --I feel so happy!- And she set off at a run along the passage. SÃ³nya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tucking away the verses in the bosom of her dress close to her bony little chest, ran after NatÃ¡sha down the passage into the sitting room with flushed face and light, joyous steps. At the visitors-- request the young people sang the quartette, --The Brook,- with which everyone was delighted. Then Nicholas sang a song he had just learned: At nighttime in the moon--s fair glow How sweet, as fancies wander free, To feel that in this world there--s one Who still is thinking but of thee! That while her fingers touch the harp Wafting sweet music o--er the lea, It is for thee thus swells her heart, Sighing its message out to thee... A day or two, then bliss unspoilt, But oh! till then I cannot live!... He had not finished the last verse before the young people began to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and the coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery. Pierre was sitting in the drawing room where ShinshÃn had engaged him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political conversation in which several others joined but which bored Pierre. When the music began NatÃ¡sha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and blushing: --Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers --I am afraid of mixing the figures,- Pierre replied; --but if you will be my teacher.. And lowering his big arm he offered it to the slender little girl. While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up, Pierre sat down with his little partner. NatÃ¡sha was perfectly happy; she was dancing with a grown-up man, who had been abroad. She was sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a grown-up lady. She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold. Assuming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows when and where she had learned it) she talked with her partner, fanning herself and smiling over the fan. --Dear, dear! Just look at her!- exclaimed the countess as she crossed the ballroom, pointing to NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha blushed and laughed. --Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be surprised at?- In the midst of the third Ã©cossaise there was a clatter of chairs being pushed back in the sitting room where the count and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna had been playing cards with the majority of the more distinguished and older visitors. They now, stretching themselves after sitting so long, and replacing their purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First came MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna and the count, both with merry countenances. The count, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet style, offered his bent arm to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. He drew himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and as soon as the last figure of the Ã©cossaise was ended, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery, addressing the first violin: --SemÃ«n! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?- This was the count--s favorite dance, which he had danced in his youth. (Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise.) --Look at Papa!- shouted NatÃ¡sha to the whole company, and quite forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her laughter. And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout partner, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his t-s, tapped gently with his foot, and, by a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay strains of Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling those of a merry peasant dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom were suddenly filled by the domestic serfs-”the men on one side and the women on the other-”who with beaming faces had come to see their master making merry. --Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!- loudly remarked the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways. The count danced well and knew it. But his partner could not and did not want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood erect, her powerful arms hanging down (she had handed her reticule to the countess), and only her stern but handsome face really joined in the dance. What was expressed by the whole of the count--s plump figure, in MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna found expression only in her more and more beaming face and quivering nose. But if the count, getting more and more into the swing of it, charmed the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and the agility with which he capered about on his light feet, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna produced no less impression by slight exertions-”the least effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp her foot-”which everyone appreciated in view of her size and habitual severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other couples could not attract a moment--s attention to their own evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were watching the count and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. NatÃ¡sha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to --look at Papa!- though as it was they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster; lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying round MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, now on his t-s, now on his heels; until, turning his partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas, raising his soft foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling and making a wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led by NatÃ¡sha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs. --That--s how we used to dance in our time, ma chÃ¨re,- said the count. --That was a Daniel Cooper!- exclaimed MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, tucking up her sleeves and puffing heavily. CHAPTER XXI While in the RostÃ³vs-- ballroom the sixth anglaise was being danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count BezÃºkhov had a sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a mute confession, communion was administered to the dying man, preparations made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house there was the bustle and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an important order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor of Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp to inquire after the count--s health, came himself that evening to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of Catherine--s court, Count BezÃºkhov. The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging their bows and trying to escape as quickly as possible from the glances fixed on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince VasÃli, who had grown thinner and paler during the last few days, escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times in low tones. When the Military Governor had gone, Prince VasÃli sat down all alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the other, leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his hand. After sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him with frightened eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the long corridor leading to the back of the house, to the room of the eldest princess. Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying man--s room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or expectancy at his door, which creaked slightly when opened. --The limits of human life ... are fixed and may not be o--erpassed,- said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat beside him and was listening naÃ¯vely to his words. --I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?- asked the lady, adding the priest--s clerical title, as if she had no opinion of her own on the subject. --Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament,- replied the priest, passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his bald head. --Who was that? The Military Governor himself?- was being asked at the other side of the room. --How young-looking he is!- --Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction --I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a table. --Beautiful,- said the doctor in answer to a remark about the weather. --The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow one feels as if one were in the country --Yes, indeed,- replied the princess with a sigh. --So he may have something to drink?- Lorrain considered. --Has he taken his medicine?- --Yes The doctor glanced at his watch. --Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,- and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch. --Dere has neffer been a gase,- a German doctor was saying to an aide-de-camp, --dat one liffs after de sird stroke --And what a well-preserved man he was!- remarked the aide-de-camp. --And who will inherit his wealth?- he added in a whisper. --It von--t go begging,- replied the German with a smile. Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to Lorrain--s instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain. --Do you think he can last till morning?- asked the German, addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly. Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger before his nose. --Tonight, not later,- said he in a low voice, and he moved away with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able clearly to understand and state the patient--s condition. Meanwhile Prince VasÃli had opened the door into the princess-- room. In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were burning before the icons and there was a pleasant scent of flowers and burnt pastilles. The room was crowded with small pieces of furniture, whatnots, cupboards, and little tables. The quilt of a high, white feather bed was just visible behind a screen. A small dog began to bark. --Ah, is it you, cousin?- She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with varnish. --Has anything happened?- she asked. --I am so terrified --No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about business, Catiche,- * muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on the chair she had just vacated. --You have made the place warm, I must say,- he remarked. --Well, sit down: let--s have a talk * Catherine. --I thought perhaps something had happened,- she said with her unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the prince, she prepared to listen. --I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can--t --Well, my dear?- said Prince VasÃli, taking her hand and bending it downwards as was his habit. It was plain that this --well?- referred to much that they both understood without naming. The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for her legs, looked directly at Prince VasÃli with no sign of emotion in her prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up at the icons with a sigh. This might have been taken as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting before long. Prince VasÃli understood it as an expression of weariness. --And I?- he said; --do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you, Catiche, a very serious talk Prince VasÃli said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously, now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant expression which was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His eyes too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly and at the next glanced round in alarm. The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony hands, looked attentively into Prince VasÃli--s eyes evidently resolved not to be the first to break silence, if she had to wait till morning. --Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine SemÃ«novna,- continued Prince VasÃli, returning to his theme, apparently not without an inner struggle; --at such a moment as this one must think of everything. One must think of the future, of all of you... I love you all, like children of my own, as you know The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the same dull expression. --And then of course my family has also to be considered,- Prince VasÃli went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at her. --You know, Catiche, that we-”you three sisters, MÃ¡montov, and my wife-”are the count--s only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for me; but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count,- pointing to his portrait, --definitely demanded that he should be called Prince VasÃli looked questioningly at the princess, but could not make out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was simply looking at him. --There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon cousin,- she replied, --and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow his noble soul peacefully to leave this.. --Yes, yes, of course,- interrupted Prince VasÃli impatiently, rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little table that he had pushed away. --But... in short, the fact is... you know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre --He has made wills enough!- quietly remarked the princess. --But he cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate --But, my dear,- said Prince VasÃli suddenly, clutching the little table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: --what if a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for Pierre--s legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of the count--s services, his request would be granted?.. The princess smiled as people do who think they know more about the subject under discussion than those they are talking with. --I can tell you more,- continued Prince VasÃli, seizing her hand, --that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not, then as soon as all is over,- and Prince VasÃli sighed to intimate what he meant by the words all is over, --and the count--s papers are opened, the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate son --And our share?- asked the princess smiling ironically, as if anything might happen, only not that. --But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He will then be the legal heir to everything and you won--t get anything. You must know, my dear, whether the will and letter were written, and whether they have been destroyed or not. And if they have somehow been overlooked, you ought to know where they are, and must find them, because.. --What next?- the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and not changing the expression of her eyes. --I am a woman, and you think we are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit... un bÃ¢tard!-* she added, as if supposing that this translation of the word would effectively prove to Prince VasÃli the invalidity of his contention. * A bastard. --Well, really, Catiche! Can--t you understand! You are so intelligent, how is it you don--t see that if the count has written a letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate, it follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become Count BezÃºkhov, and will then inherit everything under the will? And if the will and letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing but the consolation of having been dutiful et tout ce qui s--ensuit!* That--s certain * And all that follows therefrom. --I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid; and you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool,- said the princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are saying something witty and stinging. --My dear Princess Catherine SemÃ«novna,- began Prince VasÃli impatiently, --I came here not to wrangle with you, but to talk about your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true relation. And I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Emperor and the will in Pierre--s favor are among the count--s papers, then, my dear girl, you and your sisters are not heiresses! If you don--t believe me, then believe an expert. I have just been talking to DmÃtri OnÃºfrich- (the family solicitor) --and he says the same At this a sudden change evidently took place in the princess-- ideas; her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not change, and her voice when she began to speak passed through such transitions as she herself evidently did not expect. --That would be a fine thing!- said she. --I never wanted anything and I don--t now She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her dress. --And this is gratitude-”this is recognition for those who have sacrificed everything for his sake!- she cried. --It--s splendid! Fine! I don--t want anything, Prince --Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters.. replied Prince VasÃli. But the princess did not listen to him. --Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could expect nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and ingratitude-”the blackest ingratitude-”in this house.. --Do you or do you not know where that will is?- insisted Prince VasÃli, his cheeks twitching more than ever. --Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has been intriguing!- The princess wished to rise, but the prince held her by the hand. She had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race. She gave her companion an angry glance. --There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche, that it was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was afterwards forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who.. --Who sacrificed everything for him,- chimed in the princess, who would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, --though he never could appreciate it. No, mon cousin,- she added with a sigh, --I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no reward, that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this world one has to be cunning and cruel --Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart --No, I have a wicked heart --I know your heart,- repeated the prince. --I value your friendship and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don--t upset yourself, and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or be it but an hour.... Tell me all you know about the will, and above all where it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to the count. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it. You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help him and you --Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing-”I know!- cried the princess. --That--s not the point, my dear --It--s that protÃ©gÃ© of yours, that sweet Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya, that Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid... the infamous, vile woman!- --Do not let us lose any time.. --Ah, don--t talk to me! Last winter she wheedled herself in here and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us, especially about Sophie-”I can--t repeat them-”that it made the count quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fortnight. I know it was then he wrote this vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was invalid --We--ve got to it at last-”why did you not tell me about it sooner?- --It--s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,- said the princess, ignoring his question. --Now I know! Yes; if I have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!- almost shrieked the princess, now quite changed. --And what d-s she come worming herself in here for? But I will give her a piece of my mind. The time will come!- CHAPTER XXII While these conversations were going on in the reception room and the princess-- room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent for) and Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna (who found it necessary to accompany him) was driving into the court of Count BezÃºkhov--s house. As the wheels rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that he was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre followed Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna out of the carriage, and only then began to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him. He noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the back door. While he was getting down from the carriage steps two men, who looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides. But neither Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna nor the footman nor the coachman, who could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them. --It seems to be all right,- Pierre concluded, and followed Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not see why it was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why he had to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna--s air of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering. These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them there. --Is this the way to the princesses-- apartments?- asked Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna of one of them. --Yes,- replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were now permissible; --the door to the left, ma--am --Perhaps the count did not ask for me,- said Pierre when he reached the landing. --I--d better go to my own room Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna paused and waited for him to come up. --Ah, my friend!- she said, touching his arm as she had done her son--s when speaking to him that afternoon, --believe me I suffer no less than you do, but be a man!- --But really, hadn--t I better go away?- he asked, looking kindly at her over his spectacles. --Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done you. Think that he is your father ... perhaps in the agony of death She sighed. --I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna who was already opening a door. This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been in this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of these rooms. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past with a decanter on a tray as --my dear- and --my sweet,- asked about the princess-- health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The first door on the left led into the princesses-- apartments. The maid with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door (everything in the house was done in haste at that time), and Pierre and Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where Prince VasÃli and the eldest princess were sitting close together talking. Seeing them pass, Prince VasÃli drew back with obvious impatience, while the princess jumped up and with a gesture of desperation slammed the door with all her might. This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear depicted on Prince VasÃli--s face so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as if to say that this was no more than she had expected. --Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests,- said she in reply to his look, and went still faster along the passage. Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what --watching over his interests- meant, but he decided that all these things had to be. From the passage they went into a large, dimly lit room adjoining the count--s reception room. It was one of those sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and water had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a censer and by a servant who passed out on tipt- without heeding them. They went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one another. All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who, hanging his head, meekly followed her. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna--s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg lady she now, keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than that afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her the person the dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid glance at all those in the room and noticing the count--s confessor there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble, not exactly bowing yet seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing first of one and then of another priest. --God be thanked that you are in time,- said she to one of the priests; --all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young man is the count--s son,- she added more softly. --What a terrible moment!- Having said this she went up to the doctor. --Dear doctor,- said she, --this young man is the count--s son. Is there any hope?- The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his shoulders. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna with just the same movement raised her shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved away from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and tenderly sad voice, she said: --Trust in His mercy!- and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone was watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it. Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna had disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind of awe and even servility. A deference such as he had never before received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an aide-de-camp picked up and returned a glove Pierre had dropped; the doctors became respectfully silent as he passed by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre wished to take another seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to pick up the glove himself and to pass round the doctors who were not even in his way; but all at once he felt that this would not do, and that tonight he was a person obliged to perform some sort of awful rite which everyone expected of him, and that he was therefore bound to accept their services. He took the glove in silence from the aide-de-camp, and sat down in the lady--s chair, placing his huge hands symmetrically on his knees in the naÃ¯ve attitude of an Egyptian statue, and decided in his own mind that all was as it should be, and that in order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not act on his own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to the will of those who were guiding him. Not two minutes had passed before Prince VasÃli with head erect majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning; his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and noticed Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do), and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly fixed on. --Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is well!- and he turned to go. But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: --How is.. and hesitated, not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man --the count,- yet ashamed to call him --father --He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my friend.. Pierre--s mind was in such a confused state that the word --stroke- suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince VasÃli in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of illness. Prince VasÃli said something to Lorrain in passing and went through the door on tipt-. He could not walk well on tipt- and his whole body jerked at each step. The eldest princess followed him, and the priests and deacons and some servants also went in at the door. Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about, and at last Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, still with the same expression, pale but resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly on the arm said: --The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be administered. Come Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all followed him in, as if there were now no further need for permission to enter that room. CHAPTER XXIII Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side and on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated with red light like a Russian church during evening service. Under the gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair on snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre saw-”covered to the waist by a bright green quilt-”the familiar, majestic figure of his father, Count BezÃºkhov, with that gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons; his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over from behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood the priests, their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister, Catiche, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer for herself should she glance round. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, with a meek, sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door near the strange lady. Prince VasÃli in front of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose, and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety and resignation to the will of God. --If you do not understand these sentiments,- he seemed to be saying, --so much the worse for you!- Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants; the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of feet were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, with an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave him a taper. He lit it and, distracted by observing those around him, began crossing himself with the hand that held the taper. Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing Pierre she again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him without laughing, but could not resist looking at him: so to be out of temptation she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst of the service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they whispered to one another, and the old servant who was holding the count--s hand got up and said something to the ladies. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna stepped forward and, stooping over the dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from behind her back. The French doctor held no taper; he was leaning against one of the columns in a respectful attitude implying that he, a foreigner, in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full importance of the rite now being performed and even approved of it. He now approached the sick man with the noiseless step of one in full vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the green quilt the hand that was free, and turning sideways felt the pulse and reflected a moment. The sick man was given something to drink, there was a stir around him, then the people resumed their places and the service continued. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince VasÃli left the chair on which he had been leaning, and-”with an air which intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not understand him it was so much the worse for them-”did not go up to the dying man, but passed by him, joined the eldest princess, and moved with her to the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving the bed both Prince VasÃli and the princess passed out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his mind once for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was in some way essential. The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna--s was the most distinct. Pierre heard her say: --Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be impossible.. The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with its gray mane-”which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the whole service. He judged by the cautious movements of those who crowded round the invalid chair that they had lifted the dying man and were moving him. --Catch hold of my arm or you--ll drop him!- he heard one of the servants say in a frightened whisper. --Catch hold from underneath. Here!- exclaimed different voices; and the heavy breathing of the bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as if the weight they were carrying were too much for them. As the bearers, among whom was Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, passed the young man he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying man--s high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly, leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon nothing. After a few minutes-- bustle beside the high bedstead, those who had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna touched Pierre--s hand and said, --Come Pierre went with her to the bed on which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms downward. When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him, but with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal man. Either this look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes they must look somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick man--s hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre, carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the count--s face stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna to see what he was to do next. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were doing right. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell into the naÃ¯vely symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at the count, who still gazed at the spot where Pierre--s face had been before he sat down. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count--s face began to twitch. The twitching increased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one side (only now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna looked attentively at the sick man--s eyes, trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink, then named Prince VasÃli in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of the sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the servant who stood constantly at the head of the bed. --Wants to turn on the other side,- whispered the servant, and got up to turn the count--s heavy body toward the wall. Pierre rose to help him. While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain, at any rate he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre--s terror-stricken face, and again at the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile appeared, quite out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride his own helplessness. At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his eyes. The sick man was turned on to his side with his face to the wall. He sighed. --He is dozing,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, observing that one of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. --Let us go Pierre went out. CHAPTER XXIV There was now no one in the reception room except Prince VasÃli and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something as she whispered: --I can--t bear the sight of that woman --Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,- said Prince VasÃli to Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. --Go and take something, my poor Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, or you will not hold out To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna into the small drawing room. --There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup of this delicious Russian tea,- Lorrain was saying with an air of restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese handleless cup before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid in the small circular room. Around the table all who were at Count BezÃºkhov--s house that night had gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with diamonds and pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly lighted mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now this same room was dimly lighted by two candles. On one small table tea things and supper dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the night a motley throng of people sat there, not merrymaking, but somberly whispering, and betraying by every word and movement that they none of them forgot what was happening and what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything though he would very much have liked to. He looked inquiringly at his monitress and saw that she was again going on tipt- to the reception room where they had left Prince VasÃli and the eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also was essential, and after a short interval followed her. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna was standing beside the princess, and they were both speaking in excited whispers. --Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not necessary,- said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room. --But, my dear princess,- answered Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna blandly but impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other from passing, --won--t this be too much for poor Uncle at a moment when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already prepared.. Prince VasÃli was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently; but he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were saying. --Come, my dear Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases. You know how fond the count is of her --I don--t even know what is in this paper,- said the younger of the two ladies, addressing Prince VasÃli and pointing to an inlaid portfolio she held in her hand. --All I know is that his real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten... She tried to pass Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, but the latter sprang so as to bar her path. --I know, my dear, kind princess,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, seizing the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily. --Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! Je vous en conjure.. The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if the princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed firmness and softness. --Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?- --Why don--t you speak, cousin?- suddenly shrieked the princess so loud that those in the drawing room heard her and were startled. --Why do you remain silent when heaven knows who permits herself to interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man--s room? Intriguer!- she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio. But Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the portfolio, and changed her grip. Prince VasÃli rose. --Oh!- said he with reproach and surprise, --this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you The princess let go. --And you too!- But Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna did not obey him. --Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will go and ask him, I!... d-s that satisfy you?- --But, Prince,- said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, --after such a solemn sacrament, allow him a moment--s peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your opinion,- said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the princess which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince VasÃli. --Remember that you will answer for the consequences,- said Prince VasÃli severely. --You don--t know what you are doing --Vile woman!- shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna and snatching the portfolio from her. Prince VasÃli bent his head and spread out his hands. At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so long and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and banged against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out wringing her hands. --What are you doing!- she cried vehemently. --He is dying and you leave me alone with him!- Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, stooping, quickly caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest princess and Prince VasÃli, recovering themselves, followed her. A few minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an irrepressible hatred. --Yes, now you may be glad!- said she; --this is what you have been waiting for And bursting into tears she hid her face in her handkerchief and rushed from the room. Prince VasÃli came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an ague. --Ah, my friend!- said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it before. --How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I am near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all! Death is awful.. and he burst into tears. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet steps. --Pierre!- she said. Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said: --He is no more... Pierre looked at her over his spectacles. --Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as tears She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could see his face. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna left him, and when she returned he was fast asleep with his head on his arm. In the morning Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna said to Pierre: --Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you. But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I hope, in command of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I know you well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but it imposes duties on you, and you must be a man Pierre was silent. --Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle promised me only the day before yesterday not to forget BorÃs. But he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father--s wish?- Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in silence at Princess Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna returned to the RostÃ³vs-- and went to bed. On waking in the morning she told the RostÃ³vs and all her acquaintances the details of Count BezÃºkhov--s death. She said the count had died as she would herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edifying. As to the last meeting between father and son, it was so touching that she could not think of it without tears, and did not know which had behaved better during those awful moments-”the father who so remembered everything and everybody at last and had spoken such pathetic words to the son, or Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sadden his dying father. --It is painful, but it d-s one good. It uplifts the soul to see such men as the old count and his worthy son,- said she. Of the behavior of the eldest princess and Prince VasÃli she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers and as a great secret. CHAPTER XXV At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas AndrÃ©evich BolkÃ³nski--s estate, the arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the old prince--s household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas AndrÃ©evich (nicknamed in society, --the King of Prussia-) ever since the Emperor Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle Bourienne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from Moscow to Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to say that there are only two sources of human vice-”idleness and superstition, and only two virtues-”activity and intelligence. He himself undertook his daughter--s education, and to develop these two cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time was occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs, solving problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe, working in the garden, or superintending the building that was always going on at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity, regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of exactitude. He always came to table under precisely the same conditions, and not only at the same hour but at the same minute. With those about him, from his daughter to his serfs, the prince was sharp and invariably exacting, so that without being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear and respect as few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs, every high official appointed to the province in which the prince--s estate lay considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber just as the architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when the enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather small old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd, youthfully glittering eyes. On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive, Princess Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a silent prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and every morning prayed that the daily interview might pass off well. An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose quietly and said in a whisper: --Please walk in Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The princess timidly opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused at the entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after glancing round continued his work. The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use. The large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around-”all indicated continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure of the lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince still possessed the tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few more turns of the lathe he removed his foot from the pedal, wiped his chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, approaching the table, summoned his daughter. He never gave his children a blessing, so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding her tenderly and attentively, said severely: --Quite well? All right then, sit down He took the exercise book containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair with his foot. --For tomorrow!- said he, quickly finding the page and making a scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail. The princess bent over the exercise book on the table. --Wait a bit, here--s a letter for you,- said the old man suddenly, taking a letter addressed in a woman--s hand from a bag hanging above the table, onto which he threw it. At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the princess-- face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it. --From HÃ©loÃ¯se?- asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his still sound, yellowish teeth. --Yes, it--s from Julie,- replied the princess with a timid glance and a timid smile. --I--ll let two more letters pass, but the third I--ll read,- said the prince sternly; --I--m afraid you write much nonsense. I--ll read the third!- --Read this if you like, Father,- said the princess, blushing still more and holding out the letter. --The third, I said the third!- cried the prince abruptly, pushing the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward him the exercise book containing geometrical figures. --Well, madam,- he began, stooping over the book close to his daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat, so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. --Now, madam, these triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC.. The princess looked in a scared way at her father--s eyes glittering close to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened that her fear would prevent her understanding any of her father--s further explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was the teacher--s fault or the pupil--s, this same thing happened every day: the princess-- eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear anything, but was only conscious of her stern father--s withered face close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on which he was sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control himself and not become vehement, but almost always did become vehement, scolded, and sometimes flung the exercise book away. The princess gave a wrong answer. --Well now, isn--t she a fool!- shouted the prince, pushing the book aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and down, lightly touched his daughter--s hair and sat down again. He drew up his chair, and continued to explain. --This won--t do, Princess; it won--t do,- said he, when Princess Mary, having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day--s lesson, was about to leave: --Mathematics are most important, madam! I don--t want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and you--ll like it,- and he patted her cheek. --It will drive all the nonsense out of your head She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut book from the high desk. --Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your HÃ©loÃ¯se has sent you. Religious! I don--t interfere with anyone--s belief... I have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her. Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She sat down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and which was littered with books and papers. The princess was as untidy as her father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from childhood; that same Julie KarÃ¡gina who had been at the RostÃ³vs-- name-day party. Julie wrote in French: Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance separating us our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against fate and in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me I cannot overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since we parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in your big study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as three months ago, draw fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle, calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so well and seem to see before me as I write? Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the mirror which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness at her reflection in the glass. --She flatters me,- thought the princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter her friend, the princess-- eyes-”large, deep and luminous (it seemed as if at times there radiated from them shafts of warm light)-”were so beautiful that very often in spite of the plainness of her face they gave her an attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But the princess never saw the beautiful expression of her own eyes-”the look they had when she was not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her face assumed a forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked in a glass. She went on reading: All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean young Nicholas RostÃ³v, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain inactive and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to you, dear Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for the army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly, he is so frank and has so much heart. He is so pure and p-tic that my relations with him, transient as they were, have been one of the sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already suffered so much. Someday I will tell you about our parting and all that was said then. That is still too fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know these poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, for the latter are generally the stronger! I know very well that Count Nicholas is too young ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship, this p-tic and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed. But enough of this! The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of old Count BezÃºkhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses have received very little, Prince VasÃli nothing, and it is Monsieur Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count BezÃºkhov and possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince VasÃli played a very despicable part in this affair and that he returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen. I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom we all used to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count BezÃºkhov and the owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to watch the change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort of fellow. As for the past two years people have amused themselves by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don--t even know), the matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as the future Countess BezÃºkhova. But you will understand that I have no desire for the post. Ã€ propos of marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal auntie Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna told me, under the seal of strict secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you. It is neither more nor less than with Prince VasÃli--s son Anatole, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguÃ©e, and it is on you that his relations-- choice has fallen. I don--t know what you will think of it, but I consider it my duty to let you know of it. He is said to be very handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find out about him. But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the AprÃ¡ksins--. Read the mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you. JULIE P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife. The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote, also in French: Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given me great delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which you say so much that is bad, d-s not seem to have had its usual effect on you. You complain of our separation. What then should I say, if I dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you suppose that I should look severely on your affection for that young man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I understand such feelings in others, and if never having felt them I cannot approve of them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me that Christian love, love of one--s neighbor, love of one--s enemy, is worthier, sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful eyes of a young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl like yourself. The news of Count BezÃºkhov--s death reached us before your letter and my father was much affected by it. He says the count was the last representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as possible. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune! I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince VasÃli, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine Saviour--s words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are terribly true. I pity Prince VasÃli but am still more sorry for Pierre. So young, and burdened with such riches-”to what temptations he will be exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the volume you have sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since you tell me that among some good things it contains others which our weak human understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some people have for confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken their doubts and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for exaggeration quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries they contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this flesh which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which our divine Saviour has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who rejects all knowledge that d-s not come from Him; and the less we seek to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner will He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit. My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince VasÃli. In regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay the duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings toward him whom He may give me for husband. I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his speedy arrival at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will be but a brief one, however, for he will leave us again to take part in this unhappy war into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only where you are-”at the heart of affairs and of the world-”is the talk all of war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature-”which townsfolk consider characteristic of the country-”rumors of war are heard and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I witnessed a heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of conscripts enrolled from our people and starting to join the army. You should have seen the state of the mothers, wives, and children of the men who were going and should have heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached love and forgiveness of injuries-”and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill in killing one another. Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most Holy Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care! MARY --Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already dispatched mine. I have written to my poor mother,- said the smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r--s. She brought into Princess Mary--s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy world a quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and self-satisfied. --Princess, I must warn you,- she added, lowering her voice and evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with exaggerated grasseyement, --the prince has been scolding Michael IvÃ¡novich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared --Ah, dear friend,- replied Princess Mary, --I have asked you never to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge him and would not have others do so The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five minutes late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the sitting room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o--clock, as the day was mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played the clavichord. CHAPTER XXVI The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of the prince, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house through the closed doors came the sound of difficult passages-”twenty times repeated-”of a sonata by Dussek. Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to alight, and let her pass into the house before him. Old TÃkhon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. TÃkhon knew that neither the son--s arrival nor any other unusual event must be allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince Andrew apparently knew this as well as TÃkhon; he looked at his watch as if to ascertain whether his father--s habits had changed since he was at home last, and, having assured himself that they had not, he turned to his wife. --He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary--s room,- he said. The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak just as merrily and prettily as ever. --Why, this is a palace!- she said to her husband, looking around with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball. --Let--s come, quick, quick!- And with a glance round, she smiled at TÃkhon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them. --Is that Mary practicing? Let--s go quietly and take her by surprise Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression. --You--ve grown older, TÃkhon,- he said in passing to the old man, who kissed his hand. Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came, the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne, rushed out apparently beside herself with delight. --Ah! what joy for the princess!- exclaimed she: --At last! I must let her know --No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne,- said the little princess, kissing her. --I know you already through my sister-in-law--s friendship for you. She was not expecting us?- They went up to the door of the sitting room from which came the sound of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped and made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant. The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary--s heavy tread and the sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in the two princesses, who had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in each other--s arms warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch. Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two women let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each other--s hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began kissing each other on the face, and then to Prince Andrew--s surprise both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle Bourienne also began to cry. Prince Andrew evidently felt ill at ease, but to the two women it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently it never entered their heads that it could have been otherwise at this meeting. --Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!.. they suddenly exclaimed, and then laughed. --I dreamed last night..-”--You were not expecting us?.. --Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?.. --And you have grown stouter!.. --I knew the princess at once,- put in Mademoiselle Bourienne. --And I had no idea!.. exclaimed Princess Mary. --Ah, Andrew, I did not see you Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess Mary had turned toward her brother, and through her tears the loving, warm, gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince Andrew--s face. The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary and drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had had on the SpÃ¡sski Hill which might have been serious for her in her condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left all her clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would have to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty OdÃ½ntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor for Mary, a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Princess Mary was still looking silently at her brother and her beautiful eyes were full of love and sadness. It was plain that she was following a train of thought independent of her sister-in-law--s words. In the midst of a description of the last Petersburg fete she addressed her brother: --So you are really going to the war, Andrew?- she said sighing. Lise sighed too. --Yes, and even tomorrow,- replied her brother. --He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had promotion.. Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her figure. --Is it certain?- she said. The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said: --Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful.. Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law--s and unexpectedly again began to cry. --She needs rest,- said Prince Andrew with a frown. --Don--t you, Lise? Take her to your room and I--ll go to Father. How is he? Just the same?- --Yes, just the same. Though I don--t know what your opinion will be,- answered the princess joyfully. --And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the lathe?- asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile which showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses. --The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and my geometry lessons,- said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her lessons in geometry were among the greatest delights of her life. When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for the old prince to get up, TÃkhon came to call the young prince to his father. The old man made a departure from his usual routine in honor of his son--s arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments while he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew entered his father--s dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to TÃkhon. --Ah! here--s the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?- said the old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which TÃkhon was holding fast to plait, would allow. --You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he g-s on like this he--ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?- And he held out his cheek. The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He used to say that a nap --after dinner was silver-”before dinner, golden) He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father on the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father--s favorite topic-”making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of Bonaparte. --Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is pregnant,- said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his father--s face with an eager and respectful look. --How is your health?- --Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am busy from morning till night and abstemious, so of course I am well --Thank God,- said his son smiling. --God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on,- he continued, returning to his hobby; --tell me how the Germans have taught you to fight Bonaparte by this new science you call -strategy.--- Prince Andrew smiled. --Give me time to collect my wits, Father,- said he, with a smile that showed that his father--s foibles did not prevent his son from loving and honoring him. --Why, I have not yet had time to settle down!- --Nonsense, nonsense!- cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand. --The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and show her over, and they--ll talk nineteen to the dozen. That--s their woman--s way! I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About Mikhelson--s army I understand-”TolstÃ³y-s too... a simultaneous expedition.... But what--s the southern army to do? Prussia is neutral... I know that. What about Austria?- said he, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the room followed by TÃkhon, who ran after him, handing him different articles of clothing. --What of Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?- Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began-”at first reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on-”to explain the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained how an army, ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that army was to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two hundred and twenty thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand Russians, were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty thousand Russians and as many English were to land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thousand men was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince did not evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were not listening to it continued to dress while walking about, and three times unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: --The white one, the white one!- This meant that TÃkhon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted. Another time he interrupted, saying: --And will she soon be confined?- and shaking his head reproachfully said: --That--s bad! Go on, go on The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finishing his description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age: --Malbrook s--en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra * * --Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he--ll return His son only smiled. --I don--t say it--s a plan I approve of,- said the son; --I am only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now, not worse than this one --Well, you--ve told me nothing new,- and the old man repeated, meditatively and rapidly: --Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room CHAPTER XXVII At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, who by a strange caprice of his employer--s was admitted to table though the position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who generally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important government officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected Michael IvÃ¡novich (who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his checked handkerchief) to illustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more than once impressed on his daughter that Michael IvÃ¡novich was --not a whit worse than you or I At dinner the prince usually spoke to the taciturn Michael IvÃ¡novich more often than to anyone else. In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen-”one behind each chair-”stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the Princes BolkÃ³nski, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate) of a ruling prince, in a crown-”an alleged descendant of RÃºrik and ancestor of the BolkÃ³nskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing. --How thoroughly like him that is!- he said to Princess Mary, who had come up to him. Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired her with reverence and was beyond question. --Everyone has his Achilles-- heel,- continued Prince Andrew. --Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!- Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother--s criticism and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were heard coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck. --I--m glad, glad, to see you,- he said, looking attentively into her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. --Sit down, sit down! Sit down, Michael IvÃ¡novich!- He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved the chair for her. --Ho, ho!- said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure. --You--ve been in a hurry. That--s bad!- He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only and not with his eyes. --You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,- he said. The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father, and she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and she became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings from various people and retelling the town gossip. --Countess AprÃ¡ksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has cried her eyes out,- she said, growing more and more lively. As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael IvÃ¡novich. --Well, Michael IvÃ¡novich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time of it. Prince Andrew- (he always spoke thus of his son) --has been telling me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I never thought much of him Michael IvÃ¡novich did not at all know when --you and I- had said such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as a peg on which to hang the prince--s favorite topic, he looked inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow. --He is a great tactician!- said the prince to his son, pointing to the architect. And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced not only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the A B C of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any PotÃ«mkins or SuvÃ³rovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing, pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew gaily bore with his father--s ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and listened to him with evident pleasure. --The past always seems good,- said he, --but did not SuvÃ³rov himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know how to escape?- --Who told you that? Who?- cried the prince. --SuvÃ³rov!- And he jerked away his plate, which TÃkhon briskly caught. --SuvÃ³rov!... Consider, Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and SuvÃ³rov; Moreau!... Moreau would have been a prisoner if SuvÃ³rov had had a free hand; but he had the Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have puzzled the devil himself! When you get there you--ll find out what those Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! SuvÃ³rov couldn--t manage them so what chance has Michael KutÃºzov? No, my dear boy,- he continued, --you and your generals won--t get on against Buonaparte; you--ll have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to fetch the Frenchman, Moreau,- he said, alluding to the invitation made that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... --Wonderful!... Were the PotÃ«mkins, SuvÃ³rovs, and OrlÃ³vs Germans? No, lad, either you fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help you, but we--ll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great commander among them! Hm!.. --I don--t at all say that all the plans are good,- said Prince Andrew, --I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great general!- --Michael IvÃ¡novich!- cried the old prince to the architect who, busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: --Didn--t I tell you Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says the same thing --To be sure, your excellency,- replied the architect. The prince again laughed his frigid laugh. --Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody has beaten the Germans. They beat no one-”except one another. He made his reputation fighting them And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European military and political events. --You think I--m an old man and don--t understand the present state of affairs?- concluded his father. --But it troubles me. I don--t sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown his skill?- he concluded. --That would take too long to tell,- answered the son. --Well, then go off to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne, here--s another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,- he exclaimed in excellent French. --You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!- --Dieu sait quand reviendra hummed the prince out of tune and, with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table. The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she took her sister-in-law--s arm and drew her into another room. --What a clever man your father is,- said she; --perhaps that is why I am afraid of him --Oh, he is so kind!- answered Princess Mary. CHAPTER XXVIII Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in her sister-in-law--s room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber-”a present from his father who had brought it from the siege of OchÃ¡kov. All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew--s were in very good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes. When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew--s face looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was he sad at leaving his wife?-”perhaps both, but evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard. --I hear you have given orders to harness,- she cried, panting (she had apparently been running), --and I did so wish to have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming? You have changed so, AndrÃºsha,- she added, as if to explain such a question. She smiled as she uttered his pet name, --AndrÃºsha It was obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be AndrÃºsha-”the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in childhood. --And where is Lise?- he asked, answering her question only by a smile. --She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,- said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. --She is quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face. --One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them, Andrew? Don--t forget that she has grown up and been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into everyone--s situation. Tout comprendre, c--est tout pardonner. * Think what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her condition! It--s very hard * To understand all is to forgive all. Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we think we thoroughly understand. --You live in the country and don--t think the life terrible,- he replied. --I... that--s different. Why speak of me? I don--t want any other life, and can--t, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her life, all alone-”for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne... --I don--t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,- said Prince Andrew. --No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she--s much to be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don--t need her, and she--s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and Michael IvÃ¡novich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: -We don--t love people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good we have done them.-- Father took her when she was homeless after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads splendidly --To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father--s character sometimes makes things trying for you, d-sn--t it?- Prince Andrew asked suddenly. Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question. --For me? For me?... Trying for me!.. said she. --He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he--s getting very trying,- said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister. --You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of intellectual pride,- said the princess, following the train of her own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation-”--and that--s a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I am Her brother shook his head incredulously. --The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth, Andrew... is Father--s way of treating religious subjects. I don--t understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and had a long talk with --Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your powder,- said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly. --Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me. Andrew.. she said timidly after a moment--s silence, --I have a great favor to ask of you --What is it, dear?- --No-”promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise, AndrÃºsha!.. said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was granted. She looked timidly at her brother. --Even if it were a great deal of trouble.. answered Prince Andrew, as if guessing what it was about. --Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father--s father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars (She still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.) --So you promise?- --Of course. What is it?- --Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will never take it off. Do you promise?- --If it d-s not weigh a hundredweight and won--t break my neck... To please you.. said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister--s face, he repented and added: --I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad --Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,- said she in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold setting, on a finely wrought silver chain. She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew. --Please, Andrew, for my sake!.. Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face. --Thank you, my dear She kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while. --As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always used to be. Don--t judge Lise harshly,- she began. --She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one --I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, MÃ¡sha, or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?- Red patches appeared on Princess Mary--s face and she was silent as if she felt guilty. --I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And I am sorry for that,- he went on. The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister. --Know this, MÃ¡sha: I can--t reproach, have not reproached, and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this is so I don--t know.. As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over her head toward the darkness of the open doorway. --Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or-”go and wake and I--ll come in a moment. PetrÃºshka!- he called to his valet: --Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said: --Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been answered --Well, maybe!- said Prince Andrew. --Go, MÃ¡sha; I--ll come immediately On the way to his sister--s room, in the passage which connected one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages. --Oh! I thought you were in your room,- she said, for some reason blushing and dropping her eyes. Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his sister--s room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make up for lost time. --No, but imagine the old Countess ZÃºbova, with false curls and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!- This very sentence about Countess ZÃºbova and this same laugh Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter. The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the reception hall: Michael IvÃ¡novich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his father--s study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come out. When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round. --Going?- And he went on writing. --I--ve come to say good-by --Kiss me here,- and he touched his cheek: --Thanks, thanks!- --What do you thank me for?- --For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman--s apron strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!- And he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. --If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together,- he added. --About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your hands... --Why talk nonsense? Say what you want --When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let him be here... The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his stern eyes on his son. --I know that no one can help if nature d-s not do her work,- said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. --I know that out of a million cases only one g-s wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened --Hm... Hm.. muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he was writing. --I--ll do it He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to laugh. --It--s a bad business, eh?- --What is bad, Father?- --The wife!- said the old prince, briefly and significantly. --I don--t understand!- said Prince Andrew. --No, it can--t be helped, lad,- said the prince. --They--re all like that; one can--t unmarry. Don--t be afraid; I won--t tell anyone, but you know it yourself He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked straight into his son--s face with keen eyes which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh. The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity. --What--s to be done? She--s pretty! I will do everything. Make your mind easy,- said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter. Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son. --Listen!- said he; --don--t worry about your wife: what can be done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael IlariÃ³novich. * I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all right-”serve him. Nicholas BolkÃ³nski--s son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here * KutÃºzov. He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting. --I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of SuvÃ³rov--s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time yet. He felt that he must not say it. --I will do it all, Father,- he said. --Well, now, good-by!- He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced him. --Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me, your old father.. he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: --but if I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas BolkÃ³nski, I shall be ashamed!- --You need not have said that to me, Father,- said the son with a smile. The old man was silent. --I also wanted to ask you,- continued Prince Andrew, --if I--m killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you-”as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please --Not let the wife have him?- said the old man, and laughed. They stood silent, facing one another. The old man--s sharp eyes were fixed straight on his son--s. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince--s face. --We--ve said good-by. Go!- he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry voice, opening his door. --What is it? What?- asked both princesses when they saw for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice. Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply. --Well!- he said, turning to his wife. And this --Well!- sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: --Now go through your performance --Andrew, already!- said the little princess, turning pale and looking with dismay at her husband. He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder. He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair. --Adieu, Mary,- said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps. The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white dressing gown looked out. --Gone? That--s all right!- said he; and looking angrily at the unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed the door. BOOK TWO: 1805 CHAPTER I In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of the commander in chief, KutÃºzov. On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected by the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the locality and surroundings-”fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, and hills in the distance-”and despite the fact that the inhabitants (who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia. On the evening of the last day--s march an order had been received that the commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is always better to --bow too low than not bow low enough So the soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending and cleaning all night long without closing their eyes, while the adjutants and company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by morning the regiment-”instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on its last march the day before-”presented a well-ordered array of two thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not only externally was all in order, but had it pleased the commander in chief to look under the uniforms he would have found on every man a clean shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of articles, --awl, soap, and all,- as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of the soldiers-- boots. More than half the men--s boots were in holes. But this defect was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for in spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the Austrian commissariat, and the regiment had marched some seven hundred miles. The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider from chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulettes which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive shoulders. He had the air of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of the line and at every step pulled himself up, slightly arching his back. It was plain that the commander admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military matters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of his thoughts. --Well, Michael MÃtrich, sir?- he said, addressing one of the battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain that they both felt happy). --We had our hands full last night. However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?- The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed. --It would not be turned off the field even on the TsarÃtsin Meadow --What?- asked the commander. At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had been posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an aide-de-camp followed by a Cossack. The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been clearly worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation whatever. A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to KutÃºzov the day before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and KutÃºzov, not considering this junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view, to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the regiment; so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased the commander in chief would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know these circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that the men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order, and that the commander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing this the regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a choleric gesture. --A fine mess we--ve made of it!- he remarked. --There now! Didn--t I tell you, Michael MÃtrich, that if it was said -on the march-- it meant in greatcoats?- said he reproachfully to the battalion commander. --Oh, my God!- he added, stepping resolutely forward. --Company commanders!- he shouted in a voice accustomed to command. --Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?- he asked the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently relating to the personage he was referring to. --In an hour--s time, I should say --Shall we have time to change clothes?- --I don--t know, General... The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered the soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders ran off to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the greatcoats were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares that had up to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and fro, throwing up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and pulling the straps over their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and drawing the sleeves on with upraised arms. In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had become gray instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his jerky steps to the front of the regiment and examined it from a distance. --Whatever is this? This!- he shouted and stood still. --Commander of the third company!- --Commander of the third company wanted by the general!... commander to the general... third company to the commander The words passed along the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing officer. When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination in a cry of: --The general to the third company,- the missing officer appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged man and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his t-s toward the general. The captain--s face showed the uneasiness of a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots appeared on his nose, the redness of which was evidently due to intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The general looked the captain up and down as he came up panting, slackening his pace as he approached. --You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?- shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the others. --What have you been after? The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place? Eh? I--ll teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade.... Eh...?- The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior, pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this pressure lay his only hope of salvation. --Well, why don--t you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as a Hungarian?- said the commander with an austere gibe. --Your excellency.. --Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your excellency?... nobody knows --Your excellency, it--s the officer DÃ³lokhov, who has been reduced to the ranks,- said the captain softly. --Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier? If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the others --Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march --Gave him leave? Leave? That--s just like you young men,- said the regimental commander cooling down a little. --Leave indeed.... One says a word to you and you... What?- he added with renewed irritation, --I beg you to dress your men decently And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display of anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further excuse for wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, at another because his line was not straight, he reached the third company. --H-o-o-w are you standing? Where--s your leg? Your leg?- shouted the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there were still five men between him and DÃ³lokhov with his bluish-gray uniform. DÃ³lokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with his clear, insolent eyes in the general--s face. --Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his coat... the ras.. he did not finish. --General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure.. DÃ³lokhov hurriedly interrupted. --No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!- --Not bound to endure insults,- DÃ³lokhov concluded in loud, ringing tones. The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf. --I request you to have the goodness to change your coat,- he said as he turned away. CHAPTER II --He--s coming!- shouted the signaler at that moment. The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle, righted himself, drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute countenance, opening his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird preening its plumage and became motionless. --Att-ention!- shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment, and welcome for the approaching chief. Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a high, light blue Viennese calÃ¨che, slightly creaking on its springs and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the calÃ¨che galloped the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside KutÃºzov sat an Austrian general, in a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones. The calÃ¨che stopped in front of the regiment. KutÃºzov and the Austrian general were talking in low voices and KutÃºzov smiled slightly as treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as if those two thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the regimental commander did not exist. The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as with a jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence the feeble voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment roared, --Health to your ex... len... len... lency!- and again all became silent. At first KutÃºzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he and the general in white, accompanied by the suite, walked between the ranks. From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief and devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and from the way he walked through the ranks behind the generals, bending forward and hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he darted forward at every word or gesture of the commander in chief, it was evident that he performed his duty as a subordinate with even greater zeal than his duty as a commander. Thanks to the strictness and assiduity of its commander the regiment, in comparison with others that had reached Braunau at the same time, was in splendid condition. There were only 217 sick and stragglers. Everything was in good order except the boots. KutÃºzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, sometimes also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several times shook his head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian general with an expression which seemed to say that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help noticing what a bad state of things it was. The regimental commander ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of the commander in chief--s regarding the regiment. Behind KutÃºzov, at a distance that allowed every softly spoken word to be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen talked among themselves and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the commander in chief walked a handsome adjutant. This was Prince BolkÃ³nski. Beside him was his comrade NesvÃtski, a tall staff officer, extremely stout, with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. NesvÃtski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental commander--s back and mimicked his every movement. Each time the commander started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent forward in exactly the same manner. NesvÃtski laughed and nudged the others to make them look at the wag. KutÃºzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which were starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected this, involuntarily came closer to him. --Ah, TimÃ³khin!- said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat. One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself more than TimÃ³khin had done when he was reprimanded by the regimental commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed him he drew himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not have sustained it had the commander in chief continued to look at him, and so KutÃºzov, who evidently understood his case and wished him nothing but good, quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his scarred and puffy face. --Another Ismail comrade,- said he. --A brave officer! Are you satisfied with him?- he asked the regimental commander. And the latter-”unconscious that he was being reflected in the hussar officer as in a looking glass-”started, moved forward, and answered: --Highly satisfied, your excellency!- --We all have our weaknesses,- said KutÃºzov smiling and walking away from him. --He used to have a predilection for Bacchus The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of the red-nosed captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose with such exactitude that NesvÃtski could not help laughing. KutÃºzov turned round. The officer evidently had complete control of his face, and while KutÃºzov was turning managed to make a grimace and then assume a most serious, deferential, and innocent expression. The third company was the last, and KutÃºzov pondered, apparently trying to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from among the suite and said in French: --You told me to remind you of the officer DÃ³lokhov, reduced to the ranks in this regiment --Where is DÃ³lokhov?- asked KutÃºzov. DÃ³lokhov, who had already changed into a soldier--s gray greatcoat, did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks, went up to the commander in chief, and presented arms. --Have you a complaint to make?- KutÃºzov asked with a slight frown. --This is DÃ³lokhov,- said Prince Andrew. --Ah!- said KutÃºzov. --I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan--t forget you if you deserve well The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by their expression to tear open the veil of convention that separates a commander in chief so widely from a private. --One thing I ask of your excellency,- DÃ³lokhov said in his firm, ringing, deliberate voice. --I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!- KutÃºzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had turned from Captain TimÃ³khin again flitted over his face. He turned away with a grimace as if to say that everything DÃ³lokhov had said to him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he was weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and went to the carriage. The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their appointed quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and clothes and to rest after their hard marches. --You won--t bear me a grudge, ProkhÃ³r IgnÃ¡tych?- said the regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its quarters and riding up to Captain TimÃ³khin who was walking in front. (The regimental commander--s face now that the inspection was happily over beamed with irrepressible delight.) --It--s in the Emperor--s service... it can--t be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very pleased!- And he held out his hand to the captain. --Don--t mention it, General, as if I--d be so bold!- replied the captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end of a gun at Ismail. --And tell Mr. DÃ³lokhov that I won--t forget him-”he may be quite easy. And tell me, please-”I--ve been meaning to ask-”how is he behaving himself, and in general.. --As far as the service g-s he is quite punctilious, your excellency; but his character.. said TimÃ³khin. --And what about his character?- asked the regimental commander. --It--s different on different days,- answered the captain. --One day he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he--s a wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew --Oh, well, well!- remarked the regimental commander. --Still, one must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important connections... Well, then, you just.. --I will, your excellency,- said TimÃ³khin, showing by his smile that he understood his commander--s wish. --Well, of course, of course!- The regimental commander sought out DÃ³lokhov in the ranks and, reining in his horse, said to him: --After the next affair... epaulettes DÃ³lokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the mocking smile on his lips change. --Well, that--s all right,- continued the regimental commander. --A cup of vodka for the men from me,- he added so that the soldiers could hear. --I thank you all! God be praised!- and he rode past that company and overtook the next one. --Well, he--s really a good fellow, one can serve under him,- said TimÃ³khin to the subaltern beside him. --In a word, a hearty one.. said the subaltern, laughing (the regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts). The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected the soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers-- voices could be heard on every side. --And they said KutÃºzov was blind of one eye?- --And so he is! Quite blind!- --No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands... he noticed everything.. --When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I.. --And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were smeared with chalk-”as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as they do the guns --I say, FÃ©deshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau --Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he d-sn--t know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are putting them down. When they--ve been put down, the war with Buonaparte will begin. And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you--re a fool. You--d better listen more carefully!- --What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat cooked before we reach our quarters --Give me a biscuit, you devil!- --And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That--s just it, friend! Ah, well, never mind, here you are --They might call a halt here or we--ll have to do another four miles without eating --Wasn--t it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still and are drawn along --And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all seemed to be Poles-”all under the Russian crown-”but here they--re all regular Germans --Singers to the front- came the captain--s order. And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and flourishing his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers-- song, commencing with the words: --Morning dawned, the sun was rising,- and concluding: --On then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father KÃ¡menski This song had been composed in the Turkish campaign and now being sung in Austria, the only change being that the words --Father KÃ¡menski- were replaced by --Father KutÃºzov Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer-”a lean, handsome soldier of forty-”looked sternly at the singers and screwed up his eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on him, he raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but precious object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds, suddenly flung it down and began: --Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!- --Oh, my bower new...!- chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the front and, walking backwards before the company, jerked his shoulders and flourished his castanets as if threatening someone. The soldiers, swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously, marched with long steps. Behind the company the sound of wheels, the creaking of springs, and the tramp of horses-- hoofs were heard. KutÃºzov and his suite were returning to the town. The commander in chief made a sign that the men should continue to march at ease, and he and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of the singing and the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly marching men. In the second file from the right flank, beside which the carriage passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted notice. It was DÃ³lokhov marching with particular grace and boldness in time to the song and looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of KutÃºzov--s suite who had mimicked the regimental commander, fell back from the carriage and rode up to DÃ³lokhov. Hussar cornet ZherkÃ³v had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to the wild set led by DÃ³lokhov. ZherkÃ³v had met DÃ³lokhov abroad as a private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that KutÃºzov had spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of an old friend. --My dear fellow, how are you?- said he through the singing, making his horse keep pace with the company. --How am I?- DÃ³lokhov answered coldly. --I am as you see The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy gaiety with which ZherkÃ³v spoke, and to the intentional coldness of DÃ³lokhov--s reply. --And how do you get on with the officers?- inquired ZherkÃ³v. --All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto the staff?- --I was attached; I--m on duty Both were silent. --She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve,- went the song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness. Their conversation would probably have been different but for the effect of that song. --Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?- asked DÃ³lokhov. --The devil only knows! They say so --I--m glad,- answered DÃ³lokhov briefly and clearly, as the song demanded. --I say, come round some evening and we--ll have a game of faro!- said ZherkÃ³v. --Why, have you too much money?- --Do come --I can--t. I--ve sworn not to. I won--t drink and won--t play till I get reinstated --Well, that--s only till the first engagement --We shall see They were again silent. --Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the staff.. DÃ³lokhov smiled. --Don--t trouble. If I want anything, I won--t beg-”I--ll take it!- --Well, never mind; I only.. --And I only.. --Good-by -Good health.. --It--s a long, long way. To my native land.. ZherkÃ³v touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly from foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down, galloped past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping time to the song. CHAPTER III On returning from the review, KutÃºzov took the Austrian general into his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in command of the advanced army. Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski came into the room with the required papers. KutÃºzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread out. Ah!... said KutÃºzov glancing at BolkÃ³nski as if by this exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with the conversation in French. All I can say, General, said he with a pleasant elegance of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each deliberately spoken word. It was evident that KutÃºzov himself listened with pleasure to his own voice. All I can say, General, is that if the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour that to me personally it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful general”of whom Austria has so many”and to lay down all this heavy responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us, General. And KutÃºzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, You are quite at liberty not to believe me and I don™t even care whether you do or not, but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole point. The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to reply in the same tone. On the contrary, he said, in a querulous and angry tone that contrasted with his flattering words, on the contrary, your excellency™s participation in the common action is highly valued by His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the splendid Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have been accustomed to win in their battles, he concluded his evidently prearranged sentence. KutÃºzov bowed with the same smile. But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine that the Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a leader as General Mack, have by now already gained a decisive victory and no longer need our aid, said KutÃºzov. The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an Austrian defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the unfavorable rumors that were afloat, and so KutÃºzov™s suggestion of an Austrian victory sounded much like irony. But KutÃºzov went on blandly smiling with the same expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to suppose so. And, in fact, the last letter he had received from Mack™s army informed him of a victory and stated strategically the position of the army was very favorable. Give me that letter, said KutÃºzov turning to Prince Andrew. Please have a look at it”and KutÃºzov with an ironical smile about the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the following passage, in German, from the Archduke Ferdinand™s letter: We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men with which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech. Also, as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage of commanding both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not cross the Lech, we can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line of communications, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his intention should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when the Imperial Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall then, in conjunction with it, easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate he deserves. KutÃºzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at the member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively. But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect the worst, said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round at the aide-de-camp. Excuse me, General, interrupted KutÃºzov, also turning to Prince Andrew. Look here, my dear fellow, get from KozlÃ³vski all the reports from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and here is one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are these, he said, handing him several papers, make a neat memorandum in French out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the movements of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency. Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from the first not only what had been said but also what KutÃºzov would have liked to tell him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both, stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room. Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia, he had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his face, in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of his former affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man who has time to think of the impression he makes on others, but is occupied with agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction with himself and those around him, his smile and glance were brighter and more attractive. KutÃºzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very kindly, promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the other adjutants, and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions. From Vienna KutÃºzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrew™s father. Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his industry, firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to have such a subordinate by me. On KutÃºzov™s staff, among his fellow officers and in the army generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great things of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with them Prince Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority, disliked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But among these people Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even feared him. Coming out of KutÃºzov™s room into the waiting room with the papers in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty, KozlÃ³vski, who was sitting at the window with a book. Well, Prince? asked KozlÃ³vski. I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not advancing. And why is it? Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders. Any news from Mack? No. If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come. Probably, said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door. But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head, who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door. Prince Andrew stopped short. Commander in Chief KutÃºzov? said the newly arrived general speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and advancing straight toward the inner door. The commander in chief is engaged, said KozlÃ³vski, going hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door. Whom shall I announce? The unknown general looked disdainfully down at KozlÃ³vski, who was rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him. The commander in chief is engaged, repeated KozlÃ³vski calmly. The general™s face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the leaf, gave it to KozlÃ³vski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, Why do they look at me? Then he lifted his head, stretched his neck as if he intended to say something, but immediately, with affected indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer sound which immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened and KutÃºzov appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged head bent forward as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs, went up to KutÃºzov. Vous voyez le malheureux Mack, he uttered in a broken voice. KutÃºzov™s face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a wave and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before him, and closed the door himself behind him. The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be correct. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had hitherto been inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy. Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack and heard the details of his disaster he understood that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties of the Russian army™s position, and vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to play. Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week™s time he might, perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the French since SuvÃ³rov met them. He feared that Bonaparte™s genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero being disgraced. Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met NesvÃtski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag ZherkÃ³v; they were as usual laughing. Why are you so glum? asked NesvÃtski noticing Prince Andrew™s pale face and glittering eyes. There™s nothing to be gay about, answered BolkÃ³nski. Just as Prince Andrew met NesvÃtski and ZherkÃ³v, there came toward them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general who was on KutÃºzov™s staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to pass the three officers quite easily, but ZherkÃ³v, pushing NesvÃtski aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice, They™re coming!... they™re coming!... Stand aside, make way, please make way! The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag ZherkÃ³v there suddenly appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress. Your excellency, said he in German, stepping forward and addressing the Austrian general, I have the honor to congratulate you. He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson. The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment™s attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening. I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite well, only a little bruised just here, he added, pointing with a beaming smile to his head. The general frowned, turned away, and went on. Gott, wie naiv! * said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps. * Good God, what simplicity! NesvÃtski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but BolkÃ³nski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and turned to ZherkÃ³v. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the Russian army found vent in anger at ZherkÃ³v™s untimely jest. If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself, he said sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, I can™t prevent your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself. NesvÃtski and ZherkÃ³v were so surprised by this outburst that they gazed at BolkÃ³nski silently with wide-open eyes. What™s the matter? I only congratulated them, said ZherkÃ³v. I am not jesting with you; please be silent! cried BolkÃ³nski, and taking NesvÃtski™s arm he left ZherkÃ³v, who did not know what to say. Come, what™s the matter, old fellow? said NesvÃtski trying to soothe him. What™s the matter? exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in his excitement. Don™t you understand that either we are officers serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely lackeys who care nothing for their master™s business. Quarante mille hommes massacrÃ©s et l™armÃ©e de nos alliÃ©s dÃ©truite, et vous trouvez lÃ le mot pour rire, * he said, as if strengthening his views by this French sentence. C™est bien pour un garÃ§on de rien comme cet individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour vous. *(2) Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way, he added in Russian”but pronouncing the word with a French accent”having noticed that ZherkÃ³v could still hear him. * Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting! * (2) It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for you. He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he turned and went out of the corridor. CHAPTER IV The PÃ¡vlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nicholas RostÃ³v served as a cadet was quartered in the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were assigned to cavalry-captain DenÃsov, the squadron commander, known throughout the whole cavalry division as VÃ¡ska DenÃsov. Cadet RostÃ³v, ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the squadron commander. On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news of Mack™s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was proceeding as usual. DenÃsov, who had been losing at cards all night, had not yet come home when RostÃ³v rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedition. RostÃ³v in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly. Ah, BondarÃ©nko, dear friend! said he to the hussar who rushed up headlong to the horse. Walk him up and down, my dear fellow, he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young people show to everyone when they are happy. Yes, your excellency, answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his head. Mind, walk him up and down well! Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but BondarÃ©nko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse™s head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to serve him. RostÃ³v patted the horse™s neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment. Splendid! What a horse he will be! he thought with a smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately brightened on seeing RostÃ³v. SchÃ¶n gut Morgen! SchÃ¶n gut Morgen! * he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to greet the young man. * A very good morning! A very good morning! Schon fleissig? * said RostÃ³v with the same gay brotherly smile which did not leave his eager face. Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch! *(2) said he, quoting words often repeated by the German landlord. * Busy already? * (2) Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Emperor Alexander! The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and waving it above his head cried: Und die ganze Welt hoch! * * And hurrah for the whole world! RostÃ³v waved his cap above his head like the German and cried laughing, Und vivat die ganze Welt! Though neither the German cleaning his cowshed nor RostÃ³v back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection, and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and RostÃ³v going to the cottage he occupied with DenÃsov. What about your master? he asked LavrÃºshka, DenÃsov™s orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue. Hasn™t been in since the evening. Must have been losing, answered LavrÃºshka. I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he™s lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee? Yes, bring some. Ten minutes later LavrÃºshka brought the coffee. He™s coming! said he. Now for trouble! RostÃ³v looked out of the window and saw DenÃsov coming home. DenÃsov was a small man with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head. LavwÃºska! he shouted loudly and angrily, take it off, blockhead! Well, I am taking it off, replied LavrÃºshka™s voice. Ah, you™re up already, said DenÃsov, entering the room. Long ago, answered RostÃ³v, I have already been for the hay, and have seen FrÃ¤ulein Mathilde. Weally! And I™ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a damned fool! cried DenÃsov, not pronouncing his r™s. Such ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo there! Tea! Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair. And what devil made me go to that wat? (an officer nicknamed the rat) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both hands. Just fancy, he didn™t let me win a single cahd, not one cahd. He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he continued to shout. He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles! He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at RostÃ³v. If at least we had some women here; but there™s nothing foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who™s there? he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful cough. The squadron quartermaster! said LavrÃºshka. DenÃsov™s face puckered still more. Wetched! he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it. WostÃ³v, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the purse undah the pillow, he said, and went out to the quartermaster. RostÃ³v took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins in separate piles, began counting them. Ah! TelyÃ¡nin! How d™ye do? They plucked me last night, came DenÃsov™s voice from the next room. Where? At Bykov™s, at the rat™s... I knew it, replied a piping voice, and Lieutenant TelyÃ¡nin, a small officer of the same squadron, entered the room. RostÃ³v thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand which was offered him. TelyÃ¡nin for some reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not liked; RostÃ³v especially detested him and was unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man. Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving? he asked. (Rook was a young horse TelyÃ¡nin had sold to RostÃ³v.) The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another. I saw you riding this morning... he added. Oh, he™s all right, a good horse, answered RostÃ³v, though the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half that sum. He™s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg, he added. The hoof™s cracked! That™s nothing. I™ll teach you what to do and show you what kind of rivet to use. Yes, please do, said RostÃ³v. I™ll show you, I™ll show you! It™s not a secret. And it™s a horse you™ll thank me for. Then I™ll have it brought round, said RostÃ³v wishing to avoid TelyÃ¡nin, and he went out to give the order. In the passage DenÃsov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing RostÃ³v, DenÃsov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where TelyÃ¡nin was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust. Ugh! I don™t like that fellow, he said, regardless of the quartermaster™s presence. RostÃ³v shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: Nor do I, but what™s one to do? and, having given his order, he returned to TelyÃ¡nin. TelyÃ¡nin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which RostÃ³v had left him, rubbing his small white hands. Well there certainly are disgusting people, thought RostÃ³v as he entered. Have you told them to bring the horse? asked TelyÃ¡nin, getting up and looking carelessly about him. I have. Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask DenÃsov about yesterday™s order. Have you got it, DenÃsov? Not yet. But where are you off to? I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse, said TelyÃ¡nin. They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters. When RostÃ³v went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the table. DenÃsov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in RostÃ³v™s face and said: I am witing to her. He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to write, told RostÃ³v the contents of his letter. You see, my fwiend, he said, we sleep when we don™t love. We are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one is pua™ as on the fihst day of cweation... Who™s that now? Send him to the devil, I™m busy! he shouted to LavrÃºshka, who went up to him not in the least abashed. Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It™s the quartermaster for the money. DenÃsov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped. Wetched business, he muttered to himself. How much is left in the puhse? he asked, turning to RostÃ³v. Seven new and three old imperials. Oh, it™s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you sca™cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh, he shouted to LavrÃºshka. Please, DenÃsov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know, said RostÃ³v, blushing. Don™t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don™t, growled DenÃsov. But if you won™t accept money from me like a comrade, you will offend me. Really I have some, RostÃ³v repeated. No, I tell you. And DenÃsov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow. Where have you put it, WostÃ³v? Under the lower pillow. It™s not there. DenÃsov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there. That™s a miwacle. Wait, haven™t you dropped it? said RostÃ³v, picking up the pillows one at a time and shaking them. He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there. Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept it under your head like a treasure, said RostÃ³v. I put it just here. Where is it? he asked, turning to LavrÃºshka. I haven™t been in the room. It must be where you put it. But it isn™t?... You™re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget it. Feel in your pockets. No, if I hadn™t thought of it being a treasure, said RostÃ³v, but I remember putting it there. LavrÃºshka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the room. DenÃsov silently watched LavrÃºshka™s movements, and when the latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found DenÃsov glanced at RostÃ³v. WostÃ³v, you™ve not been playing schoolboy twicks... RostÃ³v felt DenÃsov™s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not draw breath. And there hasn™t been anyone in the room except the lieutenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere, said LavrÃºshka. Now then, you devil™s puppet, look alive and hunt for it! shouted DenÃsov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with a threatening gesture. If the purse isn™t found I™ll flog you, I™ll flog you all. RostÃ³v, his eyes avoiding DenÃsov, began buttoning his coat, buckled on his saber, and put on his cap. I must have that purse, I tell you, shouted DenÃsov, shaking his orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall. DenÃsov, let him alone, I know who has taken it, said RostÃ³v, going toward the door without raising his eyes. DenÃsov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding what RostÃ³v hinted at, seized his arm. Nonsense! he cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood out like cords. You are mad, I tell you. I won™t allow it. The purse is here! I™ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be found. I know who has taken it, repeated RostÃ³v in an unsteady voice, and went to the door. And I tell you, don™t you dahe to do it! shouted DenÃsov, rushing at the cadet to restrain him. But RostÃ³v pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though DenÃsov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his face. Do you understand what you™re saying? he said in a trembling voice. There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it is not so, then... He could not finish, and ran out of the room. Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody, were the last words RostÃ³v heard. RostÃ³v went to TelyÃ¡nin™s quarters. The master is not in, he™s gone to headquarters, said TelyÃ¡nin™s orderly. Has something happened? he added, surprised at the cadet™s troubled face. No, nothing. You™ve only just missed him, said the orderly. The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and RostÃ³v, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was an inn in the village which the officers frequented. RostÃ³v rode up to it and saw TelyÃ¡nin™s horse at the porch. In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine. Ah, you™ve come here too, young man! he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows. Yes, said RostÃ³v as if it cost him a great deal to utter the word; and he sat down at the nearest table. Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant. When TelyÃ¡nin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter. Please be quick, he said. The coin was a new one. RostÃ³v rose and went up to TelyÃ¡nin. Allow me to look at your purse, he said in a low, almost inaudible, voice. With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, TelyÃ¡nin handed him the purse. Yes, it™s a nice purse. Yes, yes, he said, growing suddenly pale, and added, Look at it, young man. RostÃ³v took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and looked at TelyÃ¡nin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very merry. If we get to Vienna I™ll get rid of it there but in these wretched little towns there™s nowhere to spend it, said he. Well, let me have it, young man, I™m going. RostÃ³v did not speak. And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite decently here, continued TelyÃ¡nin. Now then, let me have it. He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. RostÃ³v let go of it. TelyÃ¡nin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that™s quite simple and is no one else™s business. Well, young man? he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted brows he glanced into RostÃ³v™s eyes. Some flash as of an electric spark shot from TelyÃ¡nin™s eyes to RostÃ³v™s and back, and back again and again in an instant. Come here, said RostÃ³v, catching hold of TelyÃ¡nin™s arm and almost dragging him to the window. That money is DenÃsov™s; you took it... he whispered just above TelyÃ¡nin™s ear. What? What? How dare you? What? said TelyÃ¡nin. But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for pardon. As soon as RostÃ³v heard them, an enormous load of doubt fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be completed. Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine, muttered TelyÃ¡nin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. We must have an explanation... I know it and shall prove it, said RostÃ³v. I... Every muscle of TelyÃ¡nin™s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising to RostÃ³v™s face, and his sobs were audible. Count!... Don™t ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money, take it... He threw it on the table. I have an old father and mother!... RostÃ³v took the money, avoiding TelyÃ¡nin™s eyes, and went out of the room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his steps. O God, he said with tears in his eyes, how could you do it? Count... said TelyÃ¡nin drawing nearer to him. Don™t touch me, said RostÃ³v, drawing back. If you need it, take the money, and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn. CHAPTER V That same evening there was an animated discussion among the squadron™s officers in DenÃsov™s quarters. And I tell you, RostÃ³v, that you must apologize to the colonel! said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and many wrinkles on his large features, to RostÃ³v who was crimson with excitement. The staff captain, KÃrsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks for affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission. I will allow no one to call me a liar! cried RostÃ³v. He told me I lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may keep me on duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make me apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then... You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen, interrupted the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache. You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an officer has stolen... I™m not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am not a diplomatist. That™s why I joined the hussars, thinking that here one would not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying”so let him give me satisfaction... That™s all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that™s not the point. Ask DenÃsov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander? DenÃsov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered the staff captain™s question by a disapproving shake of his head. You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other officers, continued the staff captain, and BogdÃ¡nich (the colonel was called BogdÃ¡nich) shuts you up. He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth. Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and must apologize. Not on any account! exclaimed RostÃ³v. I did not expect this of you, said the staff captain seriously and severely. You don™t wish to apologize, but, man, it™s not only to him but to the whole regiment”all of us”you™re to blame all round. The case is this: you ought to have thought the matter over and taken advice; but no, you go and blurt it all straight out before the officers. Now what was the colonel to do? Have the officer tried and disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one scoundrel? Is that how you look at it? We don™t see it like that. And BogdÃ¡nich was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true. It™s not pleasant, but what™s to be done, my dear fellow? You landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever BogdÃ¡nich may be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You™re quick at taking offense, but you don™t mind disgracing the whole regiment! The staff captain™s voice began to tremble. You have been in the regiment next to no time, my lad, you™re here today and tomorrow you™ll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your fingers when it is said ˜There are thieves among the PÃ¡vlograd officers!™ But it™s not all the same to us! Am I not right, DenÃsov? It™s not the same! DenÃsov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked with his glittering black eyes at RostÃ³v. You value your own pride and don™t wish to apologize, continued the staff captain, but we old fellows, who have grown up in and, God willing, are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of the regiment, and BogdÃ¡nich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old fellow! And all this is not right, it™s not right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to mother truth. It™s not right! And the staff captain rose and turned away from RostÃ³v. That™s twue, devil take it! shouted DenÃsov, jumping up. Now then, WostÃ³v, now then! RostÃ³v, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer and then at the other. No, gentlemen, no... you mustn™t think... I quite understand. You™re wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of the regiment I™d... Ah well, I™ll show that in action, and for me the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it™s true I™m to blame, to blame all round. Well, what else do you want?... Come, that™s right, Count! cried the staff captain, turning round and clapping RostÃ³v on the shoulder with his big hand. I tell you, shouted DenÃsov, he™s a fine fellow. That™s better, Count, said the staff captain, beginning to address RostÃ³v by his title, as if in recognition of his confession. Go and apologize, your excellency. Yes, go! Gentlemen, I™ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me, said RostÃ³v in an imploring voice, but I can™t apologize, by God I can™t, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy asking forgiveness? DenÃsov began to laugh. It™ll be worse for you. BogdÃ¡nich is vindictive and you™ll pay for your obstinacy, said KÃrsten. No, on my word it™s not obstinacy! I can™t describe the feeling. I can™t... Well, it™s as you like, said the staff captain. And what has become of that scoundrel? he asked DenÃsov. He has weported himself sick, he™s to be stwuck off the list tomowwow, muttered DenÃsov. It is an illness, there™s no other way of explaining it, said the staff captain. Illness or not, he™d better not cwoss my path. I™d kill him! shouted DenÃsov in a bloodthirsty tone. Just then ZherkÃ³v entered the room. What brings you here? cried the officers turning to the newcomer. We™re to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his whole army. It™s not true! I™ve seen him myself! What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet? Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how did you come here? I™ve been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil, Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on Mack™s arrival... What™s the matter, RostÃ³v? You look as if you™d just come out of a hot bath. Oh, my dear fellow, we™re in such a stew here these last two days. The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by ZherkÃ³v. They were under orders to advance next day. We™re going into action, gentlemen! Well, thank God! We™ve been sitting here too long! CHAPTER VI KutÃºzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October 23 the Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the Russian baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling through the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge. It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below, the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island, and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green treetops and bluish gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a wild virgin pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the enemy™s horse patrols could be discerned. Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in command of the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through his fieldglass. A little behind them NesvÃtski, who had been sent to the rearguard by the commander in chief, was sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack and a flask, and NesvÃtski was treating some officers to pies and real doppelkÃ¼mmel. The officers gladly gathered round him, some on their knees, some squatting Turkish fashion on the wet grass. Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It™s a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen? NesvÃtski was saying. Thank you very much, Prince, answered one of the officers, pleased to be talking to a staff officer of such importance. It™s a lovely place! We passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a splendid house! Look, Prince, said another, who would have dearly liked to take another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining the countryside”See, our infantrymen have already got there. Look there in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something. They™ll ransack that castle, he remarked with evident approval. So they will, said NesvÃtski. No, but what I should like, added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, would be to slip in over there. He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and gleamed. That would be fine, gentlemen! The officers laughed. Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls among them. On my word I™d give five years of my life for it! They must be feeling dull, too, said one of the bolder officers, laughing. Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out something to the general, who looked through his field glass. Yes, so it is, so it is, said the general angrily, lowering the field glass and shrugging his shoulders, so it is! They™ll be fired on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there? On the opposite side the enemy could be seen by the naked eye, and from their battery a milk-white cloud arose. Then came the distant report of a shot, and our troops could be seen hurrying to the crossing. NesvÃtski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling. Would not your excellency like a little refreshment? he said. It™s a bad business, said the general without answering him, our men have been wasting time. Hadn™t I better ride over, your excellency? asked NesvÃtski. Yes, please do, answered the general, and he repeated the order that had already once been given in detail: and tell the hussars that they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered; and the inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected. Very good, answered NesvÃtski. He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle. I™ll really call in on the nuns, he said to the officers who watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the hill. Now then, let™s see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try! said the general, turning to an artillery officer. Have a little fun to pass the time. Crew, to your guns! commanded the officer. In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and began loading. One! came the command. Number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a deafening metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above the heads of our troops below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a little smoke showing the spot where it burst. The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound. Everyone got up and began watching the movements of our troops below, as plainly visible as if but a stone™s throw away, and the movements of the approaching enemy farther off. At the same instant the sun came fully out from behind the clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot and the brilliance of the bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and spirited impression. CHAPTER VII Two of the enemy™s shots had already flown across the bridge, where there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince NesvÃtski, who had alighted from his horse and whose big body was jammed against the railings. He looked back laughing to the Cossack who stood a few steps behind him holding two horses by their bridles. Each time Prince NesvÃtski tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back again and pressed him against the railings, and all he could do was to smile. What a fine fellow you are, friend! said the Cossack to a convoy soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were crowded together close to his wheels and his horses. What a fellow! You can™t wait a moment! Don™t you see the general wants to pass? But the convoyman took no notice of the word general and shouted at the soldiers who were blocking his way. Hi there, boys! Keep to the left! Wait a bit. But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder to shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense mass. Looking down over the rails Prince NesvÃtski saw the rapid, noisy little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying round the piles of the bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw equally uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder straps, covered shakos, knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, under the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and listless tired expressions, and feet that moved through the sticky mud that covered the planks of the bridge. Sometimes through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with a type of face different from that of the men, squeezed his way along; sometimes like a chip of wood whirling in the river, an hussar on foot, an orderly, or a townsman was carried through the waves of infantry; and sometimes like a log floating down the river, an officers™ or company™s baggage wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on all sides, moved across the bridge. It™s as if a dam had burst, said the Cossack hopelessly. Are there many more of you to come? A million all but one! replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat, with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man. If he (he meant the enemy) begins popping at the bridge now, said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, you™ll forget to scratch yourself. That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a cart. Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to? said an orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it. And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry soldiers who had evidently been drinking. And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt end of his gun... a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said gaily, with a wide swing of his arm. Yes, the ham was just delicious... answered another with a loud laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that NesvÃtski did not learn who had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it. Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they™ll all be killed, a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully. As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean, said a young soldier with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, I felt like dying of fright. I did, ˜pon my word, I got that frightened! said he, as if bragging of having been frightened. That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had gone before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a German, and seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine brindled cow with a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks were sitting on some feather beds. Evidently these fugitives were allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was passing at foot pace all the soldiers™ remarks related to the two young ones. Every face bore almost the same smile, expressing unseemly thoughts about the women. Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too! Sell me the missis, said another soldier, addressing the German, who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast eyes. See how smart she™s made herself! Oh, the devils! There, FedÃ³tov, you should be quartered on them! I have seen as much before now, mate! Where are you going? asked an infantry officer who was eating an apple, also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl. The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand. Take it if you like, said the officer, giving the girl an apple. The girl smiled and took it. NesvÃtski like the rest of the men on the bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed. When they had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with the same kind of talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens, the horses of a convoy wagon became restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole crowd had to wait. And why are they stopping? There™s no proper order! said the soldiers. Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can™t you wait? It™ll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here™s an officer jammed in too”different voices were saying in the crowd, as the men looked at one another, and all pressed toward the exit from the bridge. Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, NesvÃtski suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching... something big, that splashed into the water. Just see where it carries to! a soldier near by said sternly, looking round at the sound. Encouraging us to get along quicker, said another uneasily. The crowd moved on again. NesvÃtski realized that it was a cannon ball. Hey, Cossack, my horse! he said. Now, then, you there! get out of the way! Make way! With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make way for him, but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and those nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed still harder from behind. NesvÃtski, NesvÃtski! you numskull! came a hoarse voice from behind him. NesvÃtski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but separated by the living mass of moving infantry, VÃ¡ska DenÃsov, red and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily over his shoulder. Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass! shouted DenÃsov evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small bare hand as red as his face. Ah, VÃ¡ska! joyfully replied NesvÃtski. What™s up with you? The squadwon can™t pass, shouted VÃ¡ska DenÃsov, showing his white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider let him. What is this? They™re like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart! I™ll hack you with my saber! he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its scabbard and flourishing it. The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and DenÃsov joined NesvÃtski. How™s it you™re not drunk today? said NesvÃtski when the other had ridden up to him. They don™t even give one time to dwink! answered VÃ¡ska DenÃsov. They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they mean to fight, let™s fight. But the devil knows what this is. What a dandy you are today! said NesvÃtski, looking at DenÃsov™s new cloak and saddlecloth. DenÃsov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to NesvÃtski™s nose. Of course. I™m going into action! I™ve shaved, bwushed my teeth, and scented myself. The imposing figure of NesvÃtski followed by his Cossack, and the determination of DenÃsov who flourished his sword and shouted frantically, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the bridge NesvÃtski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the order, and having done this he rode back. Having cleared the way DenÃsov stopped at the end of the bridge. Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping, resounded on the planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in front and men four abreast, spread across the bridge and began to emerge on his side of it. The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will, estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of different arms usually encounter one another at the clean, smart hussars who moved past them in regular order. Smart lads! Only fit for a fair! said one. What good are they? They™re led about just for show! remarked another. Don™t kick up the dust, you infantry! jested an hussar whose prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers. I™d like to put you on a two days™ march with a knapsack! Your fine cords would soon get a bit rubbed, said an infantryman, wiping the mud off his face with his sleeve. Perched up there, you™re more like a bird than a man. There now, ZÃkin, they ought to put you on a horse. You™d look fine, said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent under the weight of his knapsack. Take a stick between your legs, that™ll suit you for a horse! the hussar shouted back. CHAPTER VIII The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less, and the last battalion came onto the bridge. Only DenÃsov™s squadron of hussars remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which the river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile away. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and troops in blue uniform were seen. These were the French. A group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men of DenÃsov™s squadron, though they tried to talk of other things and to look in other directions, thought only of what was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking at the patches appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy™s troops. The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm, and at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be heard from the hill. There was no one now between the squadron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separated them. The enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threatening, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt. One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and death. And what is there? Who is there?”there beyond that field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must be crossed and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will inevitably have to learn what lies the other side of death. But you are strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such excitedly animated and healthy men. So thinks, or at any rate feels, anyone who comes in sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives a particular glamour and glad keenness of impression to everything that takes place at such moments. On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The officers who had been standing together rode off to their places. The hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the whole squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron commander, awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the hussars, but the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious to see their comrades™ impression. Every face, from DenÃsov™s to that of the bugler, showed one common expression of conflict, irritation, and excitement, around chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet MirÃ³nov ducked every time a ball flew past. RostÃ³v on the left flank, mounted on his Rook”a handsome horse despite its game leg”had the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth. Who™s that curtseying there? Cadet MiwÃ³nov! That™s not wight! Look at me, cried DenÃsov who, unable to keep still on one spot, kept turning his horse in front of the squadron. The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of VÃ¡ska DenÃsov, and his whole short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backwards in the saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to KÃrsten. The staff captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always, only his eyes were brighter than usual. Well, what about it? said he to DenÃsov. It won™t come to a fight. You™ll see”we shall retire. The devil only knows what they™re about! muttered DenÃsov. Ah, WostÃ³v, he cried noticing the cadet™s bright face, you™ve got it at last. And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. RostÃ³v felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. DenÃsov galloped up to him. Your excellency! Let us attack them! I™ll dwive them off. Attack indeed! said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his face as if driving off a troublesome fly. And why are you stopping here? Don™t you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the squadron back. The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire without having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the front line followed them across and the last Cossacks quitted the farther side of the river. The two PÃ¡vlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl BogdÃ¡nich Schubert, came up to DenÃsov™s squadron and rode at a footpace not far from RostÃ³v, without taking any notice of him although they were now meeting for the first time since their encounter concerning TelyÃ¡nin. RostÃ³v, feeling that he was at the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now admitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the colonel™s athletic back, his nape covered with light hair, and his red neck. It seemed to RostÃ³v that BogdÃ¡nich was only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet™s courage, so he drew himself up and looked around him merrily; then it seemed to him that BogdÃ¡nich rode so near in order to show him his courage. Next he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a desperate attack just to punish him”RostÃ³v. Then he imagined how, after the attack, BogdÃ¡nich would come up to him as he lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation. The high-shouldered figure of ZherkÃ³v, familiar to the PÃ¡vlograds as he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel. After his dismissal from headquarters ZherkÃ³v had not remained in the regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff, and had succeeded in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Prince BagratiÃ³n. He now came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rear guard. Colonel, he said, addressing RostÃ³v™s enemy with an air of gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, there is an order to stop and fire the bridge. An order to who? asked the colonel morosely. I don™t myself know ˜to who,™ replied the cornet in a serious tone, but the prince told me to ˜go and tell the colonel that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.™ ZherkÃ³v was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the stout NesvÃtski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his weight. How™s this, Colonel? he shouted as he approached. I told you to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are all beside themselves over there and one can™t make anything out. The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to NesvÃtski. You spoke to me of inflammable material, said he, but you said nothing about firing it. But, my dear sir, said NesvÃtski as he drew up, taking off his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand, wasn™t I telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material had been put in position? I am not your ˜dear sir,™ Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit orders strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would burn it, I could not know by the holy spirit! Ah, that™s always the way! said NesvÃtski with a wave of the hand. How did you get here? said he, turning to ZherkÃ³v. On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out! You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer... continued the colonel in an offended tone. Colonel, interrupted the officer of the suite, You must be quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot. The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout staff officer, and at ZherkÃ³v, and he frowned. I will the bridge fire, he said in a solemn tone as if to announce that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would still do the right thing. Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second squadron, that in which RostÃ³v was serving under DenÃsov, to return to the bridge. There, it™s just as I thought, said RostÃ³v to himself. He wishes to test me! His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. Let him see whether I am a coward! he thought. Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious expression appeared that they had worn when under fire. RostÃ³v watched his enemy, the colonel, closely”to find in his face confirmation of his own conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at RostÃ³v, and looked as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word of command. Look sharp! Look sharp! several voices repeated around him. Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men were crossing themselves. RostÃ³v no longer looked at the colonel, he had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the hussars, so much afraid that his heart stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into an orderly™s charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with a thud. DenÃsov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something. RostÃ³v saw nothing but the hussars running all around him, their spurs catching and their sabers clattering. Stretchers! shouted someone behind him. RostÃ³v did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on, trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled, and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him. At boss zides, Captain, he heard the voice of the colonel, who, having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a triumphant, cheerful face. RostÃ³v wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his enemy and was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front the better. But BogdÃ¡nich, without looking at or recognizing RostÃ³v, shouted to him: Who™s that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right! Come back, Cadet! he cried angrily; and turning to DenÃsov, who, showing off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge: Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount, he said. Oh, every bullet has its billet, answered VÃ¡ska DenÃsov, turning in his saddle. Meanwhile NesvÃtski, ZherkÃ³v, and the officer of the suite were standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord, and blue riding breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and then at what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side”the blue uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognizable as artillery. Will they burn the bridge or not? Who™ll get there first? Will they get there and fire the bridge or will the French get within grapeshot range and wipe them out? These were the questions each man of the troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself with a sinking heart”watching the bridge and the hussars in the bright evening light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with their bayonets and guns. Ugh. The hussars will get it hot! said NesvÃtski; they are within grapeshot range now. He shouldn™t have taken so many men, said the officer of the suite. True enough, answered NesvÃtski; two smart fellows could have done the job just as well. Ah, your excellency, put in ZherkÃ³v, his eyes fixed on the hussars, but still with that naÃ¯ve air that made it impossible to know whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. Ah, your excellency! How you look at things! Send two men? And who then would give us the VladÃmir medal and ribbon? But now, even if they do get peppered, the squadron may be recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our BogdÃ¡nich knows how things are done. There now! said the officer of the suite, that™s grapeshot. He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached and hurriedly removed. On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at the moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two reports one after another, and a third. Oh! Oh! groaned NesvÃtski as if in fierce pain, seizing the officer of the suite by the arm. Look! A man has fallen! Fallen, fallen! Two, I think. If I were Tsar I would never go to war, said NesvÃtski, turning away. The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again but at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the bridge. But this time NesvÃtski could not see what was happening there, as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in setting it on fire and the French batteries were now firing at them, no longer to hinder them but because the guns were trained and there was someone to fire at. The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too high, but the last round fell in the midst of a group of hussars and knocked three of them over. RostÃ³v, absorbed by his relations with BogdÃ¡nich, had paused on the bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he had always imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the other soldiers. He stood looking about him, when suddenly he heard a rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being spilt, and the hussar nearest to him fell against the rails with a groan. RostÃ³v ran up to him with the others. Again someone shouted, Stretchers! Four men seized the hussar and began lifting him. Oooh! For Christ™s sake let me alone! cried the wounded man, but still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher. Nicholas RostÃ³v turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep! How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the faraway blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and the pine forests veiled in the mist of their summits... There was peace and happiness... I should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I were there, thought RostÃ³v. In myself alone and in that sunshine there is so much happiness; but here... groans, suffering, fear, and this uncertainty and hurry... There”they are shouting again, and again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it, death, is here above me and around... Another instant and I shall never again see the sun, this water, that gorge!... At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other stretchers came into view before RostÃ³v. And the fear of death and of the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one feeling of sickening agitation. O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect me! RostÃ³v whispered. The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight. Well, fwiend? So you™ve smelt powdah! shouted VÃ¡ska DenÃsov just above his ear. It™s all over; but I am a coward”yes, a coward! thought RostÃ³v, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting one foot, from the orderly and began to mount. Was that grapeshot? he asked DenÃsov. Yes and no mistake! cried DenÃsov. You worked like wegular bwicks and it™s nasty work! An attack™s pleasant work! Hacking away at the dogs! But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them shooting at you like a target. And DenÃsov rode up to a group that had stopped near RostÃ³v, composed of the colonel, NesvÃtski, ZherkÃ³v, and the officer from the suite. Well, it seems that no one has noticed, thought RostÃ³v. And this was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation which the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced. Here™s something for you to report, said ZherkÃ³v. See if I don™t get promoted to a sublieutenancy. Inform the prince that I the bridge fired! said the colonel triumphantly and gaily. And if he asks about the losses? A trifle, said the colonel in his bass voice: two hussars wounded, and one knocked out, he added, unable to restrain a happy smile, and pronouncing the phrase knocked out with ringing distinctness. CHAPTER IX Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the command of Bonaparte, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it, losing confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies, and compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had been foreseen, the Russian army of thirty-five thousand men commanded by KutÃºzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube, stopping where overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions only as far as necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment. There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and Melk; but despite the courage and endurance”acknowledged even by the enemy”with which the Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet more rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and had joined KutÃºzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army, and KutÃºzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an offensive, the plan of which, carefully prepared in accord with the modern science of strategics, had been handed to KutÃºzov when he was in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the sole and almost unattainable aim remaining for him was to effect a junction with the forces that were advancing from Russia, without losing his army as Mack had done at Ulm. On the twenty-eighth of October KutÃºzov with his army crossed to the left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time with the river between himself and the main body of the French. On the thirtieth he attacked Mortier™s division, which was on the left bank, and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were taken: banners, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a fortnight™s retreat, the Russian troops had halted and after a fight had not only held the field but had repulsed the French. Though the troops were ill-clad, exhausted, and had lost a third of their number in killed, wounded, sick, and stragglers; though a number of sick and wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter in which KutÃºzov entrusted them to the humanity of the enemy; and though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems converted into military hospitals could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded, yet the stand made at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of the army considerably. Throughout the whole army and at headquarters most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by the Austrians, and of the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte. Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse had been wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark of the commander in chief™s special favor he was sent with the news of this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was threatened by the French) but at BrÃ¼nn. Despite his apparently delicate build Prince Andrew could endure physical fatigue far better than many very muscular men, and on the night of the battle, having arrived at Krems excited but not weary, with dispatches from DokhtÃºrov to KutÃºzov, he was sent immediately with a special dispatch to BrÃ¼nn. To be so sent meant not only a reward but an important step toward promotion. The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that had fallen the previous day”the day of the battle. Reviewing his impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling the send-off given him by the commander in chief and his fellow officers, Prince Andrew was galloping along in a post chaise enjoying the feelings of a man who has at length begun to attain a long-desired happiness. As soon as he closed his eyes his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the wheels and the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that the Russians were running away and that he himself was killed, but he quickly roused himself with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that this was not so but that on the contrary the French had run away. He again recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage during the battle, and feeling reassured he dozed off.... The dark starry night was followed by a bright cheerful morning. The snow was thawing in the sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides of the road were forests of different kinds, fields, and villages. At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded. The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian words), others were eating bread; the more severely wounded looked silently, with the languid interest of sick children, at the envoy hurrying past them. Prince Andrew told his driver to stop, and asked a soldier in what action they had been wounded. Day before yesterday, on the Danube, answered the soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces. That™s for them all, he said to the officer who came up. Get well soon, lads! he continued, turning to the soldiers. There™s plenty to do still. What news, sir? asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a conversation. Good news!... Go on! he shouted to the driver, and they galloped on. It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved streets of BrÃ¼nn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night, Prince Andrew when he drove up to the palace felt even more vigorous and alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself stating them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He expected to be at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance to the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him, and learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance. To the right from the corridor, Euer Hochgeboren! There you will find the adjutant on duty, said the official. He will conduct you to the Minister of War. The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait, and went in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and bowing with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along a corridor to the cabinet where the Minister of War was at work. The adjutant by his elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger. Prince Andrew™s joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he approached the door of the minister™s room. He felt offended, and without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly suggested to him a point of view which gave him a right to despise the adjutant and the minister. Away from the smell of powder, they probably think it easy to gain victories! he thought. His eyes narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the Minister of War with peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three minutes taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each side of the minister™s bent bald head with its gray temples. He went on reading to the end, without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the sound of footsteps. Take this and deliver it, said he to his adjutant, handing him the papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger. Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of KutÃºzov™s army interested the Minister of War less than any of the other matters he was concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that impression. But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me, he thought. The minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual and distinctive head, but the instant he turned to Prince Andrew the firm, intelligent expression on his face changed in a way evidently deliberate and habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial smile (which does not even attempt to hide its artificiality) of a man who is continually receiving many petitioners one after another. From General Field Marshal KutÃºzov? he asked. I hope it is good news? There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was high time! He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it with a mournful expression. Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt! he exclaimed in German. What a calamity! What a calamity! Having glanced through the dispatch he laid it on the table and looked at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something. Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is not captured. Again he pondered. I am very glad you have brought good news, though Schmidt™s death is a heavy price to pay for the victory. His Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I thank you! You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the parade. However, I will let you know. The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking, reappeared. Au revoir! Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to see you, he added, bowing his head. When Prince Andrew left the palace he felt that all the interest and happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant. The whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed the memory of a remote event long past. CHAPTER X Prince Andrew stayed at BrÃ¼nn with BilÃbin, a Russian acquaintance of his in the diplomatic service. Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor, said BilÃbin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. Franz, put the prince™s things in my bedroom, said he to the servant who was ushering BolkÃ³nski in. So you™re a messenger of victory, eh? Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see. After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat™s luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. BilÃbin settled down comfortably beside the fire. After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Prince Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides it was pleasant, after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not in Russian (for they were speaking French) at least with a Russian who would, he supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians which was then particularly strong. BilÃbin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but had become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in Vienna with KutÃºzov. Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave promise of rising high in the military profession, so to an even greater extent BilÃbin gave promise of rising in his diplomatic career. He was still a young man but no longer a young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather important post in Vienna. Both the foreign minister and our ambassador in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of those many diplomats who are esteemed because they have certain negative qualities, avoid doing certain things, and speak French. He was one of those, who, liking work, knew how to do it, and despite his indolence would sometimes spend a whole night at his writing table. He worked well whatever the import of his work. It was not the question What for? but the question How? that interested him. What the diplomatic matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great pleasure to prepare a circular, memorandum, or report, skillfully, pointedly, and elegantly. BilÃbin™s services were valued not only for what he wrote, but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in the highest spheres. BilÃbin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be made elegantly witty. In society he always awaited an opportunity to say something striking and took part in a conversation only when that was possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original, finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form as if intentionally, so that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing room to drawing room. And, in fact, BilÃbin™s witticisms were hawked about in the Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters considered important. His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one™s fingers after a Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play of expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend and deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always twinkled and looked out straight. Well, now tell me about your exploits, said he. BolkÃ³nski, very modestly without once mentioning himself, described the engagement and his reception by the Minister of War. They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of skittles, said he in conclusion. BilÃbin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared. Cependant, mon cher, he remarked, examining his nails from a distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, malgrÃ© la haute estime que je professe pour the Orthodox Russian army, j™avoue que votre victoire n™est pas des plus victorieuses. * * But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox Russian army, I must say that your victory was not particularly victorious. He went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those words in Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis. Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Mortier and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your fingers! Where™s the victory? But seriously, said Prince Andrew, we can at any rate say without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm... Why didn™t you capture one, just one, marshal for us? Because not everything happens as one expects or with the smoothness of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in the afternoon. And why didn™t you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have been there at seven in the morning, returned BilÃbin with a smile. You ought to have been there at seven in the morning. Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic methods that he had better leave Genoa alone? retorted Prince Andrew in the same tone. I know, interrupted BilÃbin, you™re thinking it™s very easy to take marshals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but still why didn™t you capture him? So don™t be surprised if not only the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his Liebchen to the Prater... True, we have no Prater here... He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his forehead. It is now my turn to ask you ˜why?™ mon cher, said BolkÃ³nski. I confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can™t make it out. Mack loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. KutÃºzov alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the invincibility of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care to hear the details. That™s just it, my dear fellow. You see it™s hurrah for the Tsar, for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one archduke™s as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only over a fire brigade of Bonaparte™s, that will be another story and we™ll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its defense”as much as to say: ˜Heaven is with us, but heaven help you and your capital!™ The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived. It™s as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a victory, what effect would that have on the general course of events? It™s too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army! What? Occupied? Vienna occupied? Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at SchÃ¶nbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders. After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and especially after having dined, BolkÃ³nski felt that he could not take in the full significance of the words he heard. Count Lichtenfels was here this morning, BilÃbin continued, and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna was fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement... You see that your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can™t be received as a savior. Really I don™t care about that, I don™t care at all, said Prince Andrew, beginning to understand that his news of the battle before Krems was really of small importance in view of such events as the fall of Austria™s capital. How is it Vienna was taken? What of the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead and Prince Auersperg? We heard reports that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna? he said. Prince Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is defending us”doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been taken and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour between two fires. But still this does not mean that the campaign is over, said Prince Andrew. Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they daren™t say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign, it won™t be your skirmishing at DÃ¼rrenstein, or gunpowder at all, that will decide the matter, but those who devised it, said BilÃbin quoting one of his own mots, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead, and pausing. The only question is what will come of the meeting between the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia joins the Allies, Austria™s hand will be forced and there will be war. If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up. What an extraordinary genius! Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed, clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, and what luck the man has! Buonaparte? said BilÃbin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead to indicate that he was about to say something witty. Buonaparte? he repeated, accentuating the u: I think, however, now that he lays down laws for Austria at SchÃ¶nbrunn, il faut lui faire grÃ¢ce de l™u! * I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply Bonaparte! * We must let him off the u! But joking apart, said Prince Andrew, do you really think the campaign is over? This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the first place because her provinces have been pillaged”they say the Holy Russian army loots terribly”her army is destroyed, her capital taken, and all this for the beaux yeux * of His Sardinian Majesty. And therefore”this is between ourselves”I instinctively feel that we are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately. * Fine eyes. Impossible! cried Prince Andrew. That would be too base. If we live we shall see, replied BilÃbin, his face again becoming smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end. When Prince Andrew reached the room prepared for him and lay down in a clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria™s treachery, Bonaparte™s new triumph, tomorrow™s levee and parade, and the audience with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry and the rattling of carriage wheels seemed to fill his ears, and now again drawn out in a thin line the musketeers were descending the hill, the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode forward beside Schmidt with the bullets merrily whistling all around, and he experienced tenfold the joy of living, as he had not done since childhood. He woke up... Yes, that all happened! he said, and, smiling happily to himself like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber. CHAPTER XI Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented to the Emperor Francis; he remembered the Minister of War, the polite Austrian adjutant, BilÃbin, and last night™s conversation. Having dressed for his attendance at court in full parade uniform, which he had not worn for a long time, he went into BilÃbin™s study fresh, animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged. In the study were four gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With Prince Hippolyte KurÃ¡gin, who was a secretary to the embassy, BolkÃ³nski was already acquainted. BilÃbin introduced him to the others. The gentlemen assembled at BilÃbin™s were young, wealthy, gay society men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which BilÃbin, their leader, called les nÃ´tres. * This set, consisting almost exclusively of diplomats, evidently had its own interests which had nothing to do with war or politics but related to high society, to certain women, and to the official side of the service. These gentlemen received Prince Andrew as one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many. From politeness and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions about the army and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry jests and gossip. * Ours. But the best of it was, said one, telling of the misfortune of a fellow diplomat, that the Chancellor told him flatly that his appointment to London was a promotion and that he was so to regard it. Can you fancy the figure he cut?... But the worst of it, gentlemen”I am giving KurÃ¡gin away to you”is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is taking advantage of it! Prince Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge chair with his legs over its arm. He began to laugh. Tell me about that! he said. Oh, you Don Juan! You serpent! cried several voices. You, BolkÃ³nski, don™t know, said BilÃbin turning to Prince Andrew, that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing among the women! La femme est la compagne de l™homme, * announced Prince Hippolyte, and began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs. * Woman is man™s companion. BilÃbin and the rest of ours burst out laughing in Hippolyte™s face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom”he had to admit”he had almost been jealous on his wife™s account, was the butt of this set. Oh, I must give you a treat, BilÃbin whispered to BolkÃ³nski. KurÃ¡gin is exquisite when he discusses politics”you should see his gravity! He sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began talking to him about politics. Prince Andrew and the others gathered round these two. The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance, began Hippolyte gazing round with importance at the others, without expressing... as in its last note... you understand... Besides, unless His Majesty the Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance... Wait, I have not finished... he said to Prince Andrew, seizing him by the arm, I believe that intervention will be stronger than nonintervention. And... he paused. Finally one cannot impute the nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end. And he released BolkÃ³nski™s arm to indicate that he had now quite finished. Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden mouth! said BilÃbin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with satisfaction. Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than anyone. He was evidently distressed, and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features. Well now, gentlemen, said BilÃbin, BolkÃ³nski is my guest in this house and in BrÃ¼nn itself. I want to entertain him as far as I can, with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna it would be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult, and I beg you all to help me. BrÃ¼nn™s attractions must be shown him. You can undertake the theater, I society, and you, Hippolyte, of course the women. We must let him see Amelie, she™s exquisite! said one of ours, kissing his finger tips. In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane interests, said BilÃbin. I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality, gentlemen, it is already time for me to go, replied Prince Andrew looking at his watch. Where to? To the Emperor. Oh! Oh! Oh! Well, au revoir, BolkÃ³nski! Au revoir, Prince! Come back early to dinner, cried several voices. We™ll take you in hand. When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated, said BilÃbin, accompanying him to the hall. I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts, I can™t, replied BolkÃ³nski, smiling. Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for giving audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can™t do it, as you will see. CHAPTER XII At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he had been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his face and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed BolkÃ³nski that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor Francis received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation began Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say. Tell me, when did the battle begin? he asked hurriedly. Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple: Was KutÃºzov well? When had he left Krems? and so on. The Emperor spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions”the answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest him. At what o™clock did the battle begin? asked the Emperor. I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o™clock the battle began at the front, but at DÃ¼rrenstein, where I was, our attack began after five in the afternoon, replied BolkÃ³nski growing more animated and expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which he had ready in his mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor smiled and interrupted him. How many miles? From where to where, Your Majesty? From DÃ¼rrenstein to Krems. Three and a half miles, Your Majesty. The French have abandoned the left bank? According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the night. Is there sufficient forage in Krems? Forage has not been supplied to the extent... The Emperor interrupted him. At what o™clock was General Schmidt killed? At seven o™clock, I believe. At seven o™clock? It™s very sad, very sad! The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday™s adjutant reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him his own house. The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring on him. The Empress™ chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to him. Contrary to BilÃbin™s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, KutÃºzov was awarded the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards. BolkÃ³nski was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to BilÃbin™s house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle and his visit to BrÃ¼nn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of luggage. Franz, BilÃbin™s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some difficulty out of the front door. Before returning to BilÃbin™s Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some time in the shop. What is it? he asked. Oh, your excellency! said Franz, with difficulty rolling the portmanteau into the vehicle, we are to move on still farther. The scoundrel is again at our heels! Eh? What? asked Prince Andrew. BilÃbin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement. There now! Confess that this is delightful, said he. This affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without striking a blow! Prince Andrew could not understand. But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the town knows? I come from the archduchess™. I heard nothing there. And you didn™t see that everybody is packing up? I did not... What is it all about? inquired Prince Andrew impatiently. What™s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat is now rushing along the road to BrÃ¼nn and will be here in a day or two. What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was mined? That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why. BolkÃ³nski shrugged his shoulders. But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It will be cut off, said he. That™s just it, answered BilÃbin. Listen! The French entered Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those gentlemen, messieurs les marÃ©chaux, * Murat, Lannes, and Belliard, mount and ride to the bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.) ˜Gentlemen,™ says one of them, ˜you know the Thabor Bridge is mined and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign the Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so let us three go and take it!™ ˜Yes, let™s!™ say the others. And off they go and take the bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of the Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication. * The marshalls. Stop jesting, said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news grieved him and yet he was pleased. As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift him from the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame! Listening to BilÃbin he was already imagining how on reaching the army he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the executing of the plan. Stop this jesting, he said. I am not jesting, BilÃbin went on. Nothing is truer or sadder. These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs; they assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the tÃªte-de-pont. * They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, crack jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into the water, and approaches the tÃªte-de-pont. At length appears the lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself. ˜Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars! Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another™s hand.... The Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Auersperg™s acquaintance.™ In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the sight of Murat™s mantle and ostrich plumes, qu™il n™y voit que du feu, et oublie celui qu™il devait faire faire sur l™ennemi! *(2) In spite of the animation of his speech, BilÃbin did not forget to pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation. The French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the bridge is taken! But what is best of all, he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general, goes up to Auersperg and says: ˜Prince, you are being deceived, here are the French!™ Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a true Gascon) and says: ˜I don™t recognize the world-famous Austrian discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!™ It was a stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor rascality.... * Bridgehead. * (2) That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that he ought to be firing at the enemy. It may be treachery, said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing, and the glory that awaited him. Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light, replied BilÃbin. It™s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is just as at Ulm... it is...”he seemed to be trying to find the right expression. C™est... c™est du Mack. Nous sommes mackÃ©s (It is... it is a bit of Mack. We are Macked), he concluded, feeling that he had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a slight smile he began to examine his nails. Where are you off to? he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had risen and was going toward his room. I am going away. Where to? To the army. But you meant to stay another two days? But now I am off at once. And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to his room. Do you know, mon cher, said BilÃbin following him, I have been thinking about you. Why are you going? And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles vanished from his face. Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply. Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher, it is heroism! Not at all, said Prince Andrew. But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary, is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for anything else.... You have not been ordered to return and have not been dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our ill luck takes us. They say we are going to OlmÃ¼tz, and OlmÃ¼tz is a very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my calÃ¨che. Do stop joking, BilÃbin, cried BolkÃ³nski. I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two things, and the skin over his left temple puckered, either you will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will share defeat and disgrace with KutÃºzov™s whole army. And BilÃbin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was insoluble. I cannot argue about it, replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he thought: I am going to save the army. My dear fellow, you are a hero! said BilÃbin. CHAPTER XIII That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War, BolkÃ³nski set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it and fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krems. In BrÃ¼nn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the heavy baggage was already being dispatched to OlmÃ¼tz. Near Hetzelsdorf Prince Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Prince Andrew took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack commander, and hungry and weary, making his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of the commander in chief and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the position of the army reached him as he went along, and the appearance of the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors. Cette armÃ©e russe que l™or de l™Angleterre a transportÃ©e des extrÃ©mitÃ©s de l™univers, nous allons lui faire Ã©prouver le mÃªme sort”(le sort de l™armÃ©e d™Ulm). * He remembered these words in Bonaparte™s address to his army at the beginning of the campaign, and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling of wounded pride, and a hope of glory. And should there be nothing left but to die? he thought. Well, if need be, I shall do it no worse than others. * That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same fate”(the fate of the army at Ulm). He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments, carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. All along the sides of the road fallen horses were to be seen, some flayed, some not, and broken-down carts beside which solitary soldiers sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sacks. At each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were yet denser and the din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped, traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw by their faces that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder. Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army, thought BolkÃ³nski, recalling BilÃbin™s words. Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was, he rode up to a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle, evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a calÃ¨che. A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew rode up and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving the woman™s vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes of his whip fell on the apron of the equipage. The woman screamed piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrew she leaned out from behind the apron and, waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried: Mr. Aide-de-camp! Mr. Aide-de-camp!... For heaven™s sake... Protect me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the doctor of the Seventh Chasseurs.... They won™t let us pass, we are left behind and have lost our people... I™ll flatten you into a pancake! shouted the angry officer to the soldier. Turn back with your slut! Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!... What does it all mean? screamed the doctor™s wife. Kindly let this cart pass. Don™t you see it™s a woman? said Prince Andrew riding up to the officer. The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the soldier. I™ll teach you to push on!... Back! Let them pass, I tell you! repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his lips. And who are you? cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy rage, who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here, not you! Go back or I™ll flatten you into a pancake, repeated he. This expression evidently pleased him. That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp, came a voice from behind. Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless, tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his championship of the doctor™s wife in her queer trap might expose him to what he dreaded more than anything in the world”to ridicule; but his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised his riding whip. Kind...ly let”them”pass! The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away. It™s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there™s this disorder, he muttered. Do as you like. Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the doctor™s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he galloped on to the village where he was told who the commander in chief was. On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house, intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. This is a mob of scoundrels and not an army, he was thinking as he went up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by name. He turned round. NesvÃtski™s handsome face looked out of the little window. NesvÃtski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and flourishing his arm, called him to enter. BolkÃ³nski! BolkÃ³nski!... Don™t you hear? Eh? Come quick... he shouted. Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw NesvÃtski and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm. This was particularly noticeable on NesvÃtski™s usually laughing countenance. Where is the commander in chief? asked BolkÃ³nski. Here, in that house, answered the adjutant. Well, is it true that it™s peace and capitulation? asked NesvÃtski. I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could do to get here. And we, my dear boy! It™s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack, we™re getting it still worse, said NesvÃtski. But sit down and have something to eat. You won™t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now, Prince. And God only knows where your man Peter is, said the other adjutant. Where are headquarters? We are to spend the night in Znaim. Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses, said NesvÃtski. They™ve made up splendid packs for me”fit to cross the Bohemian mountains with. It™s a bad lookout, old fellow! But what™s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that, he added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock. It™s nothing, replied Prince Andrew. He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor™s wife and the convoy officer. What is the commander in chief doing here? he asked. I can™t make out at all, said NesvÃtski. Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable, abominable, quite abominable! said Prince Andrew, and he went off to the house where the commander in chief was. Passing by KutÃºzov™s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince Andrew entered the passage. KutÃºzov himself, he was told, was in the house with Prince BagratiÃ³n and Weyrother. Weyrother was the Austrian general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little KozlÃ³vski was squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom upwards. KozlÃ³vski™s face looked worn”he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him. Second line... have you written it? he continued dictating to the clerk. The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian... One can™t write so fast, your honor, said the clerk, glancing angrily and disrespectfully at KozlÃ³vski. Through the door came the sounds of KutÃºzov™s voice, excited and dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the sound of these voices, the inattentive way KozlÃ³vski looked at him, the disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and KozlÃ³vski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and disastrous was about to happen. He turned to KozlÃ³vski with urgent questions. Immediately, Prince, said KozlÃ³vski. Dispositions for BagratiÃ³n. What about capitulation? Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle. Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard. Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and KutÃºzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrew stood right in front of KutÃºzov but the expression of the commander in chief™s one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He looked straight at his adjutant™s face without recognizing him. Well, have you finished? said he to KozlÃ³vski. One moment, your excellency. BagratiÃ³n, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm, impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief. I have the honor to present myself, repeated Prince Andrew rather loudly, handing KutÃºzov an envelope. Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later! KutÃºzov went out into the porch with BagratiÃ³n. Well, good-by, Prince, said he to BagratiÃ³n. My blessing, and may Christ be with you in your great endeavor! His face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his left hand he drew BagratiÃ³n toward him, and with his right, on which he wore a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him with a gesture evidently habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but BagratiÃ³n kissed him on the neck instead. Christ be with you! KutÃºzov repeated and went toward his carriage. Get in with me, said he to BolkÃ³nski. Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain with Prince BagratiÃ³n™s detachment. Get in, said KutÃºzov, and noticing that BolkÃ³nski still delayed, he added: I need good officers myself, need them myself! They got into the carriage and drove for a few minutes in silence. There is still much, much before us, he said, as if with an old man™s penetration he understood all that was passing in BolkÃ³nski™s mind. If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God, he added as if speaking to himself. Prince Andrew glanced at KutÃºzov™s face only a foot distant from him and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near his temple, where an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty eye socket. Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men™s death, thought BolkÃ³nski. That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment, he said. KutÃºzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew. There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With delicate irony he questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his interview with the Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krems affair, and about some ladies they both knew. CHAPTER XIV On November 1 KutÃºzov had received, through a spy, news that the army he commanded was in an almost hopeless position. The spy reported that the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in immense force upon KutÃºzov™s line of communication with the troops that were arriving from Russia. If KutÃºzov decided to remain at Krems, Napoleon™s army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut him off completely and surround his exhausted army of forty thousand, and he would find himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If KutÃºzov decided to abandon the road connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia, he would have to march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian mountains, defending himself against superior forces of the enemy and abandoning all hope of a junction with BuxhÃ¶wden. If KutÃºzov decided to retreat along the road from Krems to OlmÃ¼tz, to unite with the troops arriving from Russia, he risked being forestalled on that road by the French who had crossed the Vienna bridge, and encumbered by his baggage and transport, having to accept battle on the march against an enemy three times as strong, who would hem him in from two sides. KutÃºzov chose this latter course. The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles off on the line of KutÃºzov™s retreat. If he reached Znaim before the French, there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the French forestall him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army to a disgrace such as that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall the French with his whole army was impossible. The road for the French from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the road for the Russians from Krems to Znaim. The night he received the news, KutÃºzov sent BagratiÃ³n™s vanguard, four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim to the Vienna-Znaim road. BagratiÃ³n was to make this march without resting, and to halt facing Vienna with Znaim to his rear, and if he succeeded in forestalling the French he was to delay them as long as possible. KutÃºzov himself with all his transport took the road to Znaim. Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers by the way, BagratiÃ³n came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at HollabrÃ¼nn a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching HollabrÃ¼nn from Vienna. KutÃºzov with his transport had still to march for some days before he could reach Znaim. Hence BagratiÃ³n with his four thousand hungry, exhausted men would have to detain for days the whole enemy army that came upon him at HollabrÃ¼nn, which was clearly impossible. But a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick that had placed the Vienna bridge in the hands of the French without a fight led Murat to try to deceive KutÃºzov in a similar way. Meeting BagratiÃ³n™s weak detachment on the Znaim road he supposed it to be KutÃºzov™s whole army. To be able to crush it absolutely he awaited the arrival of the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna, and with this object offered a three days™ truce on condition that both armies should remain in position without moving. Murat declared that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed Murat™s emissary and retired, leaving BagratiÃ³n™s division exposed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days™ truce. BagratiÃ³n replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse a truce and sent his adjutant to KutÃºzov to report the offer he had received. A truce was KutÃºzov™s sole chance of gaining time, giving BagratiÃ³n™s exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and heavy convoys (whose movements were concealed from the French) advance if but one stage nearer Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the only, and a quite unexpected, chance of saving the army. On receiving the news he immediately dispatched Adjutant General Wintzingerode, who was in attendance on him, to the enemy camp. Wintzingerode was not merely to agree to the truce but also to offer terms of capitulation, and meanwhile KutÃºzov sent his adjutants back to hasten to the utmost the movements of the baggage trains of the entire army along the Krems-Znaim road. BagratiÃ³n™s exhausted and hungry detachment, which alone covered this movement of the transport and of the whole army, had to remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as strong as itself. KutÃºzov™s expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which were in no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to pass, and also that Murat™s mistake would very soon be discovered, proved correct. As soon as Bonaparte (who was at SchÃ¶nbrunn, sixteen miles from HollabrÃ¼nn) received Murat™s dispatch with the proposal of a truce and a capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the following letter to Murat: SchÃ¶nbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805, at eight o™clock in the morning To PRINCE MURAT, I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break the armistice immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him that the general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no one but the Emperor of Russia has that right. If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I will ratify it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the Russian army.... You are in a position to seize its baggage and artillery. The Russian Emperor™s aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are nothing when they have no powers; this one had none.... The Austrians let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna bridge, you are letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of the Emperor. NAPOLEON Bonaparte™s adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim escape, and BagratiÃ³n™s four thousand men merrily lighted campfires, dried and warmed themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time for three days, and not one of them knew or imagined what was in store for him. CHAPTER XV Between three and four o™clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who had persisted in his request to KutÃºzov, arrived at Grunth and reported himself to BagratiÃ³n. Bonaparte™s adjutant had not yet reached Murat™s detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In BagratiÃ³n™s detachment no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They talked of peace but did not believe in its possibility; others talked of a battle but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement. BagratiÃ³n, knowing BolkÃ³nski to be a favorite and trusted adjutant, received him with distinction and special marks of favor, explaining to him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle or to join the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, which is also very important. However, there will hardly be an engagement today, said BagratiÃ³n as if to reassure Prince Andrew. If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he wishes to stay with me, let him... he™ll be of use here if he™s a brave officer, thought BagratiÃ³n. Prince Andrew, without replying, asked the prince™s permission to ride round the position to see the disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince Andrew. On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches, and fencing from the village. There now, Prince! We can™t stop those fellows, said the staff officer pointing to the soldiers. The officers don™t keep them in hand. And there, he pointed to a sutler™s tent, they crowd in and sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it™s full again. I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won™t take a moment. Yes, let™s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese, said Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything. Why didn™t you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you something. They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking. Now what does this mean, gentlemen? said the staff officer, in the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more than once. You know it won™t do to leave your posts like this. The prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you, Captain, and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to dry), in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether comfortably. Well, aren™t you ashamed of yourself, Captain TÃºshin? he continued. One would think that as an artillery officer you would set a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be sounded and you™ll be in a pretty position without your boots! (The staff officer smiled.) Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of you, all! he added in a tone of command. Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer TÃºshin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes from Prince Andrew to the staff officer. The soldiers say it feels easier without boots, said Captain TÃºshin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused. Kindly return to your posts, said the staff officer trying to preserve his gravity. Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer™s small figure. There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic, but extremely attractive. The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on. Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite the cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants; spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines. VoilÃ l™agrÃ©ment des camps, monsieur le prince, * said the staff officer. * This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince. They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position. That™s our battery, said the staff officer indicating the highest point. It™s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without his boots. You can see everything from there; let™s go there, Prince. Thank you very much, I will go on alone, said Prince Andrew, wishing to rid himself of this staff officer™s company, please don™t trouble yourself further. The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone. The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines the more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others, dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers. In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log before his shelter, had been tasted. Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka, crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces, emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers”fine fellows busy with similar peaceful affairs”near the shelter of the regimental commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally. A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the screams kept repeating: It™s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest, honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in him, he™s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on! So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural screams, continued. Go on, go on! said the major. A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant as he rode by. Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks, but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one another™s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies. Since early morning”despite an injunction not to approach the picket line”the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity, no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and grew weary waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look at the French. Look! Look there! one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer and was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. Hark to him jabbering! Fine, isn™t it? It™s all the Frenchy can do to keep up with him. There now, SÃdorov! Wait a bit and listen. It™s fine! answered SÃdorov, who was considered an adept at French. The soldier to whom the laughers referred was DÃ³lokhov. Prince Andrew recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. DÃ³lokhov had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with his captain. Now then, go on, go on! incited the officer, bending forward and trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to him. More, please: more! What™s he saying? DÃ³lokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all the way from Ulm, while DÃ³lokhov maintained that the Russians had not surrendered but had beaten the French. We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off, said DÃ³lokhov. Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured! said the French grenadier. The French onlookers and listeners laughed. We™ll make you dance as we did under SuvÃ³rov..., * said DÃ³lokhov. * On vous fera danser. Qu™ est-ce qu™il chante? * asked a Frenchman. * What™s he singing about? It™s ancient history, said another, guessing that it referred to a former war. The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the others... Bonaparte... began DÃ³lokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him. Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! SacrÃ© nom...! cried he angrily. The devil skin your Emperor. And DÃ³lokhov swore at him in coarse soldier™s Russian and shouldering his musket walked away. Let us go, IvÃ¡n LukÃch, he said to the captain. Ah, that™s the way to talk French, said the picket soldiers. Now, SÃdorov, you have a try! SÃdorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless sounds very fast: Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, KaskÃ¡, he said, trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice. Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh! came peals of such healthy and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as quickly as possible. But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon confronted one another as before. CHAPTER XVI Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left, Prince Andrew made his way up to the battery from which the staff officer had told him the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted, and stopped beside the farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns an artillery sentry was pacing up and down; he stood at attention when the officer arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured, monotonous pacing. Behind the guns were their limbers and still farther back picket ropes and artillerymen™s bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest cannon, was a small, newly constructed wattle shed from which came the sound of officers™ voices in eager conversation. It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and the greater part of the enemy™s opened out from this battery. Just facing it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of SchÃ¶n Grabern could be seen, and in three places to left and right the French troops amid the smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left from that village, amid the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it was impossible to see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was posted on a rather steep incline which dominated the French position. Our infantry were stationed there, and at the farthest point the dragoons. In the center, where TÃºshin™s battery stood and from which Prince Andrew was surveying the position, was the easiest and most direct descent and ascent to the brook separating us from SchÃ¶n Grabern. On the left our troops were close to a copse, in which smoked the bonfires of our infantry who were felling wood. The French line was wider than ours, and it was plain that they could easily outflank us on both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep dip, making it difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire. Prince Andrew took out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a plan of the position. He made some notes on two points, intending to mention them to BagratiÃ³n. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the dip. Prince Andrew, being always near the commander in chief, closely following the mass movements and general orders, and constantly studying historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the course of events in the forthcoming action in broad outline. He imagined only important possibilities: If the enemy attacks the right flank, he said to himself, the Kiev grenadiers and the PodÃ³lsk chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center come up. In that case the dragoons could successfully make a flank counterattack. If they attack our center we, having the center battery on this high ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and retreat to the dip by echelons. So he reasoned.... All the time he had been beside the gun, he had heard the voices of the officers distinctly, but as often happens had not understood a word of what they were saying. Suddenly, however, he was struck by a voice coming from the shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen. No, friend, said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, a familiar voice, what I say is that if it were possible to know what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That™s so, friend. Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: Afraid or not, you can™t escape it anyhow. All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people, said a third manly voice interrupting them both. Of course you artillery men are very wise, because you can take everything along with you”vodka and snacks. And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer, laughed. Yes, one is afraid, continued the first speaker, he of the familiar voice. One is afraid of the unknown, that™s what it is. Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is no sky but only an atmosphere. The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer. Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, TÃºshin, it said. Why, thought Prince Andrew, that™s the captain who stood up in the sutler™s hut without his boots. He recognized the agreeable, philosophizing voice with pleasure. Some herb vodka? Certainly! said TÃºshin. But still, to conceive a future life... He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air; nearer and nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon ball, as if it had not finished saying what was necessary, thudded into the ground near the shed with super human force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground seemed to groan at the terrible impact. And immediately TÃºshin, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth and his kind, intelligent face rather pale, rushed out of the shed followed by the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who hurried off to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran. CHAPTER XVII Mounting his horse again Prince Andrew lingered with the battery, looking at the puff from the gun that had sent the ball. His eyes ran rapidly over the wide space, but he only saw that the hitherto motionless masses of the French now swayed and that there really was a battery to their left. The smoke above it had not yet dispersed. Two mounted Frenchmen, probably adjutants, were galloping up the hill. A small but distinctly visible enemy column was moving down the hill, probably to strengthen the front line. The smoke of the first shot had not yet dispersed before another puff appeared, followed by a report. The battle had begun! Prince Andrew turned his horse and galloped back to Grunth to find Prince BagratiÃ³n. He heard the cannonade behind him growing louder and more frequent. Evidently our guns had begun to reply. From the bottom of the slope, where the parleys had taken place, came the report of musketry. Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte™s stern letter, and Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at once moved his forces to attack the center and outflank both the Russian wings, hoping before evening and before the arrival of the Emperor to crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him. It has begun. Here it is! thought Prince Andrew, feeling the blood rush to his heart. But where and how will my Toulon present itself? Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking vodka a quarter of an hour before, he saw everywhere the same rapid movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets ready, and on all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that filled his heart. It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but enjoyable! was what the face of each soldier and each officer seemed to say. Before he had reached the embankments that were being thrown up, he saw, in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming toward him. The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and riding a white horse, was Prince BagratiÃ³n. Prince Andrew stopped, waiting for him to come up; Prince BagratiÃ³n reined in his horse and recognizing Prince Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while Prince Andrew told him what he had seen. The feeling, It has begun! Here it is! was seen even on Prince BagratiÃ³n™s hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes. Prince Andrew gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face and wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking and feeling at that moment. Is there anything at all behind that impassive face? Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince BagratiÃ³n bent his head in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew told him, and said, Very good! in a tone that seemed to imply that everything that took place and was reported to him was exactly what he had foreseen. Prince Andrew, out of breath with his rapid ride, spoke quickly. Prince BagratiÃ³n, uttering his words with an Oriental accent, spoke particularly slowly, as if to impress the fact that there was no need to hurry. However, he put his horse to a trot in the direction of TÃºshin™s battery. Prince Andrew followed with the suite. Behind Prince BagratiÃ³n rode an officer of the suite, the prince™s personal adjutant, ZherkÃ³v, an orderly officer, the staff officer on duty, riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian”an accountant who had asked permission to be present at the battle out of curiosity. The accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around him with a naÃ¯ve smile of satisfaction and presented a strange appearance among the hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camlet coat, as he jolted on his horse with a convoy officer™s saddle. He wants to see a battle, said ZherkÃ³v to BolkÃ³nski, pointing to the accountant, but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach already. Oh, leave off! said the accountant with a beaming but rather cunning smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of ZherkÃ³v™s joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really was. It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince, said the staff officer. (He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing a prince, but could not get it quite right.) By this time they were all approaching TÃºshin™s battery, and a ball struck the ground in front of them. What™s that that has fallen? asked the accountant with a naÃ¯ve smile. A French pancake, answered ZherkÃ³v. So that™s what they hit with? asked the accountant. How awful! He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished speaking when they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which suddenly ended with a thud into something soft... f-f-flop! and a Cossack, riding a little to their right and behind the accountant, crashed to earth with his horse. ZherkÃ³v and the staff officer bent over their saddles and turned their horses away. The accountant stopped, facing the Cossack, and examined him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the horse still struggled. Prince BagratiÃ³n screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say, Is it worth while noticing trifles? He reined in his horse with the care of a skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his saber which had caught in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned saber of a kind no longer in general use. Prince Andrew remembered the story of SuvÃ³rov giving his saber to BagratiÃ³n in Italy, and the recollection was particularly pleasant at that moment. They had reached the battery at which Prince Andrew had been when he examined the battlefield. Whose company? asked Prince BagratiÃ³n of an artilleryman standing by the ammunition wagon. He asked, Whose company? but he really meant, Are you frightened here? and the artilleryman understood him. Captain TÃºshin™s, your excellency! shouted the red-haired, freckled gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention. Yes, yes, muttered BagratiÃ³n as if considering something, and he rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon. As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and his suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they could see the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly back to its former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number One, holding a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while Number Two with a trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon™s mouth. The short, round-shouldered Captain TÃºshin, stumbling over the tail of the gun carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the general, looked out shading his eyes with his small hand. Lift it two lines more and it will be just right, cried he in a feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill-suited to his weak figure. Number Two! he squeaked. Fire, MedvÃ©dev! BagratiÃ³n called to him, and TÃºshin, raising three fingers to his cap with a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military salute but like a priest™s benediction, approached the general. Though TÃºshin™s guns had been intended to cannonade the valley, he was firing incendiary balls at the village of SchÃ¶n Grabern visible just opposite, in front of which large masses of French were advancing. No one had given TÃºshin orders where and at what to fire, but after consulting his sergeant major, ZakharchÃ©nko, for whom he had great respect, he had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the village. Very good! said BagratiÃ³n in reply to the officer™s report, and began deliberately to examine the whole battlefield extended before him. The French had advanced nearest on our right. Below the height on which the Kiev regiment was stationed, in the hollow where the rivulet flowed, the soul-stirring rolling and crackling of musketry was heard, and much farther to the right beyond the dragoons, the officer of the suite pointed out to BagratiÃ³n a French column that was outflanking us. To the left the horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Prince BagratiÃ³n ordered two battalions from the center to be sent to reinforce the right flank. The officer of the suite ventured to remark to the prince that if these battalions went away, the guns would remain without support. Prince BagratiÃ³n turned to the officer and with his dull eyes looked at him in silence. It seemed to Prince Andrew that the officer™s remark was just and that really no answer could be made to it. But at that moment an adjutant galloped up with a message from the commander of the regiment in the hollow and news that immense masses of the French were coming down upon them and that his regiment was in disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Prince BagratiÃ³n bowed his head in sign of assent and approval. He rode off at a walk to the right and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with orders to attack the French. But this adjutant returned half an hour later with the news that the commander of the dragoons had already retreated beyond the dip in the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on him and he was losing men uselessly, and so had hastened to throw some sharpshooters into the wood. Very good! said BagratiÃ³n. As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left also, and as it was too far to the left flank for him to have time to go there himself, Prince BagratiÃ³n sent ZherkÃ³v to tell the general in command (the one who had paraded his regiment before KutÃºzov at Braunau) that he must retreat as quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear, as the right flank would probably not be able to withstand the enemy™s attack very long. About TÃºshin and the battalion that had been in support of his battery all was forgotten. Prince Andrew listened attentively to BagratiÃ³n™s colloquies with the commanding officers and the orders he gave them and, to his surprise, found that no orders were really given, but that Prince BagratiÃ³n tried to make it appear that everything done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of subordinate commanders was done, if not by his direct command, at least in accord with his intentions. Prince Andrew noticed, however, that though what happened was due to chance and was independent of the commander™s will, owing to the tact BagratiÃ³n showed, his presence was very valuable. Officers who approached him with disturbed countenances became calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew more cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display their courage before him. CHAPTER XVIII Prince BagratiÃ³n, having reached the highest point of our right flank, began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard but where on account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer they got to the hollow the less they could see but the more they felt the nearness of the actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One with a bleeding head and no cap was being dragged along by two soldiers who supported him under the arms. There was a gurgle in his throat and he was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or mouth. Another was walking sturdily by himself but without his musket, groaning aloud and swinging his arm which had just been hurt, while blood from it was streaming over his greatcoat as from a bottle. He had that moment been wounded and his face showed fear rather than suffering. Crossing a road they descended a steep incline and saw several men lying on the ground; they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom were unwounded. The soldiers were ascending the hill breathing heavily, and despite the general™s presence were talking loudly and gesticulating. In front of them rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the smoke, and an officer catching sight of BagratiÃ³n rushed shouting after the crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. BagratiÃ³n rode up to the ranks along which shots crackled now here and now there, drowning the sound of voices and the shouts of command. The whole air reeked with smoke. The excited faces of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the touchpans or taking charges from their pouches, while others were firing, though who they were firing at could not be seen for the smoke which there was no wind to carry away. A pleasant humming and whistling of bullets were often heard. What is this? thought Prince Andrew approaching the crowd of soldiers. It can™t be an attack, for they are not moving; it can™t be a square”for they are not drawn up for that. The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a pleasant smile”his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes, giving him a mild expression, rode up to BagratiÃ³n and welcomed him as a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack had been repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what had happened during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and could not say with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his regiment had been broken up. All he knew was that at the commencement of the action balls and shells began flying all over his regiment and hitting men and that afterwards someone had shouted Cavalry! and our men had begun firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry which had disappeared, but at French infantry who had come into the hollow and were firing at our men. Prince BagratiÃ³n bowed his head as a sign that this was exactly what he had desired and expected. Turning to his adjutant he ordered him to bring down the two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs whom they had just passed. Prince Andrew was struck by the changed expression on Prince BagratiÃ³n™s face at this moment. It expressed the concentrated and happy resolution you see on the face of a man who on a hot day takes a final run before plunging into the water. The dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation of profound thought. The round, steady, hawk™s eyes looked before him eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although his movements were still slow and measured. The commander of the regiment turned to Prince BagratiÃ³n, entreating him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were. Please, your excellency, for God™s sake! he kept saying, glancing for support at an officer of the suite who turned away from him. There, you see! and he drew attention to the bullets whistling, singing, and hissing continually around them. He spoke in the tone of entreaty and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who has picked up an ax: We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister your hands. He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him, and his half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to his words. The staff officer joined in the colonel™s appeals, but BagratiÃ³n did not reply; he only gave an order to cease firing and re-form, so as to give room for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking, the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising wind, began to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible hand, and the hill opposite, with the French moving about on it, opened out before them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing against them and winding down over the uneven ground. One could already see the soldiers™ shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from the men, and see the standard flapping against its staff. They march splendidly, remarked someone in BagratiÃ³n™s suite. The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The clash would take place on this side of it... The remains of our regiment which had been in action rapidly formed up and moved to the right; from behind it, dispersing the laggards, came two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had reached BagratiÃ³n, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to BagratiÃ³n, marched a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy expression”the same man who had rushed out of the wattle shed. At that moment he was clearly thinking of nothing but how dashing a fellow he would appear as he passed the commander. With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped lightly with his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full height without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with the heavy tread of the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He carried close to his leg a narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and now back at the men without losing step, his whole powerful body turning flexibly. It was as if all the powers of his soul were concentrated on passing the commander in the best possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he was happy. Left... left... left... he seemed to repeat to himself at each alternate step; and in time to this, with stern but varied faces, the wall of soldiers burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched in step, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be repeating to himself at each alternate step, Left... left... left... A fat major skirted a bush, puffing and falling out of step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face showing alarm at his defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with his company. A cannon ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of BagratiÃ³n and his suite, and fell into the column to the measure of Left... left! Close up! came the company commander™s voice in jaunty tones. The soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the ball had fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who had stopped beside the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling into step with a hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous silence and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one seemed to hear left... left... left. Well done, lads! said Prince BagratiÃ³n. Glad to do our best, your ex™len-lency! came a confused shout from the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on BagratiÃ³n as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: We know that ourselves! Another, without looking round, as though fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on. The order was given to halt and down knapsacks. BagratiÃ³n rode round the ranks that had marched past him and dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the French column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill. Forward, with God! said BagratiÃ³n, in a resolute, sonorous voice, turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms, he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of a cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him forward, and experienced great happiness. The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside BagratiÃ³n, could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their faces. (He distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered legs and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Prince BagratiÃ³n gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in front of the ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the French, smoke appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots sounded. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer who had marched so gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first report was heard, BagratiÃ³n looked round and shouted, Hurrah! Hurrah”ah!”ah! rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and passing BagratiÃ³n and racing one another they rushed in an irregular but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe. CHAPTER XIX The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right flank. In the center TÃºshin™s forgotten battery, which had managed to set fire to the SchÃ¶n Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The French were putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side of the dip in the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the different companies did not get mixed. But our left”which consisted of the AzÃ³v and PodÃ³lsk infantry and the PÃ¡vlograd hussars”was simultaneously attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under Lannes and was thrown into confusion. BagratiÃ³n had sent ZherkÃ³v to the general commanding that left flank with orders to retreat immediately. ZherkÃ³v, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about and galloped off. But no sooner had he left BagratiÃ³n than his courage failed him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it was dangerous. Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where they could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order. The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of the regiment KutÃºzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which DÃ³lokhov was serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been assigned to the commander of the PÃ¡vlograd regiment in which RostÃ³v was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on the right flank and the French were already advancing, were engaged in discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the horses and the infantry collecting wood. He higher iss dan I in rank, said the German colonel of the hussars, flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, so let him do what he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars... Bugler, sount ze retreat! But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the capotes of Lannes™ sharpshooters were already seen crossing the milldam and forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The general in command of the infantry went toward his horse with jerky steps, and having mounted drew himself up very straight and tall and rode to the PÃ¡vlograd commander. The commanders met with polite bows but with secret malevolence in their hearts. Once again, Colonel, said the general, I can™t leave half my men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you, he repeated, to occupy the position and prepare for an attack. I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business! suddenly replied the irate colonel. If you vere in the cavalry... I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if you are not aware of the fact... Quite avare, your excellency, suddenly shouted the colonel, touching his horse and turning purple in the face. Vill you be so goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don™t vish to destroy my men for your pleasure! You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure and I won™t allow it to be said! Taking the colonel™s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the front line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the bullets. They reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that it was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken ground, as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The general and colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another like two fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to detect signs of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination successfully. As there was nothing to be said, and neither wished to give occasion for it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave the range of fire, they would have remained there for a long time testing each other™s courage had it not been that just then they heard the rattle of musketry and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The French had attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It was no longer possible for the hussars to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off from the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient the position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through for themselves. The squadron in which RostÃ³v was serving had scarcely time to mount before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge, there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear”resembling the line separating the living from the dead”lay between them. All were conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross it or not, and how they would cross it, agitated them all. The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put to him by the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having his own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor of an attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang out and the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards. Still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars alike, felt that the commander did not himself know what to do, and this irresolution communicated itself to the men. If only they would be quick! thought RostÃ³v, feeling that at last the time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so often heard from his fellow hussars. Fo™ward, with God, lads! rang out DenÃsov™s voice. At a twot fo™ward! The horses™ croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at the reins and started of his own accord. Before him, on the right, RostÃ³v saw the front lines of his hussars and still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off. Faster! came the word of command, and RostÃ³v felt Rook™s flanks drooping as he broke into a gallop. RostÃ³v anticipated his horse™s movements and became more and more elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible”and now he had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. Oh, how I will slash at him! thought RostÃ³v, gripping the hilt of his saber. Hur-a-a-a-ah! came a roar of voices. Let anyone come my way now, thought RostÃ³v driving his spurs into Rook and letting him go at a full gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was already visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep over the squadron. RostÃ³v raised his saber, ready to strike, but at that instant the trooper NikÃtenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away from him, and RostÃ³v felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From behind him BondarchÃºk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked angrily at him. BondarchÃºk™s horse swerved and galloped past. How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed! RostÃ³v asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars™ backs, he saw nothing before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There was warm blood under his arm. No, I am wounded and the horse is killed. Rook tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his rider™s leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled but could not rise. RostÃ³v also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the French, he did not know. There was no one near. Having disentangled his leg, he rose. Where, on which side, was now the line that had so sharply divided the two armies? he asked himself and could not answer. Can something bad have happened to me? he wondered as he got up: and at that moment he felt that something superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if it were not his. He examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find blood on it. Ah, here are people coming, he thought joyfully, seeing some men running toward him. They will help me! In front came a man wearing a strange shako and a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned, and with a hooked nose. Then came two more, and many more running behind. One of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among the hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms and his horse was being led behind him. It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will take me too? Who are these men? thought RostÃ³v, scarcely believing his eyes. Can they be French? He looked at the approaching Frenchmen, and though but a moment before he had been galloping to get at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful that he could not believe his eyes. Who are they? Why are they running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom everyone is so fond of? He remembered his mother™s love for him, and his family™s, and his friends™, and the enemy™s intention to kill him seemed impossible. But perhaps they may do it! For more than ten seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the situation. The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was already so close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the excited, alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath, and running so lightly, frightened RostÃ³v. He seized his pistol and, instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran with all his might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with the impetuosity he used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale, young face to look back. A shudder of terror went through him: No, better not look, he thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced round once more. The French had fallen behind, and just as he looked round the first man changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted something loudly to a comrade farther back. RostÃ³v paused. No, there™s some mistake, thought he. They can™t have wanted to kill me. But at the same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The Frenchman also stopped and took aim. RostÃ³v closed his eyes and stooped down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. He mustered his last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his right, and reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters. CHAPTER XX The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the senseless cry, Cut off! that is so terrible in battle, and that word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic. Surrounded! Cut off? We™re lost! shouted the fugitives. The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment, and the thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years™ service who had never been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the recalcitrant cavalry colonel, his own dignity as a general, and above all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for self-preservation, he clutched the crupper of his saddle and, spurring his horse, galloped to the regiment under a hail of bullets which fell around, but fortunately missed him. His one desire was to know what was happening and at any cost correct, or remedy, the mistake if he had made one, so that he, an exemplary officer of twenty-two years™ service, who had never been censured, should not be held to blame. Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field behind the copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides the fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers attend to the voice of their commander, or would they, disregarding him, continue their flight? Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of his saber, the soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the air, and disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate of battles was evidently culminating in a panic. The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and Russian sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It was TimÃ³khin™s company, which alone had maintained its order in the wood and, having lain in ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French unexpectedly. TimÃ³khin, armed only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such a desperate cry and such mad, drunken determination that, taken by surprise, the French had thrown down their muskets and run. DÃ³lokhov, running beside TimÃ³khin, killed a Frenchman at close quarters and was the first to seize the surrendering French officer by his collar. Our fugitives returned, the battalions re-formed, and the French who had nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our reserve units were able to join up, and the fight was at an end. The regimental commander and Major EkonÃ³mov had stopped beside a bridge, letting the retreating companies pass by them, when a soldier came up and took hold of the commander™s stirrup, almost leaning against him. The man was wearing a bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack or cap, his head was bandaged, and over his shoulder a French munition pouch was slung. He had an officer™s sword in his hand. The soldier was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the commander™s face, and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving instructions to Major EkonÃ³mov, he could not help taking notice of the soldier. Your excellency, here are two trophies, said DÃ³lokhov, pointing to the French sword and pouch. I have taken an officer prisoner. I stopped the company. DÃ³lokhov breathed heavily from weariness and spoke in abrupt sentences. The whole company can bear witness. I beg you will remember this, your excellency! All right, all right, replied the commander, and turned to Major EkonÃ³mov. But DÃ³lokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his head, pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair. A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, your excellency! TÃºshin™s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the action did Prince BagratiÃ³n, still hearing the cannonade in the center, send his orderly staff officer, and later Prince Andrew also, to order the battery to retire as quickly as possible. When the supports attached to TÃºshin™s battery had been moved away in the middle of the action by someone™s order, the battery had continued firing and was only not captured by the French because the enemy could not surmise that anyone could have the effrontery to continue firing from four quite undefended guns. On the contrary, the energetic action of that battery led the French to suppose that here”in the center”the main Russian forces were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on each occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated guns on the hillock. Soon after Prince BagratiÃ³n had left him, TÃºshin had succeeded in setting fire to SchÃ¶n Grabern. Look at them scurrying! It™s burning! Just see the smoke! Fine! Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke! exclaimed the artillerymen, brightening up. All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, the soldiers cried at each shot: Fine! That™s good! Look at it... Grand! The fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The French columns that had advanced beyond the village went back; but as though in revenge for this failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the right of the village and began firing them at TÃºshin™s battery. In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen only noticed this battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our guns, one knocking over two horses and another tearing off a munition-wagon driver™s leg. Their spirits once roused were, however, not diminished, but only changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a reserve gun carriage, the wounded were carried away, and the four guns were turned against the ten-gun battery. TÃºshin™s companion officer had been killed at the beginning of the engagement and within an hour seventeen of the forty men of the guns™ crews had been disabled, but the artillerymen were still as merry and lively as ever. Twice they noticed the French appearing below them, and then they fired grapeshot at them. Little TÃºshin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly to refill my pipe for that one! and then, scattering sparks from it, ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the French. Smack at ˜em, lads! he kept saying, seizing the guns by the wheels and working the screws himself. Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always made him jump, TÃºshin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from gun to gun, now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders about replacing dead or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones, and shouting in his feeble voice, so high pitched and irresolute. His face grew more and more animated. Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always the case, hesitated about lifting the injured or dead. The soldiers, for the most part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an artillery company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad as their officer”all looked at their commander like children in an embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was invariably reflected on theirs. Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and activity, TÃºshin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more elated. It seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a day, since he had first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and that the corner of the field he stood on was well-known and familiar ground. Though he thought of everything, considered everything, and did everything the best of officers could do in his position, he was in a state akin to feverish delirium or drunkenness. From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and thud of the enemy™s cannon balls, from the flushed and perspiring faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the sight of the blood of men and horses, from the little puffs of smoke on the enemy™s side (always followed by a ball flying past and striking the earth, a man, a gun, a horse), from the sight of all these things a fantastic world of his own had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded him pleasure. The enemy™s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes from which occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker. There... he™s puffing again, muttered TÃºshin to himself, as a small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by the wind. Now look out for the ball... we™ll throw it back. What do you want, your honor? asked an artilleryman, standing close by, who heard him muttering. Nothing... only a shell... he answered. Come along, our MatvÃ©vna! he said to himself. MatvÃ©vna * was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard Number One of the second gun™s crew was uncle; TÃºshin looked at him more often than at anyone else and took delight in his every movement. The sound of musketry at the foot of the hill, now diminishing, now increasing, seemed like someone™s breathing. He listened intently to the ebb and flow of these sounds. * Daughter of Matthew. Ah! Breathing again, breathing! he muttered to himself. He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing cannon balls at the French with both hands. Now then, MatvÃ©vna, dear old lady, don™t let me down! he was saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called above his head: Captain TÃºshin! Captain! TÃºshin turned round in dismay. It was the staff officer who had turned him out of the booth at Grunth. He was shouting in a gasping voice: Are you mad? You have twice been ordered to retreat, and you... Why are they down on me? thought TÃºshin, looking in alarm at his superior. I... don™t... he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap. I... But the staff officer did not finish what he wanted to say. A cannon ball, flying close to him, caused him to duck and bend over his horse. He paused, and just as he was about to say something more, another ball stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped off. Retire! All to retire! he shouted from a distance. The soldiers laughed. A moment later, an adjutant arrived with the same order. It was Prince Andrew. The first thing he saw on riding up to the space where TÃºshin™s guns were stationed was an unharnessed horse with a broken leg, that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses. Blood was gushing from its leg as from a spring. Among the limbers lay several dead men. One ball after another passed over as he approached and he felt a nervous shudder run down his spine. But the mere thought of being afraid roused him again. I cannot be afraid, thought he, and dismounted slowly among the guns. He delivered the order and did not leave the battery. He decided to have the guns removed from their positions and withdrawn in his presence. Together with TÃºshin, stepping across the bodies and under a terrible fire from the French, he attended to the removal of the guns. A staff officer was here a minute ago, but skipped off, said an artilleryman to Prince Andrew. Not like your honor! Prince Andrew said nothing to TÃºshin. They were both so busy as to seem not to notice one another. When having limbered up the only two cannon that remained uninjured out of the four, they began moving down the hill (one shattered gun and one unicorn were left behind), Prince Andrew rode up to TÃºshin. Well, till we meet again... he said, holding out his hand to TÃºshin. Good-by, my dear fellow, said TÃºshin. Dear soul! Good-by, my dear fellow! and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his eyes. CHAPTER XXI The wind had fallen and black clouds, merging with the powder smoke, hung low over the field of battle on the horizon. It was growing dark and the glow of two conflagrations was the more conspicuous. The cannonade was dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the right sounded oftener and nearer. As soon as TÃºshin with his guns, continually driving round or coming upon wounded men, was out of range of fire and had descended into the dip, he was met by some of the staff, among them the staff officer and ZherkÃ³v, who had been twice sent to TÃºshin™s battery but had never reached it. Interrupting one another, they all gave, and transmitted, orders as to how to proceed, reprimanding and reproaching him. TÃºshin gave no orders, and, silently”fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to weep without knowing why”rode behind on his artillery nag. Though the orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves after troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty infantry officer who just before the battle had rushed out of TÃºshin™s wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on MatvÃ©vna™s carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar cadet, supporting one hand with the other, came up to TÃºshin and asked for a seat. Captain, for God™s sake! I™ve hurt my arm, he said timidly. For God™s sake... I can™t walk. For God™s sake! It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift and been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice. Tell them to give me a seat, for God™s sake! Give him a seat, said TÃºshin. Lay a cloak for him to sit on, lad, he said, addressing his favorite soldier. And where is the wounded officer? He has been set down. He died, replied someone. Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak, AntÃ³nov. The cadet was RostÃ³v. With one hand he supported the other; he was pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on MatvÃ©vna, the gun from which they had removed the dead officer. The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his breeches and arm. What, are you wounded, my lad? said TÃºshin, approaching the gun on which RostÃ³v sat. No, it™s a sprain. Then what is this blood on the gun carriage? inquired TÃºshin. It was the officer, your honor, stained it, answered the artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if apologizing for the state of his gun. It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by the infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they halted. It had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms ten paces off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly, near by on the right, shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of shot gleamed in the darkness. This was the last French attack and was met by soldiers who had sheltered in the village houses. They all rushed out of the village again, but TÃºshin™s guns could not move, and the artillerymen, TÃºshin, and the cadet exchanged silent glances as they awaited their fate. The firing died down and soldiers, talking eagerly, streamed out of a side street. Not hurt, PetrÃ³v? asked one. We™ve given it ˜em hot, mate! They won™t make another push now, said another. You couldn™t see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows! Nothing could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn™t there something to drink? The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in the complete darkness TÃºshin™s guns moved forward, surrounded by the humming infantry as by a frame. In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and the sound of hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness of the night. The gloom that enveloped the army was filled with their groans, which seemed to melt into one with the darkness of the night. After a while the moving mass became agitated, someone rode past on a white horse followed by his suite, and said something in passing: What did he say? Where to, now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us? came eager questions from all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing closer together and a report spread that they were ordered to halt: evidently those in front had halted. All remained where they were in the middle of the muddy road. Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain TÃºshin, having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing station or a doctor for the cadet, and sat down by a bonfire the soldiers had kindled on the road. RostÃ³v, too, dragged himself to the fire. From pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole body. Drowsiness was irresistibly mastering him, but he kept awake by an excruciating pain in his arm, for which he could find no satisfactory position. He kept closing his eyes and then again looking at the fire, which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered figure of TÃºshin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him. TÃºshin™s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and commiseration on RostÃ³v, who saw that TÃºshin with his whole heart wished to help him but could not. From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound of voices, the tramping feet, the horses™ hoofs moving in mud, the crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble. It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm. RostÃ³v looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face. You don™t mind your honor? he asked TÃºshin. I™ve lost my company, your honor. I don™t know where... such bad luck! With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to the bonfire, and addressing TÃºshin asked him to have the guns moved a trifle to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers rushed to the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to. You picked it up?... I dare say! You™re very smart! one of them shouted hoarsely. Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water. Must one die like a dog? said he. TÃºshin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry. A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow countrymen. Thanks for the fire”we™ll return it with interest, said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick. Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed by the fire. One of them stumbled. Who the devil has put the logs on the road? snarled he. He™s dead”why carry him? said another. Shut up! And they disappeared into the darkness with their load. Still aching? TÃºshin asked RostÃ³v in a whisper. Yes. Your honor, you™re wanted by the general. He is in the hut here, said a gunner, coming up to TÃºshin. Coming, friend. TÃºshin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight, walked away from the fire. Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared for him, Prince BagratiÃ³n sat at dinner, talking with some commanding officers who had gathered at his quarters. The little old man with the half-closed eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the general who had served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a glass of vodka and the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet ring, and ZherkÃ³v, uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrew, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes. In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and the accountant with the naÃ¯ve face was feeling its texture, shaking his head in perplexity”perhaps because the banner really interested him, perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers were flocking in to look at him. Prince BagratiÃ³n was thanking the individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our losses. The general whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau was informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn from the wood, mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing the French to pass him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and had broken up the French troops. When I saw, your excellency, that their first battalion was disorganized, I stopped in the road and thought: ˜I™ll let them come on and will meet them with the fire of the whole battalion™”and that™s what I did. The general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not managed to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that confusion what did or did not happen? By the way, your excellency, I should inform you, he continued”remembering DÃ³lokhov™s conversation with KutÃºzov and his last interview with the gentleman-ranker”that Private DÃ³lokhov, who was reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my presence and particularly distinguished himself. I saw the PÃ¡vlograd hussars attack there, your excellency, chimed in ZherkÃ³v, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the hussars all that day, but had heard about them from an infantry officer. They broke up two squares, your excellency. Several of those present smiled at ZherkÃ³v™s words, expecting one of his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to the glory of our arms and of the day™s work, they assumed a serious expression, though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie devoid of any foundation. Prince BagratiÃ³n turned to the old colonel: Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically: infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were abandoned in the center? he inquired, searching with his eyes for someone. (Prince BagratiÃ³n did not ask about the guns on the left flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the very beginning of the action.) I think I sent you? he added, turning to the staff officer on duty. One was damaged, answered the staff officer, and the other I can™t understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had only just left.... It is true that it was hot there, he added, modestly. Someone mentioned that Captain TÃºshin was bivouacking close to the village and had already been sent for. Oh, but you were there? said Prince BagratiÃ³n, addressing Prince Andrew. Of course, we only just missed one another, said the staff officer, with a smile to BolkÃ³nski. I had not the pleasure of seeing you, said Prince Andrew, coldly and abruptly. All were silent. TÃºshin appeared at the threshold and made his way timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always was by the sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed. How was it a gun was abandoned? asked BagratiÃ³n, frowning, not so much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom ZherkÃ³v laughed loudest. Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present themselves to TÃºshin in all their horror. He had been so excited that he had not thought about it until that moment. The officers™ laughter confused him still more. He stood before BagratiÃ³n with his lower jaw trembling and was hardly able to mutter: I don™t know... your excellency... I had no men... your excellency. You might have taken some from the covering troops. TÃºshin did not say that there were no covering troops, though that was perfectly true. He was afraid of getting some other officer into trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on BagratiÃ³n as a schoolboy who has blundered looks at an examiner. The silence lasted some time. Prince BagratiÃ³n, apparently not wishing to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to intervene. Prince Andrew looked at TÃºshin from under his brows and his fingers twitched nervously. Your excellency! Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt voice, you were pleased to send me to Captain TÃºshin™s battery. I went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two guns smashed, and no supports at all. Prince BagratiÃ³n and TÃºshin looked with equal intentness at BolkÃ³nski, who spoke with suppressed agitation. And, if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion, he continued, we owe today™s success chiefly to the action of that battery and the heroic endurance of Captain TÃºshin and his company, and without awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table. Prince BagratiÃ³n looked at TÃºshin, evidently reluctant to show distrust in BolkÃ³nski™s emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully to credit it, bent his head, and told TÃºshin that he could go. Prince Andrew went out with him. Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow! said TÃºshin. Prince Andrew gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped. Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will all this end? thought RostÃ³v, looking at the changing shadows before him. The pain in his arm became more and more intense. Irresistible drowsiness overpowered him, red rings danced before his eyes, and the impression of those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers”wounded and unwounded”it was they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting the sinews and scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To rid himself of them he closed his eyes. For a moment he dozed, but in that short interval innumerable things appeared to him in a dream: his mother and her large white hand, SÃ³nya™s thin little shoulders, NatÃ¡sha™s eyes and laughter, DenÃsov with his voice and mustache, and TelyÃ¡nin and all that affair with TelyÃ¡nin and BogdÃ¡nich. That affair was the same thing as this soldier with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier that were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them, but they would not for an instant let his shoulder move a hair™s breadth. It would not ache”it would be well”if only they did not pull it, but it was impossible to get rid of them. He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less than a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling snow were fluttering in that light. TÃºshin had not returned, the doctor had not come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was sitting naked at the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body. Nobody wants me! thought RostÃ³v. There is no one to help me or pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved. He sighed and, doing so, groaned involuntarily. Eh, is anything hurting you? asked the soldier, shaking his shirt out over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and added: What a lot of men have been crippled today”frightful! RostÃ³v did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm, bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. And why did I come here? he wondered. Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of BagratiÃ³n™s detachment was reunited to KutÃºzov™s army. BOOK THREE: 1805 CHAPTER I Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 BezÃºkhov 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 VasÃli to him, handing him a deed to sign for the princess™ benefit. Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli took possession of Pierre™s affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of Count BezÃºkhov 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 BezÃºkhov, 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 RyazÃ¡n estate and will keep it; you won™t require it. We™ll go into the accounts later. By what was due from the RyazÃ¡n estate Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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; DÃ³lokhov 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 VasÃli™s house in the company of the stout princess, his wife, and his beautiful daughter HÃ©lÃ¨ne. Like the others, Anna PÃ¡vlovna SchÃ©rer showed Pierre the change of attitude toward him that had taken place in society. Formerly in Anna PÃ¡vlovna™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 PÃ¡vlovna 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 PÃ¡vlovna™s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added: You will find the beautiful HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne, 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 PÃ¡vlovna™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 PÃ¡vlovna received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the young man™s recent loss by the death of Count BezÃºkhov (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 MÃ¡rya FÃ«dorovna. Pierre felt flattered by this. Anna PÃ¡vlovna arranged the different groups in her drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were Prince VasÃli and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat. Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former, but Anna PÃ¡vlovna”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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne and smiled at her.) My dear HÃ©lÃ¨ne, 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 PÃ¡vlovna 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 PÃ¡vlovna let Pierre go. Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s perfection of manner. If he ever thought of HÃ©lÃ¨ne, 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne and inclined rather to show her fear of Anna PÃ¡vlovna. She looked at her niece, as if inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna PÃ¡vlovna again touched Pierre™s sleeve, saying: I hope you won™t say that it is dull in my house again, and she glanced at HÃ©lÃ¨ne. HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation, HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 BezÃºkhov, and showed them her own box. Princess HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s back. HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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? HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 PÃ¡vlovna™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 PÃ¡vlovna 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 VasÃli™s. It is good to have a friend like the prince, she said, smiling at Prince VasÃli. 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli, 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 PÃ¡vlovna™s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house, recalled thousands of such hints from Prince VasÃli 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 II In November, 1805, Prince VasÃli 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 BolkÃ³nski 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 VasÃli had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Prince VasÃli™s house where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in HÃ©lÃ¨ne™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 VasÃli 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 LÃ«lya™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 PÃ¡vlovna™s At Home and after the sleepless night when he had decided that to marry HÃ©lÃ¨ne would be a calamity and that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision, had not left Prince VasÃli™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 VasÃli (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 VasÃli, 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 VasÃli, 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 PÃ¡vlovna™s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire paralyzed his will. On HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s name day, a small party of just their own people”as his wife said”met for supper at Prince VasÃli™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 KurÃ¡gina, 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 PÃ¡vlovna SchÃ©rer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests, and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and HÃ©lÃ¨ne, side by side. Prince VasÃli 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne, 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 VÃktorovna or other. At the center of the table, Prince VasÃli 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 SergÃ©y KuzmÃch VyazmÃtinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander from the army to SergÃ©y KuzmÃch, 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: SergÃ©y KuzmÃch, From all sides reports reach me, etc. Well, and so he never got farther than: ˜SergÃ©y KuzmÃch™? asked one of the ladies. Exactly, not a hair™s breadth farther, answered Prince VasÃli, laughing, ˜SergÃ©y KuzmÃch... From all sides... From all sides... SergÃ©y KuzmÃch...™ Poor VyazmÃtinov could not get any farther! He began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered ˜SergÃ©y™ he sobbed, ˜Kuz-mÃ-ch,™ tears, and ˜From all sides™ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again his handkerchief, and again: ˜SergÃ©y KuzmÃch, From all sides,™... and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it. KuzmÃch... From all sides... and then tears, someone repeated laughing. Don™t be unkind, cried Anna PÃ¡vlovna from her end of the table holding up a threatening finger. He is such a worthy and excellent man, our dear VyazmÃtinov.... 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 SergÃ©y KuzmÃch”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, sautÃ©, 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 SergÃ©y KuzmÃch, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was directed to”Pierre and HÃ©lÃ¨ne. Prince VasÃli mimicked the sobbing of SergÃ©y KuzmÃch 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 PÃ¡vlovna threatened him on behalf of our dear VyazmÃtinov, and in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince VasÃli 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 VasÃli. 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 BolkÃ³nski, repeated Prince VasÃli a third time. How absent-minded you are, my dear fellow. Prince VasÃli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at him and HÃ©lÃ¨ne. 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne smiled too. When did you get the letter? Was it from OlmÃ¼tz? repeated Prince VasÃli, 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 OlmÃ¼tz, 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne. 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne will be beautiful still when she™s fifty. I think I may congratulate you, whispered Anna PÃ¡vlovna 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne. 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 VasÃli came up to Pierre with languid footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince VasÃli 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, LÃ«lya? 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 VasÃli had only acquired by imitating other parents. And he again turned to Pierre. SergÃ©y KuzmÃch”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 SergÃ©y KuzmÃch that interested Prince VasÃli just then, and Prince VasÃli 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 SergÃ©y KuzmÃch, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly. HÃ©lÃ¨ne answered with a smile that she too had missed it. When Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne still sat talking just as before. Still the same, she said to her husband. Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli. My wife has told me everything! (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his daughter.)”My dear boy... LÃ«lya... 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 HÃ©lÃ¨ne™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. HÃ©lÃ¨ne! 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 BezÃºkhov™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 III Old Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski received a letter from Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli. 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 VasÃli™s servants came one evening in advance of him, and he and his son arrived next day. Old BolkÃ³nski had always had a poor opinion of Prince VasÃli™s character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and Alexander Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli™s arrival, Prince BolkÃ³nski was particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad temper because Prince VasÃli was coming, or whether his being in a bad temper made him specially annoyed at Prince VasÃli™s visit, he was in a bad temper, and in the morning TÃkhon had already advised the architect not to go to the prince with his report. Do you hear how he™s walking? said TÃkhon, 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 AlpÃ¡tych, the overseer, had not the latter instinctively avoided the blow. Thought... Blackguards... shouted the prince rapidly. But although AlpÃ¡tych, 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. TÃkhon 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 VasÃli KurÃ¡gin 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 AlpÃ¡tych called him this morning? No, mon pÃ¨re. 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 MÃ¡sha, 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 pÃ¨re. Well, all right, all right. He left the room and went to the waiting room where AlpÃ¡tych 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 AlpÃ¡tych to kiss, and then proceeded to his study. Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli™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 MÃ¡sha, 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 naÃ¯ve 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 IV When Princess Mary came down, Prince VasÃli 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: VoilÃ Marie! Princess Mary saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince VasÃli™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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli. It™s not as at Annette™s * receptions where you always ran away; you remember cette chÃ¨re Annette! * Anna PÃ¡vlovna. 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 VasÃli, 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 VasÃli and that son of his to me? Prince VasÃli 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 BolkÃ³nski while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded an immediate answer. Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli. Well! How d™ye do? How d™ye do? Glad to see you! Friendship laughs at distance, began Prince VasÃli in his usual rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. Here is my second son; please love and befriend him. Prince BolkÃ³nski 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 BolkÃ³nski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa and, drawing up an armchair for Prince VasÃli, pointed to it and began questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to listen attentively to what Prince VasÃli said, but kept glancing at Princess Mary. And so they are writing from Potsdam already? he said, repeating Prince VasÃli™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 pÃ¨re, interceded the little princess, with a blush. You must do as you please, said Prince BolkÃ³nski, 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 VasÃli. Now you, young prince, what™s your name? said Prince BolkÃ³nski, 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 BolkÃ³nski, and Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly Prince BolkÃ³nski frowned. You may go, he said to Anatole. Anatole returned smiling to the ladies. And so you™ve had him educated abroad, Prince VasÃli, haven™t you? said the old prince to Prince VasÃli. 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 VasÃli™s arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were alone together, Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli 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 BolkÃ³nski™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 BolkÃ³nski, 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 mÃ¨re) 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 mÃ¨re 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 naÃ¯ve 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 AmÃ©lie (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 V 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 mÃ¨re 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. TÃkhon, 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 TÃkhon and began to undress. What devil brought them here? thought he, while TÃkhon 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. TÃkhon 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. TÃkhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his master™s thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Prince VasÃli 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 mÃ¨re; 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 TÃkhon™s face and in that of Prince VasÃli™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 VasÃli has not come and brought his pupil with him (for some reason Prince BolkÃ³nski 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 pÃ¨re? said the princess, growing pale and then blushing. How understand me! cried her father angrily. Prince VasÃli 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, TÃkhon came to call Princess Mary to the old prince; he added that Prince VasÃli was also there. When TÃkhon 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 VasÃli, 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 BolkÃ³nski. 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 KurÃ¡gin™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 BolkÃ³nski, turning to Prince VasÃli 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 VasÃli and at her father with her beautiful eyes. Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug! cried Prince BolkÃ³nski, 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 VasÃli 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 VasÃli. 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 AmÃ©lie™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 VI It was long since the RostÃ³vs 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still living with the RostÃ³vs. My dear friend? said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared to sympathize in any way. The count sobbed yet more. NikÃ³lenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling boy... the countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... How tell the little countess! Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna talked the whole time about the war news and about NikÃ³lenka, 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, the latter very adroitly turned the conversation to insignificant matters. NatÃ¡sha, 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, that it had something to do with her brother, and that Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna was preparing them for it. Bold as she was, NatÃ¡sha, who knew how sensitive her mother was to anything relating to NikÃ³lenka, 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna shook her head. You are a little slyboots, she said. A letter from NikÃ³lenka! I™m sure of it! exclaimed NatÃ¡sha, reading confirmation in Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna™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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, 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 NatÃ¡sha, crossing herself, I won™t tell anyone! and she ran off at once to SÃ³nya. NikÃ³lenka... wounded... a letter, she announced in gleeful triumph. Nicholas! was all SÃ³nya said, instantly turning white. NatÃ¡sha, seeing the impression the news of her brother™s wound produced on SÃ³nya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the news. She rushed to SÃ³nya, 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 PÃ©tya, 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. NatÃ¡sha smiled through her tears. You haven™t read the letter? asked SÃ³nya. No, but she said that it was all over and that he™s now an officer. Thank God! said SÃ³nya, crossing herself. But perhaps she deceived you. Let us go to Mamma. PÃ©tya paced the room in silence for a time. If I™d been in NikÃ³lenka™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, PÃ©tya, what a goose you are! I™m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles, said PÃ©tya. Do you remember him? NatÃ¡sha suddenly asked, after a moment™s silence. SÃ³nya smiled. Do I remember Nicholas? No, SÃ³nya, but do you remember so that you remember him perfectly, remember everything? said NatÃ¡sha, with an expressive gesture, evidently wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. I remember NikÃ³lenka too, I remember him well, she said. But I don™t remember BorÃs. I don™t remember him a bit. What! You don™t remember BorÃs? asked SÃ³nya in surprise. It™s not that I don™t remember”I know what he is like, but not as I remember NikÃ³lenka. Him”I just shut my eyes and remember, but BorÃs... No! (She shut her eyes.) No! there™s nothing at all. Oh, NatÃ¡sha! said SÃ³nya, 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. NatÃ¡sha looked at SÃ³nya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said nothing. She felt that SÃ³nya was speaking the truth, that there was such love as SÃ³nya was speaking of. But NatÃ¡sha had not yet felt anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it. Shall you write to him? she asked. SÃ³nya 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? SÃ³nya smiled. No. And I should be ashamed to write to BorÃs. 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 PÃ©tya, offended by NatÃ¡sha™s previous remark. It™s because she was in love with that fat one in spectacles (that was how PÃ©tya described his namesake, the new Count BezÃºkhov) and now she™s in love with that singer (he meant NatÃ¡sha™s Italian singing master), that™s why she™s ashamed! PÃ©tya, you™re stupid! said NatÃ¡sha. Not more stupid than you, madam, said the nine-year-old PÃ©tya, with the air of an old brigadier. The countess had been prepared by Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna™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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna™s voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence, then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna 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. VÃ©ra, NatÃ¡sha, SÃ³nya, and PÃ©tya 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 VÃ©ra, NatÃ¡sha, and PÃ©tya. Besides that, he sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them to kiss for him dear SÃ³nya, whom he loved and thought of just the same as ever. When she heard this SÃ³nya 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 VÃ©ra. From all he says one should be glad and not cry. This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and NatÃ¡sha 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 DmÃtri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread the letter each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh proofs of NikÃ³lenka™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 DenÃsov 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 MikhÃ¡ylovna, 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 PÃ¡vlovich, who commanded the Guards. The RostÃ³vs 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 PÃ¡vlograd 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 BorÃs and BorÃs was to forward them to Nicholas. The letters were from the old count, the countess, PÃ©tya, VÃ©ra, NatÃ¡sha, and SÃ³nya, and finally there were six thousand rubles for his outfit and various other things the old count sent to his son. CHAPTER VII On the twelfth of November, KutÃºzov™s active army, in camp before OlmÃ¼tz, 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 OlmÃ¼tz and next morning were to come straight to the review, reaching the field at OlmÃ¼tz by ten o™clock. That day Nicholas RostÃ³v received a letter from BorÃs, telling him that the IsmÃ¡ylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from OlmÃ¼tz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for him. RostÃ³v was particularly in need of money now that the troops, after their active service, were stationed near OlmÃ¼tz and the camp swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering all sorts of tempting wares. The PÃ¡vlograds held feast after feast, celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made expeditions to OlmÃ¼tz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian, who had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses. RostÃ³v, who had just celebrated his promotion to a cornetcy and bought DenÃsov™s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to his comrades and the sutlers. On receiving BorÃs™ letter he rode with a fellow officer to OlmÃ¼tz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone to the Guards™ camp to find his old playmate. RostÃ³v 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 BorÃs 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. BorÃs 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. BorÃs, 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 BolkÃ³nski, through whom he hoped to obtain a post on the commander in chief™s staff. Berg and BorÃs, 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. BorÃs, 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 RostÃ³v. And Berg too! Oh, you petisenfans, allay cushay dormir! he exclaimed, imitating his Russian nurse™s French, at which he and BorÃs used to laugh long ago. Dear me, how you have changed! BorÃs rose to meet RostÃ³v, 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, BorÃs 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 RostÃ³v, with martial swagger and with baritone notes in his voice, new to BorÃs, pointing to his own mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing RostÃ³v™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 BorÃs. I did not expect you today, he added. I only sent you the note yesterday by BolkÃ³nski”an adjutant of KutÃºzov™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 BorÃs. Without answering, RostÃ³v 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 BorÃs, 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 TsarÃ©vich 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 RostÃ³v. I say, send for some wine. BorÃs 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. RostÃ³v 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 RostÃ³v, 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 BorÃs. 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 RostÃ³v looked at it that his coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile. Oh dear, what a beast I am! muttered RostÃ³v, 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 BagratiÃ³n which the old countess at Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna™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 RostÃ³v, throwing the letter under the table. Why have you thrown that away? asked BorÃs. It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it for! Why ˜What the devil™? said BorÃs, 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 BorÃs. It™s a lackey™s job! You are still the same dreamer, I see, remarked BorÃs, shaking his head. And you™re still the same diplomatist! But that™s not the point... Come, how are you? asked RostÃ³v. 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 RostÃ³v, 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 BorÃs. He would drink with you. I can™t. Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German? asked RostÃ³v, with a contemptuous smile. He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow, answered BorÃs. Again RostÃ³v looked intently into BorÃs™ eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three officers became animated. The Guardsmen told RostÃ³v 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 TsarÃ©vich™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 RostÃ³v, smiling. But BorÃs 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 RostÃ³v and he began talking about it, and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his SchÃ¶n 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. RostÃ³v 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 RostÃ³v 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 BorÃs 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 BorÃs, who had managed to please him the day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent with papers from KutÃºzov to the TsarÃ©vich, he looked in on BorÃs, 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 BorÃs a pleasant smile, frowned as with half-closed eyes he looked at RostÃ³v, bowed slightly and wearily, and sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped in on bad company. RostÃ³v flushed up on noticing this, but he did not care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at BorÃs, 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 RostÃ³v, from his fighting army point of view, regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer was evidently one, RostÃ³v felt confused, blushed, and became silent. BorÃs inquired what news there might be on the staff, and what, without indiscretion, one might ask about our plans. We shall probably advance, replied BolkÃ³nski, 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 BorÃs, we will talk of it later (and he looked round at RostÃ³v). Come to me after the review and we will do what is possible. And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to RostÃ³v, 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 SchÃ¶n Grabern affair? Were you there? I was there, said RostÃ³v angrily, as if intending to insult the aide-de-camp. BolkÃ³nski 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 RostÃ³v loudly, looking with eyes suddenly grown furious, now at BorÃs, now at BolkÃ³nski. 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 RostÃ³v™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, DrubetskÃ³y, 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, DrubetskÃ³y. Au revoir! exclaimed Prince Andrew, and with a bow to them both he went out. Only when Prince Andrew was gone did RostÃ³v 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 BorÃs, 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 VIII The day after RostÃ³v had been to see BorÃs, a review was held of the Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and those who had been campaigning under KutÃºzov. The two Emperors, the Russian with his heir the TsarÃ©vich, 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: KutÃºzov™s fighting army (with the PÃ¡vlograds 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 OlmÃ¼tz 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. RostÃ³v, standing in the front lines of KutÃºzov™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. RostÃ³v 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 PÃ¡vlograds, the Tsar said something in French to the Austrian Emperor and smiled. Seeing that smile, RostÃ³v 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 RostÃ³v. I should die of happiness! The Tsar addressed the officers also: I thank you all, gentlemen, I thank you with my whole heart. To RostÃ³v 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 RostÃ³v. The Tsar said something more which RostÃ³v did not hear, and the soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted Hurrah! RostÃ³v 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 Rostv, but then even this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything else the Tsar did. That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsars 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 Rostv from amid the suites that surrounded the Emperors. Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostv noticed Bolknski, sitting his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostv recalled their quarrel of yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought not to challenge Bolknski. 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 Rostv on Bedouin, recently purchased from DenÃsov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadronâ€”that is, alone and in full view of the Emperor. Before he reached him, Rostv, 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 Emperors eye upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground. Rostv 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 DenÃsov expressed it. Fine fellows, the PÃ¡vlograds! remarked the Emperor. My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire this instant! thought Rostv. When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also KutÃºzovs, 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 Emperors command. Commanded by the Emperor himself they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought Rostv 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 IX The day after the review, BorÃs, in his best uniform and with his comrade Bergs best wishes for success, rode to OlmÃ¼tz to see Bolknski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself the best post he couldâ€”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 Rostv, whose father sends him ten thousand rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not be anyones 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 OlmÃ¼tz 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 Guardsmans 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, KutÃºzov, where he inquired for Bolknski, 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 OlmÃ¼tz and, entering the house occupied by KutÃºzov, asked for Bolknski. Prince Andrew was in and BorÃs 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 NesvÃtski, 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. Bolknski was not there. None of these gentlemen changed his position on seeing BorÃs. The one who was writing and whom BorÃs addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolknski was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the reception room if he wished to see him. BorÃs 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 soldiers 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 BorÃs, 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 BorÃs 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 Drubetsky. More than ever was BorÃs 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, theres no end to it! BorÃs smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to as something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard Weyrothers 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 thinkingâ€”for some reason BorÃs could not help blushingâ€”of asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter from Prince KurÃ¡gin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards wont be in action, he added as if in apology. All right, all right. Well talk it over, replied Prince Andrew. Only let me report this gentlemans business, and I shall be at your disposal. While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that gentlemanâ€”evidently not sharing BorÃs conception of the advantages of the unwritten code of subordinationâ€”looked so fixedly at the presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to say to the adjutant that BorÃs felt uncomfortable. He turned away and waited impatiently for Prince Andrews return from the commander in chiefs 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. Its 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 BorÃs), but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what well do: I have a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince DolgorÃºkov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now KutÃºzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to DolgorÃºkov; 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 BorÃs cause and went with him to DolgorÃºkov. It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at OlmÃ¼tz 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 KutÃºzov 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 BorÃs arrived at the palace to find DolgorÃºkov. Everyone at headquarters was still under the spell of the days 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 councilâ€”the coming battle and the victory that would certainly result from itâ€”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 Napoleons, 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. DolgorÃºkov, 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 protÃ©gÃ©, but Prince DolgorÃºkov politely and firmly pressing his hand said nothing to BorÃs 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 valorâ€”what more could be wished for? So the attack is definitely resolved on? asked Bolknski. 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. DolgorÃºkov smiled significantly. Is that so? And what did he say? inquired Bolknski. What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time. I tell you he is in our hands, thats 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 â€˜Consul and of course not as â€˜Emperor, it seemed to me it should be to â€˜General Bonaparte. But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General Bonaparte, there is a difference, remarked Bolknski. Thats just it, interrupted DolgorÃºkov quickly, laughing. You know BilÃbinâ€”hes a very clever fellow. He suggested addressing him as â€˜Usurper and Enemy of Mankind. DolgorÃºkov laughed merrily. Only that? said Bolknski. All the same, it was BilÃbin 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 franÃ§ais, said DolgorÃºkov, with grave satisfaction. Good, wasnt it? Yes, but he will dislike it extremely, said Bolknski. Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, hes dined with himâ€”the present Emperorâ€”more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a more cunning or subtle diplomatistâ€”you know, a combination of French adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and Count Markv? Count Markv was the only man who knew how to handle him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful! And the talkative DolgorÃºkov, turning now to BorÃs, now to Prince Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markv, our ambassador, purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking at Markv, probably expecting Markv to pick it up for him, and how Markv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without touching Bonapartes. Delightful! said Bolknski. 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 DolgorÃºkov to the Emperor. Oh, what a nuisance, said DolgorÃºkov, getting up hurriedly and pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and BorÃs. 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! BorÃs 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 DolgorÃºkov out into the corridor and metâ€”coming out of the door of the Emperors room by which DolgorÃºkov had enteredâ€”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 DolgorÃºkov 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 BorÃs. He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of menâ€”the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam CzartorÃ½ski.... It is such men as he who decide the fate of nations, added Bolknski 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, BorÃs was unable to see either Prince Andrew or DolgorÃºkov again and remained for a while with the IsmÃ¡ylov regiment. CHAPTER X At dawn on the sixteenth of November, DenÃsovs squadron, in which Nicholas Rostv served and which was in Prince Bagratins 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. Rostv 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 Bagratin and DolgorÃºkov 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 Rostv 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 stnya 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 Rostv 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, Wostv. Lets dwink to dwown our gwief! shouted DenÃsov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some food. The officers gathered round DenÃsovs 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! DenÃsov 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 corporals who had sent him to seize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians were there. And at every word he added: But dont 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 Rostv, being the richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it. But dont hurt my little horse! said the Alsatian good-naturedly to Rostv when the animal was handed over to the hussar. Rostv smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money. Alley! Alley! said the Cossack, touching the prisoners arm to make him go on. The Emperor! The Emperor! was suddenly heard among the hussars. All began to run and bustle, and Rostv saw coming up the road behind him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone was in his place, waiting. Rostv 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 Rostv 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 Rostvs feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard the Emperors voice. The PÃ¡vlograd hussars? he inquired. The reserves, sire! replied a voice, a very human one compared to that which had said: The PÃ¡vlograd hussars? The Emperor drew level with Rostv and halted. Alexanders 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 Emperors eyes met Rostvs and rested on them for not more than two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in Rostvs soul (it seemed to Rostv that he understood everything), at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into Rostvs 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 oclock 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 PÃ¡vlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau itself, a petty German town, Rostv saw the Emperor again. In the market place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the Emperors 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 Rostv. Rostv saw how the Emperors rather round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his left foot began convulsively tapping the horses 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! Cant you do it more gently? said the Emperor apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away. Rostv saw tears filling the Emperors eyes and heard him, as he was riding away, say to CzartorÃ½ski: 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 enemys lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us at the least firing. The Emperors 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. DenÃsov celebrated his promotion to the rank of major, and Rostv, who had already drunk enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperors health. Not â€˜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 SchÃ¶n 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 dealâ€”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, KÃrsten, shouted enthusiastically and no less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostv. When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, KÃrsten 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! heres to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over our enemies! Hurrah! he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussars baritone. The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts. Late that night, when all had separated, DenÃsov with his short hand patted his favorite, Rostv, on the shoulder. As theres no one to fall in love with on campaign, hes fallen in love with the Tsar, he said. DenÃsov, dont make fun of it! cried Rostv. It is such a lofty, beautiful feeling, such a... I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove... No, you dont understand! And Rostv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of what happiness it would be to dieâ€”not in saving the Emperors 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 XI 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 DolgorÃºkov 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 DolgorÃºkov, 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 DolgorÃºkov 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 enemys 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 activityâ€”the eager talk, running to and fro, and dispatching of adjutantsâ€”was confined to the Emperors headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached KutÃºzovs 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 Emperors 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. 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 DolgorÃºkov a plan of attack he had himself formed. Oh, that is all the same, DolgorÃºkov said quickly, and getting up he spread a map on the table. All eventualities have been foreseen. If he is standing before BrÃ¼nn... And Prince DolgorÃºkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrothers plan of a flanking movement. Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might have been as good as Weyrothers, but for the disadvantage that Weyrothers 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 DolgorÃºkov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not at the map, but at Prince Andrews face. There will be a council of war at KutÃºzovs tonight, though; you can say all this there, remarked DolgorÃºkov. I will do so, said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map. Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen? said BilÃbin, 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 KutÃºzov, 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 DolgorÃºkov. It is not true; there are now two Russians, MilorÃ¡dovich, and DokhtÃºrov, and there would be a third, Count ArakchÃ©ev, if his nerves were not too weak. However, I think General KutÃºzov has come out, said Prince Andrew. I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen! he added and went out after shaking hands with DolgorÃºkov and BilÃbin. On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking KutÃºzov, who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrows battle. KutÃºzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied: I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolsty and asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? â€˜But, my dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military matters yourself! Yes... That was the answer I got! CHAPTER XII Shortly after nine oclock that evening, Weyrother drove with his plans to KutÃºzovs quarters where the council of war was to be held. All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in chiefs and with the exception of Prince Bagratin, 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 KutÃºzov, 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 enemys 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 KutÃºzovs. 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. KutÃºzov was occupying a noblemans castle of modest dimensions near Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the commander in chiefs office were gathered KutÃºzov himself, Weyrother, and the members of the council of war. They were drinking tea, and only awaited Prince Bagratin to begin the council. At last Bagratins 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 KutÃºzov to be present at the council, he remained in the room. Since Prince Bagratin 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 BrÃ¼nn was spread out. KutÃºzov, 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 Weyrothers 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 KutÃºzov 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 elseâ€”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 KutÃºzov 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 enemys 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 enemys 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 enemys 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 BuxhÃ¶wden 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 MilorÃ¡dovich in a military pose, his elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees, and his shoulders raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrothers face, and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished reading. Then MilorÃ¡dovich 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 MilorÃ¡dovich as if seeking an explanation, but meeting the latters 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. PrzebyszÃ©wski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in attention. DohktÃºrov, 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 DohktÃºrov 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 enemys position was assumed to be known, whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement. Langerons objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief aim was to show General Weyrotherâ€”who had read his dispositions with as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school childrenâ€”that he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something in military matters. When the monotonous sound of Weyrothers voice ceased, KutÃºzov 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 Weyrothers 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 MilorÃ¡dovich who was near him. But MilorÃ¡dovich 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. KutÃºzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the generals. Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrowâ€”or rather for today, for it is past midnightâ€”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 DolgorÃºkov and Weyrother, or KutÃºzov, Langeron, and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were rightâ€”he did not know. But was it really not possible for KutÃºzov 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 NesvÃtski 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 KutÃºzov, 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 divisionâ€”stipulates that no one is to interfere with his arrangementsâ€”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 KutÃºzovs staff, but he does everything alone. The next battle is won by him alone. KutÃºzov 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 dont know what will happen and dont want to know, and cant, but if I want thisâ€”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 mens esteem? Death, wounds, the loss of familyâ€”I fear nothing. And precious and dear as many persons are to meâ€”father, sister, wifeâ€”those dearest to meâ€”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 dont know and never shall know, for the love of these men here, he thought, as he listened to voices in KutÃºzovs courtyard. The voices were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a coachmans, was teasing KutÃºzovs 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 XIII That same night, Rostv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front of Bagratins 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 armys campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him; in front of him was misty darkness. Rostv 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 appearedâ€”now the Emperor, now DenÃsov, and now Moscow memoriesâ€”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 Rostv, that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as he would to any other officer; hell say: â€˜Go and find out whats 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, Rostv 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 watchwordâ€”shaft, OlmÃ¼tz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in reserve tomorrow, he thought. Ill ask leave to go to the front, this may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It wont be long now before I am off duty. Ill take another turn and when I get back Ill 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 Rostv 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 its snow... that spot... a spotâ€”une tache, he thought. There now... its not a tache... NatÃ¡sha... sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Wont she be surprised when I tell her how Ive seen the Emperor?) NatÃ¡sha... take my sabretache...â€”Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes here, came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostv was riding in the act of falling asleep. Rostv lifted his head that had sunk almost to his horses mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. But what was I thinking? I mustnt forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No, thats not itâ€”thats tomorrow. Oh yes! NatÃ¡sha... sabretache... saber them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along the TverskÃ¡ya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about him too, just opposite GÃºryevs house... Old GÃºryev.... Oh, but DenÃsovs a fine fellow. But thats 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 thats nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I was thinking of. Yes, Na-tÃ¡sha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! Thats right! And his head once more sank to his horses neck. All at once it seemed to him that he was being fired at. What? What? What?... Cut them down! What?... said Rostv, 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. Rostv 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! Whats that? What do you make of it? said Rostv to the hussar beside him. That must be the enemys camp! The hussar did not reply. Why, dont you hear it? Rostv 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 Rostv. It may be he or it may be nothing, muttered the hussar. Its dark... Steady! he cried to his fidgeting horse. Rostvs 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. Rostv no longer wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a stimulating effect on him. Vive lEmpereur! lEmpereur! he now heard distinctly. They cant 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 horses 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 Rostv. Rostv, 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 Bagratin and Prince DolgorÃºkov with their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the lights and shouts in the enemys camp. Rostv rode up to Bagratin, reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the generals were saying. Believe me, said Prince DolgorÃºkov, addressing Bagratin, 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 Bagratin. I saw them this evening on that knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too.... Officer! said Bagratin to Rostv, are the enemys skirmishers still there? They were there this evening, but now I dont know, your excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see? replied Rostv. Bagratin stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostvs face in the mist. Well, go and see, he said, after a pause. Yes, sir. Rostv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant FÃ©dchenko 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. Bagratin called to him from the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostv 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 enemys 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 Rostv 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. Rostv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in different tones. Rostv 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 Bagratin did Rostv let his horse gallop again, and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general. DolgorÃºkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had only lit fires to deceive us. What does that prove? he was saying as Rostv rode up. They might retreat and leave the pickets. Its plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince, said Bagratin. Wait till tomorrow morning, well find out everything tomorrow. The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was in the evening, reported Rostv, 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 Bagratin. Thank you, officer. Your excellency, said Rostv, 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? Whats your name? Count Rostv. Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me. Count IlyÃ¡ Rostvs son? asked DolgorÃºkov. But Rostv 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 Rostv. Thank God! The fires and shouting in the enemys army were occasioned by the fact that while Napoleons 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 lEmpereur! Napoleons 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 HollabrÃ¼nn 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 enemys 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 XIV At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the center, the reserves, and Bagratins 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 officers 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 IvÃ¡n MÃtrich, 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 battleâ€”heaven knows how and whenceâ€”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 KÃºrskies have also gone past, was being said in the ranks. Its 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 cant hear them. Theyd 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. Its all those damned Germans muddling! What stupid devils! Yes, Id send them on in front, but no fear, theyre 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 dont 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 wont get there till evening. What stupid orders! They dont 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 hes jabbering no one can make out, said a soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. Id shoot them, the scoundrels! We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we havent 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 hours 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 intervalsâ€”trata...tatâ€”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 KutÃºzov 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 oclock. It was nine oclock 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 suns 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 faceâ€”which in those days was still thinâ€”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. PÃtya! PÃtya! she called to him. Carry me downstairs. PÃtya ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her arms round his neck, and he pranced along with her. No, dont... the island of Madagascar! she said, and jumping off his back she went downstairs. Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made sure that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull, NatÃ¡sha betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down in a dark corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over the strings in the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an opera she had heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from the guitar would have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her imagination a whole series of reminiscences arose from those sounds. She sat behind the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light escaping from the pantry door and listened to herself and pondered. She was in a mood for brooding on the past. SÃ³nya passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand. NatÃ¡sha glanced at her and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that she remembered the light falling through that crack once before and SÃ³nya passing with a glass in her hand. Yes it was exactly the same, thought NatÃ¡sha. SÃ³nya, what is this? she cried, twanging a thick string. Oh, you are there! said SÃ³nya with a start, and came near and listened. I dont know. A storm? she ventured timidly, afraid of being wrong. There! Thats just how she started and just how she came up smiling timidly when all this happened before, thought NatÃ¡sha, and in just the same way I thought there was something lacking in her. No, its the chorus from The Water-Carrier, listen! and NatÃ¡sha sang the air of the chorus so that SÃ³nya should catch it. Where were you going? she asked. To change the water in this glass. I am just finishing the design. You always find something to do, but I cant, said NatÃ¡sha. And wheres Nicholas? Asleep, I think. SÃ³nya, go and wake him, said NatÃ¡sha. Tell him I want him to come and sing. She sat awhile, wondering what the meaning of it all having happened before could be, and without solving this problem, or at all regretting not having done so, she again passed in fancy to the time when she was with him and he was looking at her with a lovers eyes. Oh, if only he would come quicker! I am so afraid it will never be! And, worst of all, I am growing old”thats the thing! There wont then be in me what there is now. But perhaps hell come today, will come immediately. Perhaps he has come and is sitting in the drawing room. Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten it. She rose, put down the guitar, and went to the drawing room. All the domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests, were already at the tea table. The servants stood round the table”but Prince Andrew was not there and life was going on as before. Ah, here she is! said the old count, when he saw NatÃ¡sha enter. Well, sit down by me. But NatÃ¡sha stayed by her mother and glanced round as if looking for something. Mamma! she muttered, give him to me, give him, Mamma, quickly, quickly! and she again had difficulty in repressing her sobs. She sat down at the table and listened to the conversation between the elders and Nicholas, who had also come to the table. My God, my God! The same faces, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing in the same way! thought NatÃ¡sha, feeling with horror a sense of repulsion rising up in her for the whole household, because they were always the same. After tea, Nicholas, SÃ³nya, and NatÃ¡sha went to the sitting room, to their favorite corner where their most intimate talks always began. CHAPTER X Ds it ever happen to you, said NatÃ¡sha to her brother, when they settled down in the sitting room, ds it ever happen to you to feel as if there were nothing more to come”nothing; that everything good is past? And to feel not exactly dull, but sad? I should think so! he replied. I have felt like that when everything was all right and everyone was cheerful. The thought has come into my mind that I was already tired of it all, and that we must all die. Once in the regiment I had not gone to some merrymaking where there was music... and suddenly I felt so depressed... Oh yes, I know, I know, I know! NatÃ¡sha interrupted him. When I was quite little that used to be so with me. Do you remember when I was punished once about some plums? You were all dancing, and I sat sobbing in the schoolroom? I shall never forget it: I felt sad and sorry for everyone, for myself, and for everyone. And I was innocent”that was the chief thing, said NatÃ¡sha. Do you remember? I remember, answered Nicholas. I remember that I came to you afterwards and wanted to comfort you, but do you know, I felt ashamed to. We were terribly absurd. I had a funny doll then and wanted to give it to you. Do you remember? And do you remember, NatÃ¡sha asked with a pensive smile, how once, long, long ago, when we were quite little, Uncle called us into the study”that was in the old house”and it was dark”we went in and suddenly there stood... A Negro, chimed in Nicholas with a smile of delight. Of course I remember. Even now I dont know whether there really was a Negro, or if we only dreamed it or were told about him. He was gray, you remember, and had white teeth, and stood and looked at us.... SÃ³nya, do you remember? asked Nicholas. Yes, yes, I do remember something too, SÃ³nya answered timidly. You know I have asked Papa and Mamma about that Negro, said NatÃ¡sha, and they say there was no Negro at all. But you see, you remember! Of course I do, I remember his teeth as if I had just seen them. How strange it is! Its as if it were a dream! I like that. And do you remember how we rolled hard-boiled eggs in the ballroom, and suddenly two old women began spinning round on the carpet? Was that real or not? Do you remember what fun it was? Yes, and you remember how Papa in his blue overcoat fired a gun in the porch? So they went through their memories, smiling with pleasure: not the sad memories of old age, but ptic, youthful ones”those impressions of ones most distant past in which dreams and realities blend”and they laughed with quiet enjoyment. SÃ³nya, as always, did not quite keep pace with them, though they shared the same reminiscences. Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she recalled did not arouse the same ptic feeling as they experienced. She simply enjoyed their pleasure and tried to fit in with it. She only really took part when they recalled SÃ³nyas first arrival. She told them how afraid she had been of Nicholas because he had on a corded jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up with cords. And I remember their telling me that you had been born under a cabbage, said NatÃ¡sha, and I remember that I dared not disbelieve it then, but knew that it was not true, and I felt so uncomfortable. While they were talking a maid thrust her head in at the other door of the sitting room. They have brought the cock, Miss, she said in a whisper. It isnt wanted, PÃ³lya. Tell them to take it away, replied NatÃ¡sha. In the middle of their talk in the sitting room, Dimmler came in and went up to the harp that stood there in a corner. He took off its cloth covering, and the harp gave out a jarring sound. Mr. Dimmler, please play my favorite nocturne by Field, came the old countess voice from the drawing room. Dimmler struck a chord and, turning to NatÃ¡sha, Nicholas, and SÃ³nya, remarked: How quiet you young people are! Yes, were philosophizing, said NatÃ¡sha, glancing round for a moment and then continuing the conversation. They were now discussing dreams. Dimmler began to play; NatÃ¡sha went on tipt noiselessly to the table, took up a candle, carried it out, and returned, seating herself quietly in her former place. It was dark in the room especially where they were sitting on the sofa, but through the big windows the silvery light of the full moon fell on the floor. Dimmler had finished the piece but still sat softly running his fingers over the strings, evidently uncertain whether to stop or to play something else. Do you know, said NatÃ¡sha in a whisper, moving closer to Nicholas and SÃ³nya, that when one gs on and on recalling memories, one at last begins to remember what happened before one was in the world.... That is metempsychosis, said SÃ³nya, who had always learned well, and remembered everything. The Egyptians believed that our souls have lived in animals, and will go back into animals again. No, I dont believe we ever were in animals, said NatÃ¡sha, still in a whisper though the music had ceased. But I am certain that we were angels somewhere there, and have been here, and that is why we remember.... May I join you? said Dimmler who had come up quietly, and he sat down by them. If we have been angels, why have we fallen lower? said Nicholas. No, that cant be! Not lower, who said we were lower?... How do I know what I was before? NatÃ¡sha rejoined with conviction. The soul is immortal”well then, if I shall always live I must have lived before, lived for a whole eternity. Yes, but it is hard for us to imagine eternity, remarked Dimmler, who had joined the young folk with a mildly condescending smile but now spoke as quietly and seriously as they. Why is it hard to imagine eternity? said NatÃ¡sha. It is now today, and it will be tomorrow, and always; and there was yesterday, and the day before.... NatÃ¡sha! Now its your turn. Sing me something, they heard the countess say. Why are you sitting there like conspirators? Mamma, I dont at all want to, replied NatÃ¡sha, but all the same she rose. None of them, not even the middle-aged Dimmler, wanted to break off their conversation and quit that corner in the sitting room, but NatÃ¡sha got up and Nicholas sat down at the clavichord. Standing as usual in the middle of the hall and choosing the place where the resonance was best, NatÃ¡sha began to sing her mothers favorite song. She had said she did not want to sing, but it was long since she had sung, and long before she again sang, as she did that evening. The count, from his study where he was talking to MÃtenka, heard her and, like a schoolboy in a hurry to run out to play, blundered in his talk while giving orders to the steward, and at last stopped, while MÃtenka stood in front of him also listening and smiling. Nicholas did not take his eyes off his sister and drew breath in time with her. SÃ³nya, as she listened, thought of the immense difference there was between herself and her friend, and how impossible it was for her to be anything like as bewitching as her cousin. The old countess sat with a blissful yet sad smile and with tears in her eyes, occasionally shaking her head. She thought of NatÃ¡sha and of her own youth, and of how there was something unnatural and dreadful in this impending marriage of NatÃ¡sha and Prince Andrew. Dimmler, who had seated himself beside the countess, listened with closed eyes. Ah, Countess, he said at last, thats a European talent, she has nothing to learn”what softness, tenderness, and strength.... Ah, how afraid I am for her, how afraid I am! said the countess, not realizing to whom she was speaking. Her maternal instinct told her that NatÃ¡sha had too much of something, and that because of this she would not be happy. Before NatÃ¡sha had finished singing, fourteen-year-old PÃtya rushed in delightedly, to say that some mummers had arrived. NatÃ¡sha stopped abruptly. Idiot! she screamed at her brother and, running to a chair, threw herself on it, sobbing so violently that she could not stop for a long time. Its nothing, Mamma, really its nothing; only PÃtya startled me, she said, trying to smile, but her tears still flowed and sobs still choked her. The mummers (some of the house serfs) dressed up as bears, Turks, innkeepers, and ladies”frightening and funny”bringing in with them the cold from outside and a feeling of gaiety, crowded, at first timidly, into the anteroom, then hiding behind one another they pushed into the ballroom where, shyly at first and then more and more merrily and heartily, they started singing, dancing, and playing Christmas games. The countess, when she had identified them and laughed at their costumes, went into the drawing room. The count sat in the ballroom, smiling radiantly and applauding the players. The young people had disappeared. Half an hour later there appeared among the other mummers in the ballroom an old lady in a hooped skirt”this was Nicholas. A Turkish girl was PÃtya. A clown was Dimmler. An hussar was NatÃ¡sha, and a Circassian was SÃ³nya with burnt-cork mustache and eyebrows. After the condescending surprise, nonrecognition, and praise, from those who were not themselves dressed up, the young people decided that their costumes were so good that they ought to be shown elsewhere. Nicholas, who, as the roads were in splendid condition, wanted to take them all for a drive in his troyka, proposed to take with them about a dozen of the serf mummers and drive to Uncles. No, why disturb the old fellow? said the countess. Besides, you wouldnt have room to turn round there. If you must go, go to the MelyukÃ³vs. MelyukÃ³va was a widow, who, with her family and their tutors and governesses, lived three miles from the RostÃ³vs. Thats right, my dear, chimed in the old count, thoroughly aroused. Ill dress up at once and go with them. Ill make Pashette open her eyes. But the countess would not agree to his going; he had had a bad leg all these last days. It was decided that the count must not go, but that if Louisa IvÃ¡novna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies might go to the MelyukÃ³vs, SÃ³nya, generally so timid and shy, more urgently than anyone begging Louisa IvÃ¡novna not to refuse. SÃ³nyas costume was the best of all. Her mustache and eyebrows were extraordinarily becoming. Everyone told her she looked very handsome, and she was in a spirited and energetic mood unusual with her. Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided, and in her male attire she seemed quite a different person. Louisa IvÃ¡novna consented to go, and in half an hour four troyka sleighs with large and small bells, their runners squeaking and whistling over the frozen snow, drove up to the porch. NatÃ¡sha was foremost in setting a merry holiday tone, which, passing from one to another, grew stronger and reached its climax when they all came out into the frost and got into the sleighs, talking, calling to one another, laughing, and shouting. Two of the troykas were the usual household sleighs, the third was the old counts with a trotter from the OrlÃ³v stud as shaft horse, the fourth was Nicholas own with a short shaggy black shaft horse. Nicholas, in his old ladys dress over which he had belted his hussar overcoat, stood in the middle of the sleigh, reins in hand. It was so light that he could see the moonlight reflected from the metal harness disks and from the eyes of the horses, who looked round in alarm at the noisy party under the shadow of the porch roof. NatÃ¡sha, SÃ³nya, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nicholas sleigh; Dimmler, his wife, and PÃtya, into the old counts, and the rest of the mummers seated themselves in the other two sleighs. You go ahead, ZakhÃ¡r! shouted Nicholas to his fathers coachman, wishing for a chance to race past him. The old counts troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward, squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned bell clanging. The side horses, pressing against the shafts of the middle horse, sank in the snow, which was dry and glittered like sugar, and threw it up. Nicholas set off, following the first sleigh; behind him the others moved noisily, their runners squeaking. At first they drove at a steady trot along the narrow road. While they drove past the garden the shadows of the bare trees often fell across the road and hid the brilliant moonlight, but as soon as they were past the fence, the snowy plain bathed in moonlight and motionless spread out before them glittering like diamonds and dappled with bluish shadows. Bang, bang! went the first sleigh over a cradle hole in the snow of the road, and each of the other sleighs jolted in the same way, and rudely breaking the frost-bound stillness, the troykas began to speed along the road, one after the other. A hares track, a lot of tracks! rang out NatÃ¡shas voice through the frost-bound air. How light it is, Nicholas! came SÃ³nyas voice. Nicholas glanced round at SÃ³nya, and bent down to see her face closer. Quite a new, sweet face with black eyebrows and mustaches peeped up at him from her sable furs”so close and yet so distant”in the moonlight. That used to be SÃ³nya, thought he, and looked at her closer and smiled. What is it, Nicholas? Nothing, said he and turned again to the horses. When they came out onto the beaten highroad”polished by sleigh runners and cut up by rough-shod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in the moonlight”the horses began to tug at the reins of their own accord and increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and breaking into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed from side to side, moving his ears as if asking: Isnt it time to begin now? In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing farther and farther off, the black horses driven by ZakhÃ¡r could be clearly seen against the white snow. From that sleigh one could hear the shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers. Gee up, my darlings! shouted Nicholas, pulling the reins to one side and flourishing the whip. It was only by the keener wind that met them and the jerks given by the side horses who pulled harder”ever increasing their gallop”that one noticed how fast the troyka was flying. Nicholas looked back. With screams, squeals, and waving of whips that caused even the shaft horses to gallop”the other sleighs followed. The shaft horse swung steadily beneath the bow over its head, with no thought of slackening pace and ready to put on speed when required. Nicholas overtook the first sleigh. They were driving downhill and coming out upon a broad trodden track across a meadow, near a river. Where are we? thought he. Its the KosÃ³y meadow, I suppose. But no”this is something new Ive never seen before. This isnt the KosÃ³y meadow nor the DÃ«mkin hill, and heaven only knows what it is! It is something new and enchanted. Well, whatever it may be... And shouting to his horses, he began to pass the first sleigh. ZakhÃ¡r held back his horses and turned his face, which was already covered with hoarfrost to his eyebrows. Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and ZakhÃ¡r, stretching out his arms, clucked his tongue and let his horses go. Now, look out, master! he cried. Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved the feet of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead. ZakhÃ¡r, while still keeping his arms extended, raised one hand with the reins. No you wont, master! he shouted. Nicholas put all his horses to a gallop and passed ZakhÃ¡r. The horses showered the fine dry snow on the faces of those in the sleigh”beside them sounded quick ringing bells and they caught confused glimpses of swiftly moving legs and the shadows of the troyka they were passing. The whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls shrieking were heard from different sides. Again checking his horses, Nicholas looked around him. They were still surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with stars. ZakhÃ¡r is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the left? thought Nicholas. Are we getting to the MelyukÃ³vs? Is this MelyukÃ³vka? Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows what is happening to us”but it is very strange and pleasant whatever it is. And he looked round in the sleigh. Look, his mustache and eyelashes are all white! said one of the strange, pretty, unfamiliar people”the one with fine eyebrows and mustache. I think this used to be NatÃ¡sha, thought Nicholas, and that was Madame Schoss, but perhaps its not, and this Circassian with the mustache I dont know, but I love her. Arent you cold? he asked. They did not answer but began to laugh. Dimmler from the sleigh behind shouted something”probably something funny”but they could not make out what he said. Yes, yes! some voices answered, laughing. But here was a fairy forest with black moving shadows, and a glitter of diamonds and a flight of marble steps and the silver roofs of fairy buildings and the shrill yells of some animals. And if this is really MelyukÃ³vka, it is still stranger that we drove heaven knows where and have come to MelyukÃ³vka, thought Nicholas. It really was MelyukÃ³vka, and maids and footmen with merry faces came running, out to the porch carrying candles. Who is it? asked someone in the porch. The mummers from the counts. I know by the horses, replied some voices. CHAPTER XI PelagÃya DanÃlovna MelyukÃ³va, a broadly built, energetic woman wearing spectacles, sat in the drawing room in a loose dress, surrounded by her daughters whom she was trying to keep from feeling dull. They were quietly dropping melted wax into snow and looking at the shadows the wax figures would throw on the wall, when they heard the steps and voices of new arrivals in the vestibule. Hussars, ladies, witches, clowns, and bears, after clearing their throats and wiping the hoarfrost from their faces in the vestibule, came into the ballroom where candles were hurriedly lighted. The clown”Dimmler”and the lady”Nicholas”started a dance. Surrounded by the screaming children the mummers, covering their faces and disguising their voices, bowed to their hostess and arranged themselves about the room. Dear me! theres no recognizing them! And NatÃ¡sha! See whom she looks like! She really reminds me of somebody. But Herr Dimmler”isnt he good! I didnt know him! And how he dances. Dear me, theres a Circassian. Really, how becoming it is to dear SÃ³nya. And who is that? Well, you have cheered us up! NikÃta and Vanya”clear away the tables! And we were sitting so quietly. Ha, ha, ha!... The hussar, the hussar! Just like a boy! And the legs!... I cant look at him... different voices were saying. NatÃ¡sha, the young MelyukÃ³vs favorite, disappeared with them into the back rooms where a cork and various dressing gowns and male garments were called for and received from the footman by bare girlish arms from behind the door. Ten minutes later, all the young MelyukÃ³vs joined the mummers. PelagÃya DanÃlovna, having given orders to clear the rooms for the visitors and arranged about refreshments for the gentry and the serfs, went about among the mummers without removing her spectacles, peering into their faces with a suppressed smile and failing to recognize any of them. It was not merely Dimmler and the RostÃ³vs she failed to recognize, she did not even recognize her own daughters, or her late husbands, dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on. And who is this? she asked her governess, peering into the face of her own daughter dressed up as a KazÃ¡n-Tartar. I suppose it is one of the RostÃ³vs! Well, Mr. Hussar, and what regiment do you serve in? she asked NatÃ¡sha. Here, hand some fruit jelly to the Turk! she ordered the butler who was handing things round. Thats not forbidden by his law. Sometimes, as she looked at the strange but amusing capers cut by the dancers, who”having decided once for all that being disguised, no one would recognize them”were not at all shy, PelagÃya DanÃlovna hid her face in her handkerchief, and her whole stout body shook with irrepressible, kindly, elderly laughter. My little SÃ¡sha! Look at SÃ¡sha! she said. After Russian country dances and chorus dances, PelagÃya DanÃlovna made the serfs and gentry join in one large circle: a ring, a string, and a silver ruble were fetched and they all played games together. In an hour, all the costumes were crumpled and disordered. The corked eyebrows and mustaches were smeared over the perspiring, flushed, and merry faces. PelagÃya DanÃlovna began to recognize the mummers, admired their cleverly contrived costumes, and particularly how they suited the young ladies, and she thanked them all for having entertained her so well. The visitors were invited to supper in the drawing room, and the serfs had something served to them in the ballroom. Now to tell ones fortune in the empty bathhouse is frightening! said an old maid who lived with the MelyukÃ³vs, during supper. Why? said the eldest MelyukÃ³v girl. You wouldnt go, it takes courage.... Ill go, said SÃ³nya. Tell what happened to the young lady! said the second MelyukÃ³v girl. Well, began the old maid, a young lady once went out, took a cock, laid the table for two, all properly, and sat down. After sitting a while, she suddenly hears someone coming... a sleigh drives up with harness bells; she hears him coming! He comes in, just in the shape of a man, like an officer”comes in and sits down to table with her. Ah! ah! screamed NatÃ¡sha, rolling her eyes with horror. Yes? And how... did he speak? Yes, like a man. Everything quite all right, and he began persuading her; and she should have kept him talking till cockcrow, but she got frightened, just got frightened and hid her face in her hands. Then he caught her up. It was lucky the maids ran in just then.... Now, why frighten them? said PelagÃya DanÃlovna. Mamma, you used to try your fate yourself... said her daughter. And how ds one do it in a barn? inquired SÃ³nya. Well, say you went to the barn now, and listened. It depends on what you hear; hammering and knocking”thats bad; but a sound of shifting grain is good and one sometimes hears that, too. Mamma, tell us what happened to you in the barn. PelagÃya DanÃlovna smiled. Oh, Ive forgotten... she replied. But none of you would go? Yes, I will; PelagÃya DanÃlovna, let me! Ill go, said SÃ³nya. Well, why not, if youre not afraid? Louisa IvÃ¡novna, may I? asked SÃ³nya. Whether they were playing the ring and string game or the ruble game or talking as now, Nicholas did not leave SÃ³nyas side, and gazed at her with quite new eyes. It seemed to him that it was only today, thanks to that burnt-cork mustache, that he had fully learned to know her. And really, that evening, SÃ³nya was brighter, more animated, and prettier than Nicholas had ever seen her before. So thats what she is like; what a fool I have been! he thought gazing at her sparkling eyes, and under the mustache a happy rapturous smile dimpled her cheeks, a smile he had never seen before. Im not afraid of anything, said SÃ³nya. May I go at once? She got up. They told her where the barn was and how she should stand and listen, and they handed her a fur cloak. She threw this over her head and shoulders and glanced at Nicholas. What a darling that girl is! thought he. And what have I been thinking of till now? SÃ³nya went out into the passage to go to the barn. Nicholas went hastily to the front porch, saying he felt too hot. The crowd of people really had made the house stuffy. Outside, there was the same cold stillness and the same moon, but even brighter than before. The light was so strong and the snow sparkled with so many stars that one did not wish to look up at the sky and the real stars were unnoticed. The sky was black and dreary, while the earth was gay. I am a fool, a fool! what have I been waiting for? thought Nicholas, and running out from the porch he went round the corner of the house and along the path that led to the back porch. He knew SÃ³nya would pass that way. Halfway lay some snow-covered piles of firewood and across and along them a network of shadows from the bare old lime trees fell on the snow and on the path. This path led to the barn. The log walls of the barn and its snow-covered roof, that looked as if hewn out of some precious stone, sparkled in the moonlight. A tree in the garden snapped with the frost, and then all was again perfectly silent. His bosom seemed to inhale not air but the strength of eternal youth and gladness. From the back porch came the sound of feet descending the steps, the bottom step upon which snow had fallen gave a ringing creak and he heard the voice of an old maidservant saying, Straight, straight, along the path, Miss. Only, dont look back. I am not afraid, answered SÃ³nyas voice, and along the path toward Nicholas came the crunching, whistling sound of SÃ³nyas feet in her thin shs. SÃ³nya came along, wrapped in her cloak. She was only a couple of paces away when she saw him, and to her too he was not the Nicholas she had known and always slightly feared. He was in a womans dress, with tousled hair and a happy smile new to SÃ³nya. She ran rapidly toward him. Quite different and yet the same, thought Nicholas, looking at her face all lit up by the moonlight. He slipped his arms under the cloak that covered her head, embraced her, pressed her to him, and kissed her on the lips that wore a mustache and had a smell of burnt cork. SÃ³nya kissed him full on the lips, and disengaging her little hands pressed them to his cheeks. SÃ³nya!... Nicholas!... was all they said. They ran to the barn and then back again, re-entering, he by the front and she by the back porch. CHAPTER XII When they all drove back from PelagÃya DanÃlovnas, NatÃ¡sha, who always saw and noticed everything, arranged that she and Madame Schoss should go back in the sleigh with Dimmler, and SÃ³nya with Nicholas and the maids. On the way back Nicholas drove at a steady pace instead of racing and kept peering by that fantastic all-transforming light into SÃ³nyas face and searching beneath the eyebrows and mustache for his former and his present SÃ³nya from whom he had resolved never to be parted again. He looked and recognizing in her both the old and the new SÃ³nya, and being reminded by the smell of burnt cork of the sensation of her kiss, inhaled the frosty air with a full breast and, looking at the ground flying beneath him and at the sparkling sky, felt himself again in fairyland. SÃ³nya, is it well with thee? he asked from time to time. Yes! she replied. And with thee? When halfway home Nicholas handed the reins to the coachman and ran for a moment to NatÃ¡shas sleigh and stood on its wing. NatÃ¡sha! he whispered in French, do you know I have made up my mind about SÃ³nya? Have you told her? asked NatÃ¡sha, suddenly beaming all over with joy. Oh, how strange you are with that mustache and those eyebrows!... NatÃ¡sha”are you glad? I am so glad, so glad! I was beginning to be vexed with you. I did not tell you, but you have been treating her badly. What a heart she has, Nicholas! I am horrid sometimes, but I was ashamed to be happy while SÃ³nya was not, continued NatÃ¡sha. Now I am so glad! Well, run back to her. No, wait a bit.... Oh, how funny you look! cried Nicholas, peering into her face and finding in his sister too something new, unusual, and bewitchingly tender that he had not seen in her before. NatÃ¡sha, its magical, isnt it? Yes, she replied. You have done splendidly. Had I seen her before as she is now, thought Nicholas, I should long ago have asked her what to do and have done whatever she told me, and all would have been well. So you are glad and I have done right? Oh, quite right! I had a quarrel with Mamma some time ago about it. Mamma said she was angling for you. How could she say such a thing! I nearly stormed at Mamma. I will never let anyone say anything bad of SÃ³nya, for there is nothing but good in her. Then its all right? said Nicholas, again scrutinizing the expression of his sisters face to see if she was in earnest. Then he jumped down and, his boots scrunching the snow, ran back to his sleigh. The same happy, smiling Circassian, with mustache and beaming eyes looking up from under a sable hood, was still sitting there, and that Circassian was SÃ³nya, and that SÃ³nya was certainly his future happy and loving wife. When they reached home and had told their mother how they had spent the evening at the MelyukÃ³vs, the girls went to their bedroom. When they had undressed, but without washing off the cork mustaches, they sat a long time talking of their happiness. They talked of how they would live when they were married, how their husbands would be friends, and how happy they would be. On NatÃ¡shas table stood two looking glasses which DunyÃ¡sha had prepared beforehand. Only when will all that be? I am afraid never.... It would be too good! said NatÃ¡sha, rising and going to the looking glasses. Sit down, NatÃ¡sha; perhaps youll see him, said SÃ³nya. NatÃ¡sha lit the candles, one on each side of one of the looking glasses, and sat down. I see someone with a mustache, said NatÃ¡sha, seeing her own face. You mustnt laugh, Miss, said DunyÃ¡sha. With SÃ³nyas help and the maids, NatÃ¡sha got the glass she held into the right position opposite the other; her face assumed a serious expression and she sat silent. She sat a long time looking at the receding line of candles reflected in the glasses and expecting (from tales she had heard) to see a coffin, or him, Prince Andrew, in that last dim, indistinctly outlined square. But ready as she was to take the smallest speck for the image of a man or of a coffin, she saw nothing. She began blinking rapidly and moved away from the looking glasses. Why is it others see things and I dont? she said. You sit down now, SÃ³nya. You absolutely must, tonight! Do it for me.... Today I feel so frightened! SÃ³nya sat down before the glasses, got the right position, and began looking. Now, Miss SÃ³nya is sure to see something, whispered DunyÃ¡sha; while you do nothing but laugh. SÃ³nya heard this and NatÃ¡shas whisper: I know she will. She saw something last year. For about three minutes all were silent. Of course she will! whispered NatÃ¡sha, but did not finish... suddenly SÃ³nya pushed away the glass she was holding and covered her eyes with her hand. Oh, NatÃ¡sha! she cried. Did you see? Did you? What was it? exclaimed NatÃ¡sha, holding up the looking glass. SÃ³nya had not seen anything, she was just wanting to blink and to get up when she heard NatÃ¡sha say, Of course she will! She did not wish to disappoint either DunyÃ¡sha or NatÃ¡sha, but it was hard to sit still. She did not herself know how or why the exclamation escaped her when she covered her eyes. You saw him? urged NatÃ¡sha, seizing her hand. Yes. Wait a bit... I... saw him, SÃ³nya could not help saying, not yet knowing whom NatÃ¡sha meant by him, Nicholas or Prince Andrew. But why shouldnt I say I saw something? Others do see! Besides who can tell whether I saw anything or not? flashed through SÃ³nyas mind. Yes, I saw him, she said. How? Standing or lying? No, I saw... At first there was nothing, then I saw him lying down. Andrew lying? Is he ill? asked NatÃ¡sha, her frightened eyes fixed on her friend. No, on the contrary, on the contrary! His face was cheerful, and he turned to me. And when saying this she herself fancied she had really seen what she described. Well, and then, SÃ³nya?... After that, I could not make out what there was; something blue and red.... SÃ³nya! When will he come back? When shall I see him! O, God, how afraid I am for him and for myself and about everything!... NatÃ¡sha began, and without replying to SÃ³nyas words of comfort she got into bed, and long after her candle was out lay open-eyed and motionless, gazing at the moonlight through the frosty windowpanes. CHAPTER XIII Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love for SÃ³nya and of his firm resolve to marry her. The countess, who had long noticed what was going on between them and was expecting this declaration, listened to him in silence and then told her son that he might marry whom he pleased, but that neither she nor his father would give their blessing to such a marriage. Nicholas, for the first time, felt that his mother was displeased with him and that, despite her love for him, she would not give way. Coldly, without looking at her son, she sent for her husband and, when he came, tried briefly and coldly to inform him of the facts, in her sons presence, but unable to restrain herself she burst into tears of vexation and left the room. The old count began irresolutely to admonish Nicholas and beg him to abandon his purpose. Nicholas replied that he could not go back on his word, and his father, sighing and evidently disconcerted, very soon became silent and went in to the countess. In all his encounters with his son, the count was always conscious of his own guilt toward him for having wasted the family fortune, and so he could not be angry with him for refusing to marry an heiress and choosing the dowerless SÃ³nya. On this occasion, he was only more vividly conscious of the fact that if his affairs had not been in disorder, no better wife for Nicholas than SÃ³nya could have been wished for, and that no one but himself with his MÃtenka and his uncomfortable habits was to blame for the condition of the family finances. The father and mother did not speak of the matter to their son again, but a few days later the countess sent for SÃ³nya and, with a cruelty neither of them expected, reproached her niece for trying to catch Nicholas and for ingratitude. SÃ³nya listened silently with downcast eyes to the countess cruel words, without understanding what was required of her. She was ready to sacrifice everything for her benefactors. Self-sacrifice was her most cherished idea but in this case she could not see what she ought to sacrifice, or for whom. She could not help loving the countess and the whole RostÃ³v family, but neither could she help loving Nicholas and knowing that his happiness depended on that love. She was silent and sad and did not reply. Nicholas felt the situation to be intolerable and went to have an explanation with his mother. He first implored her to forgive him and SÃ³nya and consent to their marriage, then he threatened that if she molested SÃ³nya he would at once marry her secretly. The countess, with a coldness her son had never seen in her before, replied that he was of age, that Prince Andrew was marrying without his fathers consent, and he could do the same, but that she would never receive that intriguer as her daughter. Exploding at the word intriguer, Nicholas, raising his voice, told his mother he had never expected her to try to force him to sell his feelings, but if that were so, he would say for the last time.... But he had no time to utter the decisive word which the expression of his face caused his mother to await with terror, and which would perhaps have forever remained a cruel memory to them both. He had not time to say it, for NatÃ¡sha, with a pale and set face, entered the room from the door at which she had been listening. Nicholas, you are talking nonsense! Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, I tell you!... she almost screamed, so as to drown his voice. Mamma darling, its not at all so... my poor, sweet darling, she said to her mother, who conscious that they had been on the brink of a rupture gazed at her son with terror, but in the obstinacy and excitement of the conflict could not and would not give way. Nicholas, Ill explain to you. Go away! Listen, Mamma darling, said NatÃ¡sha. Her words were incoherent, but they attained the purpose at which she was aiming. The countess, sobbing heavily, hid her face on her daughters breast, while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room. NatÃ¡sha set to work to effect a reconciliation, and so far succeeded that Nicholas received a promise from his mother that SÃ³nya should not be troubled, while he on his side promised not to undertake anything without his parents knowledge. Firmly resolved, after putting his affairs in order in the regiment, to retire from the army and return and marry SÃ³nya, Nicholas, serious, sorrowful, and at variance with his parents, but, as it seemed to him, passionately in love, left at the beginning of January to rejoin his regiment. After Nicholas had gone things in the RostÃ³v household were more depressing than ever, and the countess fell ill from mental agitation. SÃ³nya was unhappy at the separation from Nicholas and still more so on account of the hostile tone the countess could not help adopting toward her. The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his affairs, which called for some decisive action. Their town house and estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to go to Moscow. But the countess health obliged them to delay their departure from day to day. NatÃ¡sha, who had borne the first period of separation from her betrothed lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and impatient every day. The thought that her best days, which she would have employed in loving him, were being vainly wasted, with no advantage to anyone, tormented her incessantly. His letters for the most part irritated her. It hurt her to think that while she lived only in the thought of him, he was living a real life, seeing new places and new people that interested him. The more interesting his letters were the more vexed she felt. Her letters to him, far from giving her any comfort, seemed to her a wearisome and artificial obligation. She could not write, because she could not conceive the possibility of expressing sincerely in a letter even a thousandth part of what she expressed by voice, smile, and glance. She wrote to him formal, monotonous, and dry letters, to which she attached no importance herself, and in the rough copies of which the countess corrected her mistakes in spelling. There was still no improvement in the countess health, but it was impossible to defer the journey to Moscow any longer. NatÃ¡shas trousseau had to be ordered and the house sold. Moreover, Prince Andrew was expected in Moscow, where old Prince BolkÃ³nski was spending the winter, and NatÃ¡sha felt sure he had already arrived. So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January. BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12 CHAPTER I After Prince Andrews engagement to NatÃ¡sha, 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 NatÃ¡sha and the death of Joseph AlexÃevich, 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 HÃlÃ¨ne thought it necessary to speak severely to him about it. Pierre felt that she was right, and to avoid compromising her went away to Moscow. 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 KrÃmlin Square with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and hovels of the SÃvtsev VrazhÃ³k, 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. 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. 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. 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 na pas de sexe, * they said of him. * He is charming; he has no sex. Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow. 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? 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. 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. 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. Pierre no 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 off to the club or to ApollÃ³n NikolÃ¡evichs, to exchange the gossip of the town. HÃlÃ¨ne, 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 ds 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. 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 dsnt matter. Ill get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now”Ill think it all out later on! But the later on never came. 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. Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when entrenched under the enemys 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, its all the same”only to save oneself from it as best one can, thought Pierre. Only not to see it, that dreadful it! CHAPTER II At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski and his daughter moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexanders 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 BolkÃ³nski an object of particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow opposition to the government. 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. 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 ÃmigrÃ who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his evenings for years, she regretted Julies 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 Andrews 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 RostÃ³va 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 fathers 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 fathers 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 sons 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. One day in Moscow in Princess Marys presence (she thought her father did it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle Bouriennes 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 Marys 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: Its horrible, vile, inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness... She did not finish. Leave my room, she exclaimed, and burst into sobs. 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. He dsnt obey... I said it twice... and he dsnt obey! She is the first person in this house; shes 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! Dont let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon! Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bouriennes pardon, and also her fathers pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged for her intervention. 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. CHAPTER III In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor”MÃtivier”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. Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on Mademoiselle Bouriennes advice had allowed this doctor to visit him and had grown accustomed to him. MÃtivier came to see the prince about twice a week. On December 6”St. Nicholas Day and the princes name day”all Moscow came to the princes 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. MÃtivier, 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 doctors 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. * To force the guard. At first she heard only MÃtiviers voice, then her fathers, 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 MÃtivier 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. You dont understand? shouted the prince, but I do! French spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell you... and he slammed the door. MÃtivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room. The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep calm, I will call again tomorrow, said MÃtivier; and putting his fingers to his lips he hastened away. Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry: Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moments peace in my own house! After MÃtiviers 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 moments peace and could not die quietly. No, maam! 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 dont 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: If only some fool would marry her! Then he slammed the door, sent for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study. At two oclock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner. These guests”the famous Count RostopchÃn, Prince LopukhÃn with his nephew, General ChatrÃ³v an old war comrade of the princes, and of the younger generation Pierre and BorÃs DrubetskÃ³y”awaited the prince in the drawing room. BorÃs, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski, 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. The princes 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. BorÃs had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in his presence invited RostopchÃn to dinner on St. Nicholas Day, and RostopchÃn had replied that he could not come: On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski. Oh, yes, yes! replied the commander in chief. How is he?... 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 RostopchÃn alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest town news, and now the latest political gossip. LopukhÃn and the old general occasionally took part in the conversation. Prince BolkÃ³nski 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. At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleons seizure of the Duke of Oldenburgs territory, and the Russian Note, hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts. Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate ds a captured vessel, said Count RostopchÃn, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times before. One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the crowned heads. Now the Popes turn has come and Bonaparte dsnt 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 Oldenburgs territory, and even... Count RostopchÃn paused, feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was impossible. Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of Oldenburg, said Prince BolkÃ³nski. He shifts the Dukes about as I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to BoguchÃ¡rovo or my RyazÃ¡n estates. The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable strength of character and resignation, remarked BorÃs, joining in respectfully. He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor of being presented to the Duke. Prince BolkÃ³nski glanced at the young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind, evidently considering him too young. I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised how badly the Note was worded, remarked Count RostopchÃn in the casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him. Pierre looked at RostopchÃn with naÃ¯ve astonishment, not understanding why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note. Ds it matter, Count, how the Note is worded, he asked, so long as its substance is forcible? My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be easy to have a good style, returned Count RostopchÃn. Pierre now understood the counts dissatisfaction with the wording of the Note. 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. There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared his throat to draw attention. Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The figure cut by the new French ambassador. Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His Majestys presence. 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. All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was impossible to pass any judgment. Impudent fellows! said the prince. You know MÃtivier? I turned him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him in spite of my request that they should let no one in, he went on, glancing angrily at his daughter. And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and the reasons that convinced him that MÃtivier was a spy. Though these reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder. After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him. 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 mornings talk, that his decision remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his speaking of it to her now. When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old men sat together. Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the impending war. 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! How can we fight the French, Prince? said Count RostopchÃn. 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. He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone. French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned MÃtivier 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 Popes 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 Greats 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 RostopchÃn with a smile and wagged his head approvingly. Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well! said RostopchÃn, 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 RostopchÃns example the others also rose. CHAPTER IV Princess Mary as she sat listening to the old mens talk and faultfinding, understood nothing of what she heard; she only wondered whether the guests had all observed her fathers hostile attitude toward her. She did not even notice the special attentions and amiabilities shown her during dinner by BorÃs DrubetskÃ³y, 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? DrubetskÃ³y. 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 mornings 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 KarÃ¡gina. 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 KarÃ¡gina, said Pierre. Really? asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierres 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 dont know what is the matter with me today. Dont take any notice”forget what I have said! Pierres 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 Andrews marriage threatened to cause a rupture between father and son. Have you any news of the RostÃ³vs? 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 ds 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 fathers 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 Andrews choice; but in reply he said what he felt rather than what he thought. I dont know how to answer your question, he said, blushing without knowing why. I really dont know what sort of girl she is; I cant analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I dont know. That is all one can say about her. Princess Mary sighed, and the expression on her face said: Yes, thats what I expected and feared. Is she clever? she asked. Pierre considered. I think not, he said, and yet”yes. She ds 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 RostÃ³vs arrived and to try to accustom the old prince to her. CHAPTER V BorÃs 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 princes 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 KarÃ¡gins 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 rimÃs, which were in vogue at the KarÃ¡gins. Only a few of these young men, among them BorÃs, entered more deeply into Julies 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 BorÃs, 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. BorÃs 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 ny a pas dautre asile. * * Death gives relief and death is peaceful. Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge. Julie said this was charming There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy, she said to BorÃs, 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 BorÃs wrote these lines: Aliment de poison dune Ã¢me trop sensible, Toi, sans qui le bonheur me serait impossible, Tendre mÃlancholie, ah, viens me consoler, Viens calmer les tourments de ma sombre retraite, Et mÃªle une douceur secrÃ¨te 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 BorÃs, Julie played most doleful nocturnes on her harp. BorÃs 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 BorÃs looked on one another as the only souls who understood one another in a world of indifferent people. Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna, who often visited the KarÃ¡gins, while playing cards with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julies dowry (she was to have two estates in PÃnza and the NizhegÃ³rod forests). Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna 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. BorÃs 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 cant 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, BorÃs, BorÃs!”she paused. And how I pity her mother, she went on; today she showed me her accounts and letters from PÃnza (they have enormous estates there), and she, poor thing, has no one to help her, and they do cheat her so! BorÃs smiled almost imperceptibly while listening to his mother. He laughed blandly at her naÃ¯ve diplomacy but listened to what she had to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the PÃnza and NizhegÃ³rod 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 BorÃs. His leave was expiring. He spent every day and whole days at the KarÃ¡gins, and every day on thinking the matter over told himself that he would propose tomorrow. But in Julies 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, BorÃs could not utter the decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded himself as the possessor of those PÃnza and NizhegÃ³rod estates and had apportioned the use of the income from them. Julie saw BorÃs 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 BorÃs departure she formed a definite plan of action. Just as BorÃs leave of absence was expiring, Anatole KurÃ¡gin made his appearance in Moscow, and of course in the KarÃ¡gins drawing room, and Julie, suddenly abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and very attentive to KurÃ¡gin. My dear, said Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna to her son, I know from a reliable source that Prince VasÃli 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 PÃnza 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 BorÃs. He drove to the KarÃ¡gins with the firm intention of proposing. Julie met him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she had enjoyed yesterdays ball, and asked when he was leaving. Though BorÃs 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... BorÃs 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 BorÃs. 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: Julies face shone with triumph and self-satisfaction; but she forced BorÃs 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 PÃnza estates and NizhegÃ³rod 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. CHAPTER VI At the end of January old Count RostÃ³v went to Moscow with NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya. 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 BolkÃ³nski while he was in Moscow could not be missed. The RostÃ³vs 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 MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna AkhrosÃmova, who had long been pressing her hospitality on them. Late one evening the RostÃ³vs four sleighs drove into MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas courtyard in the old KonyÃºsheny street. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna 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 RostÃ³vs arrived and the pulley of the hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the RostÃ³vs and their servants. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, 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 counts 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!... Youve grown plumper and prettier, she remarked, drawing NatÃ¡sha (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. Youre half frozen, Im sure! Bring some rum for tea!... Bonjour, SÃ³nya dear! she added, turning to SÃ³nya 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, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna kissed them all in due order. Im heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was high time, she said, giving NatÃ¡sha a significant look. The old man is here and his sons expected any day. Youll have to make his acquaintance. But well speak of that later on, she added, glancing at SÃ³nya 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? ShinshÃn? she crooked one of her fingers. The sniveling Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna? Thats two. Shes here with her son. The son is getting married! Then BezÃºkhov, 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 Ill take them first to the Iberian shrine of the Mother of God, and then well drive to the Super-Rogues. I suppose youll have everything new. Dont judge by me: sleeves nowadays are this size! The other day young Princess IrÃna VasÃlevna 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, Ill fix a time and go down to the estate just for a day, and leave my lassies with you. All right. All right. Theyll be safe with me, as safe as in Chancery! Ill take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and pet them a bit, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, touching her goddaughter and favorite, NatÃ¡sha, on the cheek with her large hand. Next morning MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian shrine of the Mother of God and to Madame Suppert-Roguet, who was so afraid of MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna that she always let her have costumes at a loss merely to get rid of her. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna ordered almost the whole trousseau. When they got home she turned everybody out of the room except NatÃ¡sha, and then called her pet to her armchair. Well, now well talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed. Youve hooked a fine fellow! I am glad for your sake and Ive known him since he was so high. She held her hand a couple of feet from the ground. NatÃ¡sha blushed happily. I like him and all his family. Now listen! You know that old Prince Nicholas much dislikes his sons marrying. The old fellows crotchety! Of course Prince Andrew is not a child and can shift without him, but its not nice to enter a family against a fathers will. One wants to do it peacefully and lovingly. Youre a clever girl and youll know how to manage. Be kind, and use your wits. Then all will be well. NatÃ¡sha remained silent, from shyness MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna 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 wouldnt hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two together. Tomorrow youll go with your father to see her. Be very nice and affectionate to her: youre younger than she. When he comes, hell find you already know his sister and father and are liked by them. Am I right or not? Wont that be best? Yes, it will, NatÃ¡sha answered reluctantly. CHAPTER VII Next day, by MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas advice, Count RostÃ³v took NatÃ¡sha to call on Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski. 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. NatÃ¡sha, on the other hand, having put on her best gown, was in the highest spirits. They cant 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 VozdvÃzhenka and entered the vestibule. Well, the Lord have mercy on us! said the count, half in jest, half in earnest; but NatÃ¡sha 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 RostÃ³vs 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 NatÃ¡sha. 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 brothers love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her, Princess Mary was agitated just then because on the RostÃ³vs 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 RostÃ³vs visit. There, my dear princess, Ive 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 youll allow me to leave my NatÃ¡sha in your hands for a quarter of an hour, Princess, Ill drive round to see Anna SemÃ«novna, its quite near in the Dogs Square, and then Ill 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 NatÃ¡sha noticed her fathers 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 SemÃ«novnas, and he departed. Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary”who wished to have a tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte with NatÃ¡sha”Mademoiselle Bourienne remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and theaters. NatÃ¡sha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in the anteroom, by her fathers 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. NatÃ¡sha 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 dressing gown and a white nightcap, came in. Ah, madam! he began. Madam, Countess... Countess RostÃ³va, 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 didnt 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 NatÃ¡sha. 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 NatÃ¡sha over from head to foot he went out. Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this apparition and began speaking about the princes indisposition. NatÃ¡sha 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, NatÃ¡sha 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 couldnt begin talking about him in the presence of that Frenchwoman, thought NatÃ¡sha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She knew what she ought to have said to NatÃ¡sha, 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 NatÃ¡sha, took her by the hand, and said with a deep sigh: Wait, I must... NatÃ¡sha 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. NatÃ¡sha 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 NatÃ¡sha to come to dinner that day. She sat in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. SÃ³nya stood beside her, kissing her hair. NatÃ¡sha, what is it about? she asked. What do they matter to you? It will all pass, NatÃ¡sha. But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I... Dont talk about it, NatÃ¡sha. It wasnt your fault so why should you mind? Kiss me, said SÃ³nya. NatÃ¡sha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed her wet face against her. I cant tell you, I dont know. No ones to blame, said NatÃ¡sha”Its my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why dsnt he come?... She came in to dinner with red eyes. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, who knew how the prince had received the RostÃ³vs, pretended not to notice how upset NatÃ¡sha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count and the other guests. CHAPTER VIII That evening the RostÃ³vs went to the Opera, for which MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna had taken a box. NatÃ¡sha did not want to go, but could not refuse MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas 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 NatÃ¡sha. 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 cant 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 SÃ³nya love Nicholas so calmly and quietly and wait so long and so patiently? thought she, looking at SÃ³nya, who also came in quite ready, with a fan in her hand. No, shes altogether different. I cant! NatÃ¡sha 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 RostÃ³vs carriage drove up to the theater, its wheels squeaking over the snow. NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya, 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. NatÃ¡sha, your hair!... whispered SÃ³nya. 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 NatÃ¡sha. The curtain had not yet risen and the overture was being played. NatÃ¡sha, smoothing her gown, went in with SÃ³nya 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, NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya, with Count RostÃ³v who had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general attention. Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of NatÃ¡shas engagement to Prince Andrew, and knew that the RostÃ³vs had lived in the country ever since, and all looked with curiosity at a fiancÃe who was making one of the best matches in Russia. NatÃ¡shas 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, theres AlÃnina, said SÃ³nya, with her mother, isnt it? Dear me, Michael KirÃlovich has grown still stouter! remarked the count. Look at our Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna”what a headdress she has on! The KarÃ¡gins, Julie”and BorÃs with them. One can see at once that theyre engaged.... DrubetskÃ³y has proposed? Oh yes, I heard it today, said ShinshÃn, coming into the RostÃ³vs box. NatÃ¡sha looked in the direction in which her fathers 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 NatÃ¡sha knew was covered with powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning over with an ear to Julies mouth, was BorÃs handsome smoothly brushed head. He looked at the RostÃ³vs from under his brows and said something, smiling, to his betrothed. They are talking about us, about me and him! thought NatÃ¡sha. And he no doubt is calming her jealousy of me. They neednt trouble themselves! If only they knew how little I am concerned about any of them. Behind them sat Anna MikhÃ¡ylovna 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 NatÃ¡sha knew so well and liked so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all that had been so humiliating in her mornings 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 DÃ³lokhov 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 everyones attention, yet as much at ease as though he were in his own room. Around him thronged Moscows most brilliant young men, whom he evidently dominated. The count, laughing, nudged the blushing SÃ³nya and pointed to her former adorer. Do you recognize him? said he. And where has he sprung from? he asked, turning to ShinshÃn. Didnt he vanish somewhere? He did, replied ShinshÃn. 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 Shahs brother. Now all the Moscow ladies are mad about him! Its ˜DÃ³lokhov the Persian that ds it! We never hear a word but DÃ³lokhov is mentioned. They swear by him, they offer him to you as they would a dish of choice sterlet. DÃ³lokhov and Anatole KurÃ¡gin 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. NatÃ¡sha involuntarily gazed at that neck, those shoulders, and pearls and coiffure, and admired the beauty of the shoulders and the pearls. While NatÃ¡sha was fixing her gaze on her for the second time the lady looked round and, meeting the counts eyes, nodded to him and smiled. She was the Countess BezÃºkhova, Pierres wife, and the count, who knew everyone in society, leaned over and spoke to her. Have you been here long, Countess? he inquired. Ill call, Ill call to kiss your hand. Im here on business and have brought my girls with me. They say SemÃ«nova acts marvelously. Count Pierre never used to forget us. Is he here? Yes, he meant to look in, answered HÃlÃ¨ne, and glanced attentively at NatÃ¡sha. Count RostÃ³v resumed his seat. Handsome, isnt she? he whispered to NatÃ¡sha. Wonderful! answered NatÃ¡sha. Shes 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. NatÃ¡sha too began to look at it. CHAPTER IX 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 prompters 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 NatÃ¡sha. 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 NatÃ¡sha 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 HÃlÃ¨ne 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, NatÃ¡sha 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 aria 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 HÃlÃ¨ne 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 RostÃ³vs box creaked, and the steps of a belated arrival were heard. Theres KurÃ¡gin! whispered ShinshÃn. Countess BezÃºkhova turned smiling to the newcomer, and NatÃ¡sha, following the direction of that look, saw an exceptionally handsome adjutant approaching their box with a self-assured yet courteous bearing. This was Anatole KurÃ¡gin whom she had seen and noticed long ago at the ball in Petersburg. He was now in an adjutants 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 NatÃ¡sha 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 NatÃ¡sha. Mais charmante! said he, evidently referring to NatÃ¡sha, 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 DÃ³lokhov, nudging with his elbow in a friendly and offhand way that DÃ³lokhov 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! ShinshÃn, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue of KurÃ¡gins in Moscow, and NatÃ¡sha 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. BorÃs came to the RostÃ³vs box, received their congratulations very simply, and raising his eyebrows with an absent-minded smile conveyed to NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya his fiancÃes invitation to her wedding, and went away. NatÃ¡sha with a gay, coquettish smile talked to him, and congratulated on his approaching wedding that same BorÃs with whom she had formerly been in love. In the state of intoxication she was in, everything seemed simple and natural. The scantily clad HÃlÃ¨ne smiled at everyone in the same way, and NatÃ¡sha gave BorÃs a similar smile. HÃlÃ¨nes 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 entracte KurÃ¡gin stood with DÃ³lokhov in front of the orchestra partition, looking at the RostÃ³vs box. NatÃ¡sha 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 RostÃ³vs had not seen him since their arrival. His face looked sad, and he had grown still stouter since NatÃ¡sha 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 RostÃ³vs box. On seeing NatÃ¡sha 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, NatÃ¡sha heard a mans voice in Countess BezÃºkhovas box and something told her it was KurÃ¡gin. 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 NatÃ¡sha looked toward the stalls she saw Anatole KurÃ¡gin 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 BezÃºkhova rose, turned to the RostÃ³vs 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 dont even know them! NatÃ¡sha 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 HÃlÃ¨ne. How is it youre not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country? Countess BezÃºkhova 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 NatÃ¡sha with her stereotyped and lovely smile. I had heard about you from my page, DrubetskÃ³y. Have you heard he is getting married? And also from my husbands friend BolkÃ³nski, Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski, she went on with special emphasis, implying that she knew of his relation to NatÃ¡sha. To get better acquainted she asked that one of the young ladies should come into her box for the rest of the performance, and NatÃ¡sha 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! NatÃ¡sha no longer thought this strange. She looked about with pleasure, smiling joyfully. Isnt Duport delightful? HÃlÃ¨ne asked her. Oh, yes, replied NatÃ¡sha. CHAPTER X During the entracte a whiff of cold air came into HÃlÃ¨nes box, the door opened, and Anatole entered, stooping and trying not to brush against anyone. Let me introduce my brother to you, said HÃlÃ¨ne, her eyes shifting uneasily from NatÃ¡sha to Anatole. NatÃ¡sha 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 NarÃ½shkins ball in fact, at which he had had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing her. KurÃ¡gin was much more sensible and simple with women than among men. He talked boldly and naturally, and NatÃ¡sha 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 naÃ¯ve, cheerful, and good-natured. KurÃ¡gin asked her opinion of the performance and told her how at a previous performance SemÃ«nova 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 KarÃ¡gins! 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. NatÃ¡sha 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. NatÃ¡sha kept turning to HÃlÃ¨ne and to her father, as if asking what it all meant, but HÃlÃ¨ne was engaged in conversation with a general and did not answer her look, and her fathers eyes said nothing but what they always said: Having a good time? Well, Im glad of it! During one of these moments of awkward silence when Anatoles prominent eyes were gazing calmly and fixedly at her, NatÃ¡sha, 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, * isnt that so? But now I like it very much indeed, he said, looking at her significantly. Youll 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. NatÃ¡sha 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. NatÃ¡sha 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 NatÃ¡sha saw. She felt agitated and tormented, and the cause of this was KurÃ¡gin 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 NatÃ¡sha 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 NatÃ¡sha able clearly to think over what had happened to her, and suddenly remembering Prince Andrew she was horrified, and at tea to which all had sat down after the opera, she gave a loud exclamation, flushed, and ran out of the room. O God! I am lost! she said to herself. How could I let him? She sat for a long time hiding her flushed face in her hands trying to realize what had happened to her, but was unable either to understand what had happened or what she felt. Everything seemed dark, obscure, and terrible. There in that enormous, illuminated theater where the bare-legged Duport, in a tinsel-decorated jacket, jumped about to the music on wet boards, and young girls and old men, and the nearly naked HÃlÃ¨ne with her proud, calm smile, rapturously cried bravo!”there in the presence of that HÃlÃ¨ne it had all seemed clear and simple; but now, alone by herself, it was incomprehensible. What is it? What was that terror I felt of him? What is this gnawing of conscience I am feeling now? she thought. Only to the old countess at night in bed could NatÃ¡sha have told all she was feeling. She knew that SÃ³nya with her severe and simple views would either not understand it at all or would be horrified at such a confession. So NatÃ¡sha tried to solve what was torturing her by herself. Am I spoiled for Andrews love or not? she asked herself, and with soothing irony replied: What a fool I am to ask that! What did happen to me? Nothing! I have done nothing, I didnt lead him on at all. Nobody will know and I shall never see him again, she told herself. So it is plain that nothing has happened and there is nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why ˜still? O God, why isnt he here? NatÃ¡sha quieted herself for a moment, but again some instinct told her that though all this was true, and though nothing had happened, yet the former purity of her love for Prince Andrew had perished. And again in imagination she went over her whole conversation with KurÃ¡gin, and again saw the face, gestures, and tender smile of that bold handsome man when he pressed her arm. CHAPTER XI Anatole KurÃ¡gin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him away from Petersburg, where he had been spending twenty thousand rubles a year in cash, besides running up debts for as much more, which his creditors demanded from his father. His father announced to him that he would now pay half his debts for the last time, but only on condition that he went to Moscow as adjutant to the commander in chief”a post his father had procured for him”and would at last try to make a good match there. He indicated to him Princess Mary and Julie KarÃ¡gina. Anatole consented and went to Moscow, where he put up at Pierres house. Pierre received him unwillingly at first, but got used to him after a while, sometimes even accompanied him on his carousals, and gave him money under the guise of loans. As ShinshÃn had remarked, from the time of his arrival Anatole had turned the heads of the Moscow ladies, especially by the fact that he slighted them and plainly preferred the gypsy girls and French actresses”with the chief of whom, Mademoiselle George, he was said to be on intimate relations. He had never missed a carousal at DanÃlovs or other Moscow revelers, drank whole nights through, outvying everyone else, and was at all the balls and parties of the best society. There was talk of his intrigues with some of the ladies, and he flirted with a few of them at the balls. But he did not run after the unmarried girls, especially the rich heiresses who were most of them plain. There was a special reason for this, as he had got married two years before”a fact known only to his most intimate friends. At that time while with his regiment in Poland, a Polish landowner of small means had forced him to marry his daughter. Anatole had very soon abandoned his wife and, for a payment which he agreed to send to his father-in-law, had arranged to be free to pass himself off as a bachelor. Anatole was always content with his position, with himself, and with others. He was instinctively and thoroughly convinced that it was impossible for him to live otherwise than as he did and that he had never in his life done anything base. He was incapable of considering how his actions might affect others or what the consequences of this or that action of his might be. He was convinced that, as a duck is so made that it must live in water, so God had made him such that he must spend thirty thousand rubles a year and always occupy a prominent position in society. He believed this so firmly that others, looking at him, were persuaded of it too and did not refuse him either a leading place in society or money, which he borrowed from anyone and everyone and evidently would not repay. He was not a gambler, at any rate he did not care about winning. He was not vain. He did not mind what people thought of him. Still less could he be accused of ambition. More than once he had vexed his father by spoiling his own career, and he laughed at distinctions of all kinds. He was not mean, and did not refuse anyone who asked of him. All he cared about was gaiety and women, and as according to his ideas there was nothing dishonorable in these tastes, and he was incapable of considering what the gratification of his tastes entailed for others, he honestly considered himself irreproachable, sincerely despised rogues and bad people, and with a tranquil conscience carried his head high. Rakes, those male Magdalenes, have a secret feeling of innocence similar to that which female Magdalenes have, based on the same hope of forgiveness. All will be forgiven her, for she loved much; and all will be forgiven him, for he enjoyed much. DÃ³lokhov, who had reappeared that year in Moscow after his exile and his Persian adventures, and was leading a life of luxury, gambling, and dissipation, associated with his old Petersburg comrade KurÃ¡gin and made use of him for his own ends. Anatole was sincerely fond of DÃ³lokhov for his cleverness and audacity. DÃ³lokhov, who needed Anatole KurÃ¡gins name, position, and connections as a bait to draw rich young men into his gambling set, made use of him and amused himself at his expense without letting the other feel it. Apart from the advantage he derived from Anatole, the very process of dominating anothers will was in itself a pleasure, a habit, and a necessity to DÃ³lokhov. NatÃ¡sha had made a strong impression on KurÃ¡gin. At supper after the opera he described to DÃ³lokhov with the air of a connoisseur the attractions of her arms, shoulders, feet, and hair and expressed his intention of making love to her. Anatole had no notion and was incapable of considering what might come of such love-making, as he never had any notion of the outcome of any of his actions. Shes first-rate, my dear fellow, but not for us, replied DÃ³lokhov. I will tell my sister to ask her to dinner, said Anatole. Eh? Youd better wait till shes married.... You know, I adore little girls, they lose their heads at once, pursued Anatole. You have been caught once already by a ˜little girl, said DÃ³lokhov who knew of KurÃ¡gins marriage. Take care! Well, that cant happen twice! Eh? said Anatole, with a good-humored laugh. CHAPTER XII The day after the opera the RostÃ³vs went nowhere and nobody came to see them. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna talked to the count about something which they concealed from NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha guessed they were talking about the old prince and planning something, and this disquieted and offended her. She was expecting Prince Andrew any moment and twice that day sent a manservant to the VozdvÃzhenka to ascertain whether he had come. He had not arrived. She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow. To her impatience and pining for him were now added the unpleasant recollection of her interview with Princess Mary and the old prince, and a fear and anxiety of which she did not understand the cause. She continually fancied that either he would never come or that something would happen to her before he came. She could no longer think of him by herself calmly and continuously as she had done before. As soon as she began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess Mary, of the theater, and of KurÃ¡gin mingled with her thoughts. The question again presented itself whether she was not guilty, whether she had not already broken faith with Prince Andrew, and again she found herself recalling to the minutest detail every word, every gesture, and every shade in the play of expression on the face of the man who had been able to arouse in her such an incomprehensible and terrifying feeling. To the family NatÃ¡sha seemed livelier than usual, but she was far less tranquil and happy than before. On Sunday morning MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her parish church”the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of victims of the plague. I dont like those fashionable churches, she said, evidently priding herself on her independence of thought. God is the same everywhere. We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is there in giving concerts in the choir? I dont like it, its just self-indulgence! MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole house was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the servants worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At her table there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka and roast goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the holiday so noticeable as in MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas broad, stern face, which on that day wore an invariable look of solemn festivity. After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room where the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant announced that the carriage was ready, and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna rose with a stern air. She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and announced that she was going to see Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski to have an explanation with him about NatÃ¡sha. After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on the RostÃ³vs, and NatÃ¡sha, very glad of this diversion, having shut herself into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying on the new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and only tacked together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how the back fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds of her fathers voice and anothers”a womans”that made her flush. It was HÃlÃ¨ne. NatÃ¡sha had not time to take off the bodice before the door opened and Countess BezÃºkhova, dressed in a purple velvet gown with a high collar, came into the room beaming with good-humored amiable smiles. Oh, my enchantress! she cried to the blushing NatÃ¡sha. Charming! No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count, said she to Count RostÃ³v who had followed her in. How can you live in Moscow and go nowhere? No, I wont let you off! Mademoiselle George will recite at my house tonight and therell be some people, and if you dont bring your lovely girls”who are prettier than Mademoiselle George”I wont know you! My husband is away in Tver or I would send him to fetch you. You must come. You positively must! Between eight and nine. She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the looking glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She did not cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising NatÃ¡shas beauty. She looked at NatÃ¡shas dresses and praised them, as well as a new dress of her own made of metallic gauze, which she had received from Paris, and advised NatÃ¡sha to have one like it. But anything suits you, my charmer! she remarked. A smile of pleasure never left NatÃ¡shas face. She felt happy and as if she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess BezÃºkhova who had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was now so kind to her. NatÃ¡sha brightened up and felt almost in love with this woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. HÃlÃ¨ne for her part was sincerely delighted with NatÃ¡sha and wished to give her a good time. Anatole had asked her to bring him and NatÃ¡sha together, and she was calling on the RostÃ³vs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her brother and NatÃ¡sha together amused her. Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with NatÃ¡sha for drawing BorÃs away, she did not think of that now, and in her own way heartily wished NatÃ¡sha well. As she was leaving the RostÃ³vs she called her protÃgÃe aside. My brother dined with me yesterday”we nearly died of laughter”he ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite madly, in love with you, my dear. NatÃ¡sha blushed scarlet when she heard this. How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty! said HÃlÃ¨ne. You must certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a reason to shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your fiancÃ would wish you to go into society rather than be bored to death. So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre”that good Pierre”have talked and laughed about this. So its all right. And again, under HÃlÃ¨nes influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed simple and natural. And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself? thought NatÃ¡sha, gazing at HÃlÃ¨ne with wide-open, wondering eyes. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having evidently suffered a defeat at the old princes. She was still too agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In answer to the counts inquiries she replied that things were all right and that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess BezÃºkhovas visit and the invitation for that evening, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna remarked: I dont care to have anything to do with BezÃºkhova and dont advise you to; however, if youve promised”go. It will divert your thoughts, she added, addressing NatÃ¡sha. CHAPTER XIII Count RostÃ³v took the girls to Countess BezÃºkhovas. There were a good many people there, but nearly all strangers to NatÃ¡sha. Count RostÃ³v was displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely of men and women known for the freedom of their conduct. Mademoiselle George was standing in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by young men. There were several Frenchmen present, among them MÃtivier who from the time HÃlÃ¨ne reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house. The count decided not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight and to get away as soon as Mademoiselle Georges performance was over. Anatole was at the door, evidently on the lookout for the RostÃ³vs. Immediately after greeting the count he went up to NatÃ¡sha and followed her. As soon as she saw him she was seized by the same feeling she had had at the opera”gratified vanity at his admiration of her and fear at the absence of a moral barrier between them. HÃlÃ¨ne welcomed NatÃ¡sha delightedly and was loud in admiration of her beauty and her dress. Soon after their arrival Mademoiselle George went out of the room to change her costume. In the drawing room people began arranging the chairs and taking their seats. Anatole moved a chair for NatÃ¡sha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never lost sight of her, took the seat himself. Anatole sat down behind her. Mademoiselle George, with her bare, fat, dimpled arms, and a red shawl draped over one shoulder, came into the space left vacant for her, and assumed an unnatural pose. Enthusiastic whispering was audible. Mademoiselle George looked sternly and gloomily at the audience and began reciting some French verses describing her guilty love for her son. In some places she raised her voice, in others she whispered, lifting her head triumphantly; sometimes she paused and uttered hoarse sounds, rolling her eyes. Adorable! divine! delicious! was heard from every side. NatÃ¡sha looked at the fat actress, but neither saw nor heard nor understood anything of what went on before her. She only felt herself again completely borne away into this strange senseless world”so remote from her old world”a world in which it was impossible to know what was good or bad, reasonable or senseless. Behind her sat Anatole, and conscious of his proximity she experienced a frightened sense of expectancy. After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded Mademoiselle George, expressing their enthusiasm. How beautiful she is! NatÃ¡sha remarked to her father who had also risen and was moving through the crowd toward the actress. I dont think so when I look at you! said Anatole, following NatÃ¡sha. He said this at a moment when she alone could hear him. You are enchanting... from the moment I saw you I have never ceased... Come, come, NatÃ¡sha! said the count, as he turned back for his daughter. How beautiful she is! NatÃ¡sha without saying anything stepped up to her father and looked at him with surprised inquiring eyes. After giving several recitations, Mademoiselle George left, and Countess BezÃºkhova asked her visitors into the ballroom. The count wished to go home, but HÃlÃ¨ne entreated him not to spoil her improvised ball, and the RostÃ³vs stayed on. Anatole asked NatÃ¡sha for a valse and as they danced he pressed her waist and hand and told her she was bewitching and that he loved her. During the Ãcossaise, which she also danced with him, Anatole said nothing when they happened to be by themselves, but merely gazed at her. NatÃ¡sha lifted her frightened eyes to him, but there was such confident tenderness in his affectionate look and smile that she could not, whilst looking at him, say what she had to say. She lowered her eyes. Dont say such things to me. I am betrothed and love another, she said rapidly.... She glanced at him. Anatole was not upset or pained by what she had said. Dont speak to me of that! What can I do? said he. I tell you I am madly, madly, in love with you! Is it my fault that you are enchanting?... Its our turn to begin. NatÃ¡sha, animated and excited, looked about her with wide-open frightened eyes and seemed merrier than usual. She understood hardly anything that went on that evening. They danced the Ãcossaise and the Grossvater. Her father asked her to come home, but she begged to remain. Wherever she went and whomever she was speaking to, she felt his eyes upon her. Later on she recalled how she had asked her father to let her go to the dressing room to rearrange her dress, that HÃlÃ¨ne had followed her and spoken laughingly of her brothers love, and that she again met Anatole in the little sitting room. HÃlÃ¨ne had disappeared leaving them alone, and Anatole had taken her hand and said in a tender voice: I cannot come to visit you but is it possible that I shall never see you? I love you madly. Can I never...? and, blocking her path, he brought his face close to hers. His large, glittering, masculine eyes were so close to hers that she saw nothing but them. Natalie? he whispered inquiringly while she felt her hands being painfully pressed. Natalie? I dont understand. I have nothing to say, her eyes replied. Burning lips were pressed to hers, and at the same instant she felt herself released, and HÃlÃ¨nes footsteps and the rustle of her dress were heard in the room. NatÃ¡sha looked round at her, and then, red and trembling, threw a frightened look of inquiry at Anatole and moved toward the door. One word, just one, for Gods sake! cried Anatole. She paused. She so wanted a word from him that would explain to her what had happened and to which she could find no answer. Natalie, just a word, only one! he kept repeating, evidently not knowing what to say and he repeated it till HÃlÃ¨ne came up to them. HÃlÃ¨ne returned with NatÃ¡sha to the drawing room. The RostÃ³vs went away without staying for supper. After reaching home NatÃ¡sha did not sleep all night. She was tormented by the insoluble question whether she loved Anatole or Prince Andrew. She loved Prince Andrew”she remembered distinctly how deeply she loved him. But she also loved Anatole, of that there was no doubt. Else how could all this have happened? thought she. If, after that, I could return his smile when saying good-by, if I was able to let it come to that, it means that I loved him from the first. It means that he is kind, noble, and splendid, and I could not help loving him. What am I to do if I love him and the other one too? she asked herself, unable to find an answer to these terrible questions. CHAPTER XIV Morning came with its cares and bustle. Everyone got up and began to move about and talk, dressmakers came again. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna appeared, and they were called to breakfast. NatÃ¡sha kept looking uneasily at everybody with wide-open eyes, as if wishing to intercept every glance directed toward her, and tried to appear the same as usual. After breakfast, which was her best time, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna sat down in her armchair and called NatÃ¡sha and the count to her. Well, friends, I have now thought the whole matter over and this is my advice, she began. Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince BolkÃ³nski. Well, I had a talk with him.... He took it into his head to begin shouting, but I am not one to be shouted down. I said what I had to say! Well, and he? asked the count. He? Hes crazy... he did not want to listen. But whats the use of talking? As it is we have worn the poor girl out, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. My advice to you is finish your business and go back home to OtrÃ¡dn... and wait there. Oh, no! exclaimed NatÃ¡sha. Yes, go back, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, and wait there. If your betrothed comes here now”there will be no avoiding a quarrel; but alone with the old man he will talk things over and then come on to you. Count RostÃ³v approved of this suggestion, appreciating its reasonableness. If the old man came round it would be all the better to visit him in Moscow or at Bald Hills later on; and if not, the wedding, against his wishes, could only be arranged at OtrÃ¡dn. That is perfectly true. And I am sorry I went to see him and took her, said the old count. No, why be sorry? Being here, you had to pay your respects. But if he wont”thats his affair, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, looking for something in her reticule. Besides, the trousseau is ready, so there is nothing to wait for; and what is not ready Ill send after you. Though I dont like letting you go, it is the best way. So go, with Gods blessing! Having found what she was looking for in the reticule she handed it to NatÃ¡sha. It was a letter from Princess Mary. She has written to you. How she torments herself, poor thing! Shes afraid you might think that she ds not like you. But she dsnt like me, said NatÃ¡sha. Dont talk nonsense! cried MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. I shant believe anyone, I know she dsnt like me, replied NatÃ¡sha boldly as she took the letter, and her face expressed a cold and angry resolution that caused MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna to look at her more intently and to frown. Dont answer like that, my good girl! she said. What I say is true! Write an answer! NatÃ¡sha did not reply and went to her own room to read Princess Marys letter. Princess Mary wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that had occurred between them. Whatever her fathers feelings might be, she begged NatÃ¡sha to believe that she could not help loving her as the one chosen by her brother, for whose happiness she was ready to sacrifice everything. Do not think, however, she wrote, that my father is ill-disposed toward you. He is an invalid and an old man who must be forgiven; but he is good and magnanimous and will love her who makes his son happy. Princess Mary went on to ask NatÃ¡sha to fix a time when she could see her again. After reading the letter NatÃ¡sha sat down at the writing table to answer it. Dear Princess, she wrote in French quickly and mechanically, and then paused. What more could she write after all that had happened the evening before? Yes, yes! All that has happened, and now all is changed, she thought as she sat with the letter she had begun before her. Must I break off with him? Must I really? Thats awful... and to escape from these dreadful thoughts she went to SÃ³nya and began sorting patterns with her. After dinner NatÃ¡sha went to her room and again took up Princess Marys letter. Can it be that it is all over? she thought. Can it be that all this has happened so quickly and has destroyed all that went before? She recalled her love for Prince Andrew in all its former strength, and at the same time felt that she loved KurÃ¡gin. She vividly pictured herself as Prince Andrews wife, and the scenes of happiness with him she had so often repeated in her imagination, and at the same time, aglow with excitement, recalled every detail of yesterdays interview with Anatole. Why could that not be as well? she sometimes asked herself in complete bewilderment. Only so could I be completely happy; but now I have to choose, and I cant be happy without either of them. Only, she thought, to tell Prince Andrew what has happened or to hide it from him are both equally impossible. But with that one nothing is spoiled. But am I really to abandon forever the joy of Prince Andrews love, in which I have lived so long? Please, Miss! whispered a maid entering the room with a mysterious air. A man told me to give you this” and she handed NatÃ¡sha a letter. Only, for Christs sake... the girl went on, as NatÃ¡sha, without thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter from Anatole, of which, without taking in a word, she understood only that it was a letter from him”from the man she loved. Yes, she loved him, or else how could that have happened which had happened? And how could she have a love letter from him in her hand? With trembling hands NatÃ¡sha held that passionate love letter which DÃ³lokhov had composed for Anatole, and as she read it she found in it an echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling. Since yesterday evening my fate has been sealed; to be loved by you or to die. There is no other way for me, the letter began. Then he went on to say that he knew her parents would not give her to him”for this there were secret reasons he could reveal only to her”but that if she loved him she need only say the word yes, and no human power could hinder their bliss. Love would conquer all. He would steal her away and carry her off to the ends of the earth. Yes, yes! I love him! thought NatÃ¡sha, reading the letter for the twentieth time and finding some peculiarly deep meaning in each word of it. That evening MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna was going to the AkhÃ¡rovs and proposed to take the girls with her. NatÃ¡sha, pleading a headache, remained at home. CHAPTER XV On returning late in the evening SÃ³nya went to NatÃ¡shas room, and to her surprise found her still dressed and asleep on the sofa. Open on the table, beside her lay Anatoles letter. SÃ³nya picked it up and read it. As she read she glanced at the sleeping NatÃ¡sha, trying to find in her face an explanation of what she was reading, but did not find it. Her face was calm, gentle, and happy. Clutching her breast to keep herself from choking, SÃ³nya, pale and trembling with fear and agitation, sat down in an armchair and burst into tears. How was it I noticed nothing? How could it go so far? Can she have left off loving Prince Andrew? And how could she let KurÃ¡gin go to such lengths? He is a deceiver and a villain, thats plain! What will Nicholas, dear noble Nicholas, do when he hears of it? So this is the meaning of her excited, resolute, unnatural look the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today, thought SÃ³nya. But it cant be that she loves him! She probably opened the letter without knowing who it was from. Probably she is offended by it. She could not do such a thing! SÃ³nya wiped away her tears and went up to NatÃ¡sha, again scanning her face. NatÃ¡sha! she said, just audibly. NatÃ¡sha awoke and saw SÃ³nya. Ah, youre back? And with the decision and tenderness that often come at the moment of awakening, she embraced her friend, but noticing SÃ³nyas look of embarrassment, her own face expressed confusion and suspicion. SÃ³nya, youve read that letter? she demanded. Yes, answered SÃ³nya softly. NatÃ¡sha smiled rapturously. No, SÃ³nya, I cant any longer! she said. I cant hide it from you any longer. You know, we love one another! SÃ³nya, darling, he writes... SÃ³nya... SÃ³nya stared open-eyed at NatÃ¡sha, unable to believe her ears. And BolkÃ³nski? she asked. Ah, SÃ³nya, if you only knew how happy I am! cried NatÃ¡sha. You dont know what love is.... But, NatÃ¡sha, can that be all over? NatÃ¡sha looked at SÃ³nya with wide-open eyes as if she could not grasp the question. Well, then, are you refusing Prince Andrew? said SÃ³nya. Oh, you dont understand anything! Dont talk nonsense, just listen! said NatÃ¡sha, with momentary vexation. But I cant believe it, insisted SÃ³nya. I dont understand. How is it you have loved a man for a whole year and suddenly... Why, you have only seen him three times! NatÃ¡sha, I dont believe you, youre joking! In three days to forget everything and so... Three days? said NatÃ¡sha. It seems to me Ive loved him a hundred years. It seems to me that I have never loved anyone before. You cant understand it.... SÃ³nya, wait a bit, sit here, and NatÃ¡sha embraced and kissed her. I had heard that it happens like this, and you must have heard it too, but its only now that I feel such love. Its not the same as before. As soon as I saw him I felt he was my master and I his slave, and that I could not help loving him. Yes, his slave! Whatever he orders I shall do. You dont understand that. What can I do? What can I do, SÃ³nya? cried NatÃ¡sha with a happy yet frightened expression. But think what you are doing, cried SÃ³nya. I cant leave it like this. This secret correspondence... How could you let him go so far? she went on, with a horror and disgust she could hardly conceal. I told you that I have no will, NatÃ¡sha replied. Why cant you understand? I love him! Then I wont let it come to that... I shall tell! cried SÃ³nya, bursting into tears. What do you mean? For Gods sake... If you tell, you are my enemy! declared NatÃ¡sha. You want me to be miserable, you want us to be separated.... When she saw NatÃ¡shas fright, SÃ³nya shed tears of shame and pity for her friend. But what has happened between you? she asked. What has he said to you? Why dsnt he come to the house? NatÃ¡sha did not answer her questions. For Gods sake, SÃ³nya, dont tell anyone, dont torture me, NatÃ¡sha entreated. Remember no one ought to interfere in such matters! I have confided in you.... But why this secrecy? Why dsnt he come to the house? asked SÃ³nya. Why dsnt he openly ask for your hand? You know Prince Andrew gave you complete freedom”if it is really so; but I dont believe it! NatÃ¡sha, have you considered what these secret reasons can be? NatÃ¡sha looked at SÃ³nya with astonishment. Evidently this question presented itself to her mind for the first time and she did not know how to answer it. I dont know what the reasons are. But there must be reasons! SÃ³nya sighed and shook her head incredulously. If there were reasons... she began. But NatÃ¡sha, guessing her doubts, interrupted her in alarm. SÃ³nya, one cant doubt him! One cant, one cant! Dont you understand? she cried. Ds he love you? Ds he love me? NatÃ¡sha repeated with a smile of pity at her friends lack of comprehension. Why, you have read his letter and you have seen him. But if he is dishonorable? He! dishonorable? If you only knew! exclaimed NatÃ¡sha. If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or cease seeing you; and if you wont do this, I will. I will write to him, and I will tell Papa! said SÃ³nya resolutely. But I cant live without him! cried NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha, I dont understand you. And what are you saying! Think of your father and of Nicholas. I dont want anyone, I dont love anyone but him. How dare you say he is dishonorable? Dont you know that I love him? screamed NatÃ¡sha. Go away, SÃ³nya! I dont want to quarrel with you, but go, for Gods sake go! You see how I am suffering! NatÃ¡sha cried angrily, in a voice of despair and repressed irritation. SÃ³nya burst into sobs and ran from the room. NatÃ¡sha went to the table and without a moments reflection wrote that answer to Princess Mary which she had been unable to write all the morning. In this letter she said briefly that all their misunderstandings were at an end; that availing herself of the magnanimity of Prince Andrew who when he went abroad had given her her freedom, she begged Princess Mary to forget everything and forgive her if she had been to blame toward her, but that she could not be his wife. At that moment this all seemed quite easy, simple, and clear to NatÃ¡sha. On Friday the RostÃ³vs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow. On the day the count left, SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha were invited to a big dinner party at the KarÃ¡gins, and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna took them there. At that party NatÃ¡sha again met Anatole, and SÃ³nya noticed that she spoke to him, trying not to be overheard, and that all through dinner she was more agitated than ever. When they got home NatÃ¡sha was the first to begin the explanation SÃ³nya expected. There, SÃ³nya, you were talking all sorts of nonsense about him, NatÃ¡sha began in a mild voice such as children use when they wish to be praised. We have had an explanation today. Well, what happened? What did he say? NatÃ¡sha, how glad I am youre not angry with me! Tell me everything”the whole truth. What did he say? NatÃ¡sha became thoughtful. Oh, SÃ³nya, if you knew him as I do! He said... He asked me what I had promised BolkÃ³nski. He was glad I was free to refuse him. SÃ³nya sighed sorrowfully. But you havent refused BolkÃ³nski? said she. Perhaps I have. Perhaps all is over between me and BolkÃ³nski. Why do you think so badly of me? I dont think anything, only I dont understand this... Wait a bit, SÃ³nya, youll understand everything. Youll see what a man he is! Now dont think badly of me or of him. I dont think badly of anyone: I love and pity everybody. But what am I to do? SÃ³nya did not succumb to the tender tone NatÃ¡sha used toward her. The more emotional and ingratiating the expression of NatÃ¡shas face became, the more serious and stern grew SÃ³nyas. NatÃ¡sha, said she, you asked me not to speak to you, and I havent spoken, but now you yourself have begun. I dont trust him, NatÃ¡sha. Why this secrecy? Again, again! interrupted NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha, I am afraid for you! Afraid of what? I am afraid youre going to your ruin, said SÃ³nya resolutely, and was herself horrified at what she had said. Anger again showed in NatÃ¡shas face. And Ill go to my ruin, I will, as soon as possible! Its not your business! It wont be you, but I, wholl suffer. Leave me alone, leave me alone! I hate you! NatÃ¡sha! moaned SÃ³nya, aghast. I hate you, I hate you! Youre my enemy forever! And NatÃ¡sha ran out of the room. NatÃ¡sha did not speak to SÃ³nya again and avoided her. With the same expression of agitated surprise and guilt she went about the house, taking up now one occupation, now another, and at once abandoning them. Hard as it was for SÃ³nya, she watched her friend and did not let her out of her sight. The day before the count was to return, SÃ³nya noticed that NatÃ¡sha sat by the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom SÃ³nya took to be Anatole. SÃ³nya began watching her friend still more attentively and noticed that at dinner and all that evening NatÃ¡sha was in a strange and unnatural state. She answered questions at random, began sentences she did not finish, and laughed at everything. After tea SÃ³nya noticed a housemaid at NatÃ¡shas door timidly waiting to let her pass. She let the girl go in, and then listening at the door learned that another letter had been delivered. Then suddenly it became clear to SÃ³nya that NatÃ¡sha had some dreadful plan for that evening. SÃ³nya knocked at her door. NatÃ¡sha did not let her in. She will run away with him! thought SÃ³nya. She is capable of anything. There was something particularly pathetic and resolute in her face today. She cried as she said good-by to Uncle, SÃ³nya remembered. Yes, thats it, she means to elope with him, but what am I to do? thought she, recalling all the signs that clearly indicated that NatÃ¡sha had some terrible intention. The count is away. What am I to do? Write to KurÃ¡gin demanding an explanation? But what is there to oblige him to reply? Write to Pierre, as Prince Andrew asked me to in case of some misfortune?... But perhaps she really has already refused BolkÃ³nski”she sent a letter to Princess Mary yesterday. And Uncle is away.... To tell MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna who had such faith in NatÃ¡sha seemed to SÃ³nya terrible. Well, anyway, thought SÃ³nya as she stood in the dark passage, now or never I must prove that I remember the familys goodness to me and that I love Nicholas. Yes! If I dont sleep for three nights Ill not leave this passage and will hold her back by force and will and not let the family be disgraced, thought she. CHAPTER XVI Anatole had lately moved to DÃ³lokhovs. The plan for Natalie RostÃ³vas abduction had been arranged and the preparations made by DÃ³lokhov a few days before, and on the day that SÃ³nya, after listening at NatÃ¡shas door, resolved to safeguard her, it was to have been put into execution. NatÃ¡sha had promised to come out to KurÃ¡gin at the back porch at ten that evening. KurÃ¡gin was to put her into a troyka he would have ready and to drive her forty miles to the village of KÃ¡menka, where an unfrocked priest was in readiness to perform a marriage ceremony over them. At KÃ¡menka a relay of horses was to wait which would take them to the Warsaw highroad, and from there they would hasten abroad with post horses. Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles he had taken from his sister and another ten thousand borrowed with DÃ³lokhovs help. Two witnesses for the mock marriage”KhvÃ³stikov, a retired petty official whom DÃ³lokhov made use of in his gambling transactions, and MakÃ¡rin, a retired hussar, a kindly, weak fellow who had an unbounded affection for KurÃ¡gin”were sitting at tea in DÃ³lokhovs front room. In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat DÃ³lokhov in a traveling cloak and high boots, at an open desk on which lay an abacus and some bundles of paper money. Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from the room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room behind, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his things. DÃ³lokhov was counting the money and noting something down. Well, he said, KhvÃ³stikov must have two thousand. Give it to him, then, said Anatole. MakÃ¡rka (their name for MakÃ¡rin) will go through fire and water for you for nothing. So here are our accounts all settled, said DÃ³lokhov, showing him the memorandum. Is that right? Yes, of course, returned Anatole, evidently not listening to DÃ³lokhov and looking straight before him with a smile that did not leave his face. DÃ³lokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an ironic smile: Do you know? Youd really better drop it all. Theres still time! Fool, retorted Anatole. Dont talk nonsense! If you only knew... its the devil knows what! No, really, give it up! said DÃ³lokhov. I am speaking seriously. Its no joke, this plot youve hatched. What, teasing again? Go to the devil! Eh? said Anatole, making a grimace. Really its no time for your stupid jokes, and he left the room. DÃ³lokhov smiled contemptuously and condescendingly when Anatole had gone out. You wait a bit, he called after him. Im not joking, Im talking sense. Come here, come here! Anatole returned and looked at DÃ³lokhov, trying to give him his attention and evidently submitting to him involuntarily. Now listen to me. Im telling you this for the last time. Why should I joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for you? Who found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I did it all. Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful? And Anatole sighed and embraced DÃ³lokhov. I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a dangerous business, and if you think about it”a stupid business. Well, youll carry her off”all right! Will they let it stop at that? It will come out that youre already married. Why, theyll have you in the criminal court.... Oh, nonsense, nonsense! Anatole ejaculated and again made a grimace. Didnt I explain to you? What? And Anatole, with the partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to DÃ³lokhov a hundred times. Didnt I explain to you that I have come to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid, he went on, crooking one finger, then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isnt that so? And dont talk to me, dont, dont. Seriously, youd better drop it! Youll only get yourself into a mess! Go to the devil! cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the room, but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of DÃ³lokhov with his feet turned under him. Its the very devil! What? Feel how it beats! He took DÃ³lokhovs hand and put it on his heart. What a foot, my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess! he added in French. What? DÃ³lokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes looked at him”evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him. Well and when the moneys gone, what then? What then? Eh? repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought of the future. What then?... Then, I dont know.... But why talk nonsense! He glanced at his watch. Its time! Anatole went into the back room. Now then! Nearly ready? Youre dawdling! he shouted to the servants. DÃ³lokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into the room where KhvÃ³stikov and MakÃ¡rin were sitting. Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself. Come and eat something. Have a drink! DÃ³lokhov shouted to him from the other room. I dont want to, answered Anatole continuing to smile. Come! BalagÃ¡ is here. Anatole rose and went into the dining room. BalagÃ¡ was a famous troyka driver who had known DÃ³lokhov and Anatole some six years and had given them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatoles regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again the next night. More than once he had enabled DÃ³lokhov to escape when pursued. More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies and ladykins as he called the cocottes. More than once in their service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences by my gentlemen as he called them. He had ruined more than one horse in their service. More than once they had beaten him, and more than once they had made him drunk on champagne and Madeira, which he loved; and he knew more than one thing about each of them which would long ago have sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often called BalagÃ¡ into their orgies and made him drink and dance at the gypsies, and more than one thousand rubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their service he risked his skin and his life twenty times a year, and in their service had lost more horses than the money he had from them would buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at twelve miles an hour, liked upsetting a driver or running down a pedestrian, and flying at full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked to hear those wild, tipsy shouts behind him: Get on! Get on! when it was impossible to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to some peasant who, more dead than alive, was already hurrying out of his way. Real gentlemen! he considered them. Anatole and DÃ³lokhov liked BalagÃ¡ too for his masterly driving and because he liked the things they liked. With others BalagÃ¡ bargained, charging twenty-five rubles for a two hours drive, and rarely drove himself, generally letting his young men do so. But with his gentlemen he always drove himself and never demanded anything for his work. Only a couple of times a year”when he knew from their valets that they had money in hand”he would turn up of a morning quite sober and with a deep bow would ask them to help him. The gentlemen always made him sit down. Do help me out, Theodore IvÃ¡nych, sir, or your excellency, he would say. I am quite out of horses. Let me have what you can to go to the fair. And Anatole and DÃ³lokhov, when they had money, would give him a thousand or a couple of thousand rubles. BalagÃ¡ was a fair-haired, short, and snub-nosed peasant of about twenty-seven; red-faced, with a particularly red thick neck, glittering little eyes, and a small beard. He wore a fine, dark-blue, silk-lined cloth coat over a sheepskin. On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front corner of the room, and went up to DÃ³lokhov, holding out a small, black hand. Theodore IvÃ¡nych! he said, bowing. How dyou do, friend? Well, here he is! Good day, your excellency! he said, again holding out his hand to Anatole who had just come in. I say, BalagÃ¡, said Anatole, putting his hands on the mans shoulders, do you care for me or not? Eh? Now, do me a service.... What horses have you come with? Eh? As your messenger ordered, your special beasts, replied BalagÃ¡. Well, listen, BalagÃ¡! Drive all three to death but get me there in three hours. Eh? When they are dead, what shall I drive? said BalagÃ¡ with a wink. Mind, Ill smash your face in! Dont make jokes! cried Anatole, suddenly rolling his eyes. Why joke? said the driver, laughing. As if Id grudge my gentlemen anything! As fast as ever the horses can gallop, so fast well go! Ah! said Anatole. Well, sit down. Yes, sit down! said DÃ³lokhov. Ill stand, Theodore IvÃ¡nych. Sit down; nonsense! Have a drink! said Anatole, and filled a large glass of Madeira for him. The drivers eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing it for manners sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk handkerchief he took out of his cap. And when are we to start, your excellency? Well... Anatole looked at his watch. Well start at once. Mind, BalagÃ¡! Youll get there in time? Eh? That depends on our luck in starting, else why shouldnt we be there in time? replied BalagÃ¡. Didnt we get you to Tver in seven hours? I think you remember that, your excellency? Do you know, one Christmas I drove from Tver, said Anatole, smilingly at the recollection and turning to MakÃ¡rin who gazed rapturously at him with wide-open eyes. Will you believe it, MakÃ¡rka, it took ones breath away, the rate we flew. We came across a train of loaded sleighs and drove right over two of them. Eh? Those were horses! BalagÃ¡ continued the tale. That time Id harnessed two young side horses with the bay in the shafts, he went on, turning to DÃ³lokhov. Will you believe it, Theodore IvÃ¡nych, those animals flew forty miles? I couldnt hold them in, my hands grew numb in the sharp frost so that I threw down the reins”˜Catch hold yourself, your excellency! says I, and I just tumbled on the bottom of the sleigh and sprawled there. It wasnt a case of urging them on, there was no holding them in till we reached the place. The devils took us there in three hours! Only the near one died of it. CHAPTER XVII Anatole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one side and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror, and standing before DÃ³lokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it, he lifted a glass of wine. Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell! said Anatole. Well, comrades and friends... he considered for a moment ... of my youth, farewell! he said, turning to MakÃ¡rin and the others. Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed one leg. All take glasses; you too, BalagÃ¡. Well, comrades and friends of my youth, weve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when shall we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time”now farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!... he cried, and emptying his glass flung it on the floor. To your health! said BalagÃ¡ who also emptied his glass, and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. MakÃ¡rin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes. Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you! Lets go. Lets go! cried Anatole. BalagÃ¡ was about to leave the room. No, stop! said Anatole. Shut the door; we have first to sit down. Thats the way. They shut the door and all sat down. Now, quick march, lads! said Anatole, rising. Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all went out into the vestibule. And wheres the fur cloak? asked DÃ³lokhov. Hey, IgnÃ¡tka! Go to MatrÃ«na MatrÃvna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what elopements are like, continued DÃ³lokhov with a wink. Why, shell rush out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay at all therell be tears and ˜Papa and ˜Mamma, and shes frozen in a minute and must go back”but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing and carry her to the sleigh. The valet brought a womans fox-lined cloak. Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, MatrÃ«na, the sable! he shouted so that his voice rang far through the rooms. A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes and curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable mantle on her arm. Here, I dont grudge it”take it! she said, evidently afraid of her master and yet regretful of her cloak. DÃ³lokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over MatrÃ«na, and wrapped her up in it. Thats the way, said DÃ³lokhov, and then so! and he turned the collar up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. And then so, do you see? and he pushed Anatoles head forward to meet the gap left by the collar, through which MatrÃ«nas brilliant smile was seen. Well, good-by, MatrÃ«na, said Anatole, kissing her. Ah, my revels here are over. Remember me to StÃ«shka. There, good-by! Good-by, MatrÃ«na, wish me luck! Well, Prince, may God give you great luck! said MatrÃ«na in her gypsy accent. Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were holding the horses. BalagÃ¡ took his seat in the front one and holding his elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and DÃ³lokhov got in with him. MakÃ¡rin, KhvÃ³stikov, and a valet seated themselves in the other sleigh. Well, are you ready? asked BalagÃ¡. Go! he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore down the NikÃtski Boulevard. Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!... The shouting of BalagÃ¡ and of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could be heard. On the ArbÃ¡t Square the troyka caught against a carriage; something cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the ArbÃ¡t Street. After taking a turn along the PodnovÃnski Boulevard, BalagÃ¡ began to rein in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old KonyÃºsheny Street. The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole and DÃ³lokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate DÃ³lokhov whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out. Come into the courtyard or youll be seen; shell come out directly, said she. DÃ³lokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the courtyard, turned the corner, and ran up into the porch. He was met by Gabriel, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas gigantic footman. Come to the mistress, please, said the footman in his deep bass, intercepting any retreat. To what Mistress? Who are you? asked Anatole in a breathless whisper. Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in. KurÃ¡gin! Come back! shouted DÃ³lokhov. Betrayed! Back! DÃ³lokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last desperate effort DÃ³lokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back with him to the troyka. CHAPTER XVIII MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, having found SÃ³nya weeping in the corridor, made her confess everything, and intercepting the note to NatÃ¡sha she read it and went into NatÃ¡shas room with it in her hand. You shameless good-for-nothing! said she. I wont hear a word. Pushing back NatÃ¡sha who looked at her with astonished but tearless eyes, she locked her in; and having given orders to the yard porter to admit the persons who would be coming that evening, but not to let them out again, and having told the footman to bring them up to her, she seated herself in the drawing room to await the abductors. When Gabriel came to inform her that the men who had come had run away again, she rose frowning, and clasping her hands behind her paced through the rooms a long time considering what she should do. Toward midnight she went to NatÃ¡shas room fingering the key in her pocket. SÃ³nya was sitting sobbing in the corridor. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, for Gods sake let me in to her! she pleaded, but MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna unlocked the door and went in without giving her an answer.... Disgusting, abominable... In my house... horrid girl, hussy! Im only sorry for her father! thought she, trying to restrain her wrath. Hard as it may be, Ill tell them all to hold their tongues and will hide it from the count. She entered the room with resolute steps. NatÃ¡sha lying on the sofa, her head hidden in her hands, and she did not stir. She was in just the same position in which MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna had left her. A nice girl! Very nice! said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. Arranging meetings with lovers in my house! Its no use pretending: you listen when I speak to you! And MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna touched her arm. Listen when I speak! Youve disgraced yourself like the lowest of hussies. Id treat you differently, but Im sorry for your father, so I will conceal it. NatÃ¡sha did not change her position, but her whole body heaved with noiseless, convulsive sobs which choked her. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna glanced round at SÃ³nya and seated herself on the sofa beside NatÃ¡sha. Its lucky for him that he escaped me; but Ill find him! she said in her rough voice. Do you hear what I am saying or not? she added. She put her large hand under NatÃ¡shas face and turned it toward her. Both MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna and SÃ³nya were amazed when they saw how NatÃ¡sha looked. Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her cheeks sunken. Let me be!... What is it to me?... I shall die! she muttered, wrenching herself from MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas hands with a vicious effort and sinking down again into her former position. Natalie! said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. I wish for your good. Lie still, stay like that then, I wont touch you. But listen. I wont tell you how guilty you are. You know that yourself. But when your father comes back tomorrow what am I to tell him? Eh? Again NatÃ¡shas body shook with sobs. Suppose he finds out, and your brother, and your betrothed? I have no betrothed: I have refused him! cried NatÃ¡sha. Thats all the same, continued MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. If they hear of this, will they let it pass? He, your father, I know him... if he challenges him to a duel will that be all right? Eh? Oh, let me be! Why have you interfered at all? Why? Why? Who asked you to? shouted NatÃ¡sha, raising herself on the sofa and looking malignantly at MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. But what did you want? cried MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, growing angry again. Were you kept under lock and key? Who hindered his coming to the house? Why carry you off as if you were some gypsy singing girl?... Well, if he had carried you off... do you think they wouldnt have found him? Your father, or brother, or your betrothed? And hes a scoundrel, a wretch”thats a fact! He is better than any of you! exclaimed NatÃ¡sha getting up. If you hadnt interfered... Oh, my God! What is it all? What is it? SÃ³nya, why?... Go away! And she burst into sobs with the despairing vehemence with which people bewail disasters they feel they have themselves occasioned. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna was to speak again but NatÃ¡sha cried out: Go away! Go away! You all hate and despise me! and she threw herself back on the sofa. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna went on admonishing her for some time, enjoining on her that it must all be kept from her father and assuring her that nobody would know anything about it if only NatÃ¡sha herself would undertake to forget it all and not let anyone see that something had happened. NatÃ¡sha did not reply, nor did she sob any longer, but she grew cold and had a shivering fit. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna put a pillow under her head, covered her with two quilts, and herself brought her some lime-flower water, but NatÃ¡sha did not respond to her. Well, let her sleep, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna as she went out of the room supposing NatÃ¡sha to be asleep. But NatÃ¡sha was not asleep; with pale face and fixed wide-open eyes she looked straight before her. All that night she did not sleep or weep and did not speak to SÃ³nya who got up and went to her several times. Next day Count RostÃ³v returned from his estate near Moscow in time for lunch as he had promised. He was in very good spirits; the affair with the purchaser was going on satisfactorily, and there was nothing to keep him any longer in Moscow, away from the countess whom he missed. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna met him and told him that NatÃ¡sha had been very unwell the day before and that they had sent for the doctor, but that she was better now. NatÃ¡sha had not left her room that morning. With compressed and parched lips and dry fixed eyes, she sat at the window, uneasily watching the people who drove past and hurriedly glancing round at anyone who entered the room. She was evidently expecting news of him and that he would come or would write to her. When the count came to see her she turned anxiously round at the sound of a mans footstep, and then her face resumed its cold and malevolent expression. She did not even get up to greet him. What is the matter with you, my angel? Are you ill? asked the count. After a moments silence NatÃ¡sha answered: Yes, ill. In reply to the counts anxious inquiries as to why she was so dejected and whether anything had happened to her betrothed, she assured him that nothing had happened and asked him not to worry. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna confirmed NatÃ¡shas assurances that nothing had happened. From the pretense of illness, from his daughters distress, and by the embarrassed faces of SÃ³nya and MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, the count saw clearly that something had gone wrong during his absence, but it was so terrible for him to think that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved daughter, and he so prized his own cheerful tranquillity, that he avoided inquiries and tried to assure himself that nothing particularly had happened; and he was only dissatisfied that her indisposition delayed their return to the country. CHAPTER XIX From the day his wife arrived in Moscow Pierre had been intending to go away somewhere, so as not to be near her. Soon after the RostÃ³vs came to Moscow the effect NatÃ¡sha had on him made him hasten to carry out his intention. He went to Tver to see Joseph AlexÃevichs widow, who had long since promised to hand over to him some papers of her deceased husbands. When he returned to Moscow Pierre was handed a letter from MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great importance relating to Andrew BolkÃ³nski and his betrothed. Pierre had been avoiding NatÃ¡sha because it seemed to him that his feeling for her was stronger than a married mans should be for his friends fiancÃe. Yet some fate constantly threw them together. What can have happened? And what can they want with me? thought he as he dressed to go to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas. If only Prince Andrew would hurry up and come and marry her! thought he on his way to the house. On the TverskÃ³y Boulevard a familiar voice called to him. Pierre! Been back long? someone shouted. Pierre raised his head. In a sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion MakÃ¡rin dashed past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his head slightly bent. His face was fresh and rosy, his white-plumed hat, tilted to one side, disclosed his curled and pomaded hair besprinkled with powdery snow. Yes, indeed, thats a true sage, thought Pierre. He sees nothing beyond the pleasure of the moment, nothing troubles him and so he is always cheerful, satisfied, and serene. What wouldnt I give to be like him! he thought enviously. In MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas anteroom the footman who helped him off with his fur coat said that the mistress asked him to come to her bedroom. When he opened the ballroom door Pierre saw NatÃ¡sha sitting at the window, with a thin, pale, and spiteful face. She glanced round at him, frowned, and left the room with an expression of cold dignity. What has happened? asked Pierre, entering MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas room. Fine doings! answered DmÃtrievna. For fifty-eight years have I lived in this world and never known anything so disgraceful! And having put him on his honor not to repeat anything she told him, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna informed him that NatÃ¡sha had refused Prince Andrew without her parents knowledge and that the cause of this was Anatole KurÃ¡gin into whose society Pierres wife had thrown her and with whom NatÃ¡sha had tried to elope during her fathers absence, in order to be married secretly. Pierre raised his shoulders and listened open-mouthed to what was told him, scarcely able to believe his own ears. That Prince Andrews deeply loved affianced wife”the same NatÃ¡sha RostÃ³va who used to be so charming”should give up BolkÃ³nski for that fool Anatole who was already secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with him as to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not conceive and could not imagine. He could not reconcile the charming impression he had of NatÃ¡sha, whom he had known from a child, with this new conception of her baseness, folly, and cruelty. He thought of his wife. They are all alike! he said to himself, reflecting that he was not the only man unfortunate enough to be tied to a bad woman. But still he pitied Prince Andrew to the point of tears and sympathized with his wounded pride, and the more he pitied his friend the more did he think with contempt and even with disgust of that NatÃ¡sha who had just passed him in the ballroom with such a look of cold dignity. He did not know that NatÃ¡shas soul was overflowing with despair, shame, and humiliation, and that it was not her fault that her face happened to assume an expression of calm dignity and severity. But how get married? said Pierre, in answer to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. He could not marry”he is married! Things get worse from hour to hour! ejaculated MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. A nice youth! What a scoundrel! And shes expecting him”expecting him since yesterday. She must be told! Then at least she wont go on expecting him. After hearing the details of Anatoles marriage from Pierre, and giving vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna told Pierre why she had sent for him. She was afraid that the count or BolkÃ³nski, who might arrive at any moment, if they knew of this affair (which she hoped to hide from them) might challenge Anatole to a duel, and she therefore asked Pierre to tell his brother-in-law in her name to leave Moscow and not dare to let her set eyes on him again. Pierre”only now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince Andrew”promised to do as she wished. Having briefly and exactly explained her wishes to him, she let him go to the drawing room. Mind, the count knows nothing. Behave as if you know nothing either, she said. And I will go and tell her it is no use expecting him! And stay to dinner if you care to! she called after Pierre. Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset. That morning NatÃ¡sha had told him that she had rejected BolkÃ³nski. Troubles, troubles, my dear fellow! he said to Pierre. What troubles one has with these girls without their mother! I do so regret having come here.... I will be frank with you. Have you heard she has broken off her engagement without consulting anybody? Its true this engagement never was much to my liking. Of course he is an excellent man, but still, with his fathers disapproval they wouldnt have been happy, and NatÃ¡sha wont lack suitors. Still, it has been going on so long, and to take such a step without fathers or mothers consent! And now shes ill, and God knows what! Its hard, Count, hard to manage daughters in their mothers absence.... Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the subject, but the count returned to his troubles. SÃ³nya entered the room with an agitated face. NatÃ¡sha is not quite well; shes in her room and would like to see you. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna is with her and she too asks you to come. Yes, you are a great friend of BolkÃ³nskis, no doubt she wants to send him a message, said the count. Oh dear! Oh dear! How happy it all was! And clutching the spare gray locks on his temples the count left the room. When MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna told NatÃ¡sha that Anatole was married, NatÃ¡sha did not wish to believe it and insisted on having it confirmed by Pierre himself. SÃ³nya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to NatÃ¡shas room. NatÃ¡sha, pale and stern, was sitting beside MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, and her eyes, glittering feverishly, met Pierre with a questioning look the moment he entered. She did not smile or nod, but only gazed fixedly at him, and her look asked only one thing: was he a friend, or like the others an enemy in regard to Anatole? As for Pierre, he evidently did not exist for her. He knows all about it, said MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna pointing to Pierre and addressing NatÃ¡sha. Let him tell you whether I have told the truth. NatÃ¡sha looked from one to the other as a hunted and wounded animal looks at the approaching dogs and sportsmen. NatÃ¡lya IlynÃchna, Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, whether it is true or not should make no difference to you, because... Then it is not true that hes married! Yes, it is true. Has he been married long? she asked. On your honor?... Pierre gave his word of honor. Is he still here? she asked, quickly. Yes, I have just seen him. She was evidently unable to speak and made a sign with her hands that they should leave her alone. CHAPTER XX Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once. He drove through the town seeking Anatole KurÃ¡gin, at the thought of whom now the blood rushed to his heart and he felt a difficulty in breathing. He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies, nor at Komonenos. Pierre drove to the Club. In the Club all was going on as usual. The members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about in groups; they greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news. The footman having greeted him, knowing his habits and his acquaintances, told him there was a place left for him in the small dining room and that Prince Michael ZakhÃ¡rych was in the library, but Paul TimofÃevich had not yet arrived. One of Pierres acquaintances, while they were talking about the weather, asked if he had heard of KurÃ¡gins abduction of RostÃ³va which was talked of in the town, and was it true? Pierre laughed and said it was nonsense for he had just come from the RostÃ³vs. He asked everyone about Anatole. One man told him he had not come yet, and another that he was coming to dinner. Pierre felt it strange to see this calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what was going on in his soul. He paced through the ballroom, waited till everyone had come, and as Anatole had not turned up did not stay for dinner but drove home. Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with DÃ³lokhov, consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair. It seemed to him essential to see NatÃ¡sha. In the evening he drove to his sisters to discuss with her how to arrange a meeting. When Pierre returned home after vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince Anatole was with the countess. The countess drawing room was full of guests. Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his return”at that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever”entered the drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him. Ah, Pierre, said the countess going up to her husband. You dont know what a plight our Anatole... She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husbands head, in his glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that rage and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his duel with DÃ³lokhov. Where you are, there is vice and evil! said Pierre to his wife. Anatole, come with me! I must speak to you, he added in French. Anatole glanced round at his sister and rose submissively, ready to follow Pierre. Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself and was leading him from the room. If you allow yourself in my drawing room... whispered HÃlÃ¨ne, but Pierre did not reply and went out of the room. Anatole followed him with his usual jaunty step but his face betrayed anxiety. Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole without looking at him. You promised Countess RostÃ³va to marry her and were about to elope with her, is that so? Mon cher, answered Anatole (their whole conversation was in French), I dont consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that tone. Pierres face, already pale, became distorted by fury. He seized Anatole by the collar of his uniform with his big hand and shook him from side to side till Anatoles face showed a sufficient degree of terror. When I tell you that I must talk to you!... repeated Pierre. Come now, this is stupid. What? said Anatole, fingering a button of his collar that had been wrenched loose with a bit of the cloth. Youre a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I dont know what deprives me from the pleasure of smashing your head with this! said Pierre, expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French. He took a heavy paperweight and lifted it threateningly, but at once put it back in its place. Did you promise to marry her? I... I didnt think of it. I never promised, because... Pierre interrupted him. Have you any letters of hers? Any letters? he said, moving toward Anatole. Anatole glanced at him and immediately thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out his pocketbook. Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table that stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa. I shant be violent, dont be afraid! said Pierre in answer to a frightened gesture of Anatoles. First, the letters, said he, as if repeating a lesson to himself. Secondly, he continued after a short pause, again rising and again pacing the room, tomorrow you must get out of Moscow. But how can I?... Thirdly, Pierre continued without listening to him, you must never breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess RostÃ³va. I know I cant prevent your doing so, but if you have a spark of conscience... Pierre paced the room several times in silence. Anatole sat at a table frowning and biting his lips. After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such a thing as other peoples happiness and peace, and that you are ruining a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself! Amuse yourself with women like my wife”with them you are within your rights, for they know what you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience of debauchery; but to promise a maid to marry her... to deceive, to kidnap.... Dont you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man or a child?... Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a questioning look. I dont know about that, eh? said Anatole, growing more confident as Pierre mastered his wrath. I dont know that and dont want to, he said, not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw, but you have used such words to me”˜mean and so on”which as a man of honor I cant allow anyone to use. Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he wanted. Though it was tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte, Anatole continued, still I cant... Is it satisfaction you want? said Pierre ironically. You could at least take back your words. What? If you want me to do as you wish, eh? I take them back, I take them back! said Pierre, and I ask you to forgive me. Pierre involuntarily glanced at the loose button. And if you require money for your journey... Anatole smiled. The expression of that base and cringing smile, which Pierre knew so well in his wife, revolted him. Oh, vile and heartless brood! he exclaimed, and left the room. Next day Anatole left for Petersburg. CHAPTER XXI Pierre drove to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas to tell her of the fulfillment of her wish that KurÃ¡gin should be banished from Moscow. The whole house was in a state of alarm and commotion. NatÃ¡sha was very ill, having, as MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna told him in secret, poisoned herself the night after she had been told that Anatole was married, with some arsenic she had stealthily procured. After swallowing a little she had been so frightened that she woke SÃ³nya and told her what she had done. The necessary antidotes had been administered in time and she was now out of danger, though still so weak that it was out of the question to move her to the country, and so the countess had been sent for. Pierre saw the distracted count, and SÃ³nya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see NatÃ¡sha. Pierre dined at the club that day and heard on all sides gossip about the attempted abduction of RostÃ³va. He resolutely denied these rumors, assuring everyone that nothing had happened except that his brother-in-law had proposed to her and been refused. It seemed to Pierre that it was his duty to conceal the whole affair and re-establish NatÃ¡shas reputation. He was awaiting Prince Andrews return with dread and went every day to the old princes for news of him. Old Prince BolkÃ³nski heard all the rumors current in the town from Mademoiselle Bourienne and had read the note to Princess Mary in which NatÃ¡sha had broken off her engagement. He seemed in better spirits than usual and awaited his son with great impatience. Some days after Anatoles departure Pierre received a note from Prince Andrew, informing him of his arrival and asking him to come to see him. As soon as he reached Moscow, Prince Andrew had received from his father NatÃ¡shas note to Princess Mary breaking off her engagement (Mademoiselle Bourienne had purloined it from Princess Mary and given it to the old prince), and he heard from him the story of NatÃ¡shas elopement, with additions. Prince Andrew had arrived in the evening and Pierre came to see him next morning. Pierre expected to find Prince Andrew in almost the same state as NatÃ¡sha and was therefore surprised on entering the drawing room to hear him in the study talking in a loud animated voice about some intrigue going on in Petersburg. The old princes voice and another now and then interrupted him. Princess Mary came out to meet Pierre. She sighed, looking toward the door of the room where Prince Andrew was, evidently intending to express her sympathy with his sorrow, but Pierre saw by her face that she was glad both at what had happened and at the way her brother had taken the news of NatÃ¡shas faithlessness. He says he expected it, she remarked. I know his pride will not let him express his feelings, but still he has taken it better, far better, than I expected. Evidently it had to be.... But is it possible that all is really ended? asked Pierre. Princess Mary looked at him with astonishment. She did not understand how he could ask such a question. Pierre went into the study. Prince Andrew, greatly changed and plainly in better health, but with a fresh horizontal wrinkle between his brows, stood in civilian dress facing his father and Prince MeshchÃrski, warmly disputing and vigorously gesticulating. The conversation was about SperÃ¡nski”the news of whose sudden exile and alleged treachery had just reached Moscow. Now he is censured and accused by all who were enthusiastic about him a month ago, Prince Andrew was saying, and by those who were unable to understand his aims. To judge a man who is in disfavor and to throw on him all the blame of other mens mistakes is very easy, but I maintain that if anything good has been accomplished in this reign it was done by him, by him alone. He paused at the sight of Pierre. His face quivered and immediately assumed a vindictive expression. Posterity will do him justice, he concluded, and at once turned to Pierre. Well, how are you? Still getting stouter? he said with animation, but the new wrinkle on his forehead deepened. Yes, I am well, he said in answer to Pierres question, and smiled. To Pierre that smile said plainly: I am well, but my health is now of no use to anyone. After a few words to Pierre about the awful roads from the Polish frontier, about people he had met in Switzerland who knew Pierre, and about M. Dessalles, whom he had brought from abroad to be his sons tutor, Prince Andrew again joined warmly in the conversation about SperÃ¡nski which was still going on between the two old men. If there were treason, or proofs of secret relations with Napoleon, they would have been made public, he said with warmth and haste. I do not, and never did, like SperÃ¡nski personally, but I like justice! Pierre now recognized in his friend a need with which he was only too familiar, to get excited and to have arguments about extraneous matters in order to stifle thoughts that were too oppressive and too intimate. When Prince MeshchÃrski had left, Prince Andrew took Pierres arm and asked him into the room that had been assigned him. A bed had been made up there, and some open portmanteaus and trunks stood about. Prince Andrew went to one and took out a small casket, from which he drew a packet wrapped in paper. He did it all silently and very quickly. He stood up and coughed. His face was gloomy and his lips compressed. Forgive me for troubling you.... Pierre saw that Prince Andrew was going to speak of NatÃ¡sha, and his broad face expressed pity and sympathy. This expression irritated Prince Andrew, and in a determined, ringing, and unpleasant tone he continued: I have received a refusal from Countess RostÃ³va and have heard reports of your brother-in-law having sought her hand, or something of that kind. Is that true? Both true and untrue, Pierre began; but Prince Andrew interrupted him. Here are her letters and her portrait, said he. He took the packet from the table and handed it to Pierre. Give this to the countess... if you see her. She is very ill, said Pierre. Then she is here still? said Prince Andrew. And Prince KurÃ¡gin? he added quickly. He left long ago. She has been at deaths door. I much regret her illness, said Prince Andrew; and he smiled like his father, coldly, maliciously, and unpleasantly. So Monsieur KurÃ¡gin has not honored Countess RostÃ³va with his hand? said Prince Andrew, and he snorted several times. He could not marry, for he was married already, said Pierre. Prince Andrew laughed disagreeably, again reminding one of his father. And where is your brother-in-law now, if I may ask? he said. He has gone to Peters... But I dont know, said Pierre. Well, it dsnt matter, said Prince Andrew. Tell Countess RostÃ³va that she was and is perfectly free and that I wish her all that is good. Pierre took the packet. Prince Andrew, as if trying to remember whether he had something more to say, or waiting to see if Pierre would say anything, looked fixedly at him. I say, do you remember our discussion in Petersburg? asked Pierre, about... Yes, returned Prince Andrew hastily. I said that a fallen woman should be forgiven, but I didnt say I could forgive her. I cant. But can this be compared...? said Pierre. Prince Andrew interrupted him and cried sharply: Yes, ask her hand again, be magnanimous, and so on?... Yes, that would be very noble, but I am unable to follow in that gentlemans footsteps. If you wish to be my friend never speak to me of that... of all that! Well, good-by. So youll give her the packet? Pierre left the room and went to the old prince and Princess Mary. The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Mary was the same as always, but beneath her sympathy for her brother, Pierre noticed her satisfaction that the engagement had been broken off. Looking at them Pierre realized what contempt and animosity they all felt for the RostÃ³vs, and that it was impossible in their presence even to mention the name of her who could give up Prince Andrew for anyone else. At dinner the talk turned on the war, the approach of which was becoming evident. Prince Andrew talked incessantly, arguing now with his father, now with the Swiss tutor Dessalles, and showing an unnatural animation, the cause of which Pierre so well understood. CHAPTER XXII That same evening Pierre went to the RostÃ³vs to fulfill the commission entrusted to him. NatÃ¡sha was in bed, the count at the club, and Pierre, after giving the letters to SÃ³nya, went to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna who was interested to know how Prince Andrew had taken the news. Ten minutes later SÃ³nya came to MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna. NatÃ¡sha insists on seeing Count Peter KirÃlovich, said she. But how? Are we to take him up to her? The room there has not been tidied up. No, she has dressed and gone into the drawing room, said SÃ³nya. MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna only shrugged her shoulders. When will her mother come? She has worried me to death! Now mind, dont tell her everything! said she to Pierre. One hasnt the heart to scold her, she is so much to be pitied, so much to be pitied. NatÃ¡sha was standing in the middle of the drawing room, emaciated, with a pale set face, but not at all shamefaced as Pierre expected to find her. When he appeared at the door she grew flurried, evidently undecided whether to go to meet him or to wait till he came up. Pierre hastened to her. He thought she would give him her hand as usual; but she, stepping up to him, stopped, breathing heavily, her arms hanging lifelessly just in the pose she used to stand in when she went to the middle of the ballroom to sing, but with quite a different expression of face. Peter KirÃlovich, she began rapidly, Prince BolkÃ³nski was your friend”is your friend, she corrected herself. (It seemed to her that everything that had once been must now be different.) He told me once to apply to you... Pierre sniffed as he looked at her, but did not speak. Till then he had reproached her in his heart and tried to despise her, but he now felt so sorry for her that there was no room in his soul for reproach. He is here now: tell him... to for... forgive me! She stopped and breathed still more quickly, but did not shed tears. Yes... I will tell him, answered Pierre; but... He did not know what to say. NatÃ¡sha was evidently dismayed at the thought of what he might think she had meant. No, I know all is over, she said hurriedly. No, that can never be. Im only tormented by the wrong I have done him. Tell him only that I beg him to forgive, forgive, forgive me for everything.... She trembled all over and sat down on a chair. A sense of pity he had never before known overflowed Pierres heart. I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more, said Pierre. But... I should like to know one thing.... Know what? NatÃ¡shas eyes asked. I should like to know, did you love... Pierre did not know how to refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him”did you love that bad man? Dont call him bad! said NatÃ¡sha. But I dont know, dont know at all.... She began to cry and a still greater sense of pity, tenderness, and love welled up in Pierre. He felt the tears trickle under his spectacles and hoped they would not be noticed. We wont speak of it any more, my dear, said Pierre, and his gentle, cordial tone suddenly seemed very strange to NatÃ¡sha. We wont speak of it, my dear”Ill tell him everything; but one thing I beg of you, consider me your friend and if you want help, advice, or simply to open your heart to someone”not now, but when your mind is clearer”think of me! He took her hand and kissed it. I shall be happy if its in my power... Pierre grew confused. Dont speak to me like that. I am not worth it! exclaimed NatÃ¡sha and turned to leave the room, but Pierre held her hand. He knew he had something more to say to her. But when he said it he was amazed at his own words. Stop, stop! You have your whole life before you, said he to her. Before me? No! All is over for me, she replied with shame and self-abasement. All over? he repeated. If I were not myself, but the handsomest, cleverest, and best man in the world, and were free, I would this moment ask on my knees for your hand and your love! For the first time for many days NatÃ¡sha wept tears of gratitude and tenderness, and glancing at Pierre she went out of the room. Pierre too when she had gone almost ran into the anteroom, restraining tears of tenderness and joy that choked him, and without finding the sleeves of his fur cloak threw it on and got into his sleigh. Where to now, your excellency? asked the coachman. Where to? Pierre asked himself. Where can I go now? Surely not to the Club or to pay calls? All men seemed so pitiful, so poor, in comparison with this feeling of tenderness and love he experienced: in comparison with that softened, grateful, last look she had given him through her tears. Home! said Pierre, and despite twenty-two degrees of frost Fahrenheit he threw open the bearskin cloak from his broad chest and inhaled the air with joy. It was clear and frosty. Above the dirty, ill-lit streets, above the black roofs, stretched the dark starry sky. Only looking up at the sky did Pierre cease to feel how sordid and humiliating were all mundane things compared with the heights to which his soul had just been raised. At the entrance to the ArbÃ¡t Square an immense expanse of dark starry sky presented itself to his eyes. Almost in the center of it, above the PrechÃstenka Boulevard, surrounded and sprinkled on all sides by stars but distinguished from them all by its nearness to the earth, its white light, and its long uplifted tail, shone the enormous and brilliant comet of 1812”the comet which was said to portend all kinds of ws and the end of the world. In Pierre, however, that comet with its long luminous tail aroused no feeling of fear. On the contrary he gazed joyfully, his eyes moist with tears, at this bright comet which, having traveled in its orbit with inconceivable velocity through immeasurable space, seemed suddenly”like an arrow piercing the earth”to remain fixed in a chosen spot, vigorously holding its tail erect, shining and displaying its white light amid countless other scintillating stars. It seemed to Pierre that this comet fully responded to what was passing in his own softened and uplifted soul, now blossoming into a new life. BOOK NINE: 1812 CHAPTER I From the close of the year 1811 an intensified arming and concentrating of the forces of Western Europe began, and in 1812 these forces”millions of men, reckoning those transporting and feeding the army”moved from the west eastwards to the Russian frontier, toward which since 1811 Russian forces had been similarly drawn. On the twelfth of June, 1812, the forces of Western Europe crossed the Russian frontier and war began, that is, an event took place opposed to human reason and to human nature. Millions of men perpetrated against one another such innumerable crimes, frauds, treacheries, thefts, forgeries, issues of false money, burglaries, incendiarisms, and murders as in whole centuries are not recorded in the annals of all the law courts of the world, but which those who committed them did not at the time regard as being crimes. What produced this extraordinary occurrence? What were its causes? The historians tell us with naÃ¯ve assurance that its causes were the wrongs inflicted on the Duke of Oldenburg, the nonobservance of the Continental System, the ambition of Napoleon, the firmness of Alexander, the mistakes of the diplomatists, and so on. Consequently, it would only have been necessary for Metternich, RumyÃ¡ntsev, or Talleyrand, between a levee and an evening party, to have taken proper pains and written a more adroit note, or for Napoleon to have written to Alexander: My respected Brother, I consent to restore the duchy to the Duke of Oldenburg”and there would have been no war. We can understand that the matter seemed like that to contemporaries. It naturally seemed to Napoleon that the war was caused by Englands intrigues (as in fact he said on the island of St. Helena). It naturally seemed to members of the English Parliament that the cause of the war was Napoleons ambition; to the Duke of Oldenburg, that the cause of the war was the violence done to him; to businessmen that the cause of the war was the Continental System which was ruining Europe; to the generals and old soldiers that the chief reason for the war was the necessity of giving them employment; to the legitimists of that day that it was the need of re-establishing les bons principes, and to the diplomatists of that time that it all resulted from the fact that the alliance between Russia and Austria in 1809 had not been sufficiently well concealed from Napoleon, and from the awkward wording of Memorandum No. 178. It is natural that these and a countless and infinite quantity of other reasons, the number depending on the endless diversity of points of view, presented themselves to the men of that day; but to us, to posterity who view the thing that happened in all its magnitude and perceive its plain and terrible meaning, these causes seem insufficient. To us it is incomprehensible that millions of Christian men killed and tortured each other either because Napoleon was ambitious or Alexander was firm, or because Englands policy was astute or the Duke of Oldenburg wronged. We cannot grasp what connection such circumstances have with the actual fact of slaughter and violence: why because the Duke was wronged, thousands of men from the other side of Europe killed and ruined the people of SmolÃnsk and Moscow and were killed by them. To us, their descendants, who are not historians and are not carried away by the process of research and can therefore regard the event with unclouded common sense, an incalculable number of causes present themselves. The deeper we delve in search of these causes the more of them we find; and each separate cause or whole series of causes appears to us equally valid in itself and equally false by its insignificance compared to the magnitude of the events, and by its impotence”apart from the cooperation of all the other coincident causes”to occasion the event. To us, the wish or objection of this or that French corporal to serve a second term appears as much a cause as Napoleons refusal to withdraw his troops beyond the Vistula and to restore the duchy of Oldenburg; for had he not wished to serve, and had a second, a third, and a thousandth corporal and private also refused, there would have been so many less men in Napoleons army and the war could not have occurred. Had Napoleon not taken offense at the demand that he should withdraw beyond the Vistula, and not ordered his troops to advance, there would have been no war; but had all his sergeants objected to serving a second term then also there could have been no war. Nor could there have been a war had there been no English intrigues and no Duke of Oldenburg, and had Alexander not felt insulted, and had there not been an autocratic government in Russia, or a Revolution in France and a subsequent dictatorship and Empire, or all the things that produced the French Revolution, and so on. Without each of these causes nothing could have happened. So all these causes”myriads of causes”coincided to bring it about. And so there was no one cause for that occurrence, but it had to occur because it had to. Millions of men, renouncing their human feelings and reason, had to go from west to east to slay their fellows, just as some centuries previously hordes of men had come from the east to the west, slaying their fellows. The actions of Napoleon and Alexander, on whose words the event seemed to hang, were as little voluntary as the actions of any soldier who was drawn into the campaign by lot or by conscription. This could not be otherwise, for in order that the will of Napoleon and Alexander (on whom the event seemed to depend) should be carried out, the concurrence of innumerable circumstances was needed without any one of which the event could not have taken place. It was necessary that millions of men in whose hands lay the real power”the soldiers who fired, or transported provisions and guns”should consent to carry out the will of these weak individuals, and should have been induced to do so by an infinite number of diverse and complex causes. We are forced to fall back on fatalism as an explanation of irrational events (that is to say, events the reasonableness of which we do not understand). The more we try to explain such events in history reasonably, the more unreasonable and incomprehensible do they become to us. Each man lives for himself, using his freedom to attain his personal aims, and feels with his whole being that he can now do or abstain from doing this or that action; but as soon as he has done it, that action performed at a certain moment in time becomes irrevocable and belongs to history, in which it has not a free but a predestined significance. There are two sides to the life of every man, his individual life, which is the more free the more abstract its interests, and his elemental hive life in which he inevitably obeys laws laid down for him. Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historic, universal, aims of humanity. A deed done is irrevocable, and its result coinciding in time with the actions of millions of other men assumes an historic significance. The higher a man stands on the social ladder, the more people he is connected with and the more power he has over others, the more evident is the predestination and inevitability of his every action. The kings heart is in the hands of the Lord. A king is historys slave. History, that is, the unconscious, general, hive life of mankind, uses every moment of the life of kings as a tool for its own purposes. Though Napoleon at that time, in 1812, was more convinced than ever that it depended on him, verser (ou ne pas verser) le sang de ses peuples *”as Alexander expressed it in the last letter he wrote him”he had never been so much in the grip of inevitable laws, which compelled him, while thinking that he was acting on his own volition, to perform for the hive life”that is to say, for history”whatever had to be performed. * To shed (or not to shed) the blood of his peoples. The people of the west moved eastwards to slay their fellow men, and by the law of coincidence thousands of minute causes fitted in and co-ordinated to produce that movement and war: reproaches for the nonobservance of the Continental System, the Duke of Oldenburgs wrongs, the movement of troops into Prussia”undertaken (as it seemed to Napoleon) only for the purpose of securing an armed peace, the French Emperors love and habit of war coinciding with his peoples inclinations, allurement by the grandeur of the preparations, and the expenditure on those preparations and the need of obtaining advantages to compensate for that expenditure, the intoxicating honors he received in Dresden, the diplomatic negotiations which, in the opinion of contemporaries, were carried on with a sincere desire to attain peace, but which only wounded the self-love of both sides, and millions of other causes that adapted themselves to the event that was happening or coincided with it. When an apple has ripened and falls, why ds it fall? Because of its attraction to the earth, because its stalk withers, because it is dried by the sun, because it grows heavier, because the wind shakes it, or because the boy standing below wants to eat it? Nothing is the cause. All this is only the coincidence of conditions in which all vital organic and elemental events occur. And the botanist who finds that the apple falls because the cellular tissue decays and so forth is equally right with the child who stands under the tree and says the apple fell because he wanted to eat it and prayed for it. Equally right or wrong is he who says that Napoleon went to Moscow because he wanted to, and perished because Alexander desired his destruction, and he who says that an undermined hill weighing a million tons fell because the last navvy struck it for the last time with his mattock. In historic events the so-called great men are labels giving names to events, and like labels they have but the smallest connection with the event itself. Every act of theirs, which appears to them an act of their own will, is in an historical sense involuntary and is related to the whole course of history and predestined from eternity. CHAPTER II On the twenty-ninth of May Napoleon left Dresden, where he had spent three weeks surrounded by a court that included princes, dukes, kings, and even an emperor. Before leaving, Napoleon showed favor to the emperor, kings, and princes who had deserved it, reprimanded the kings and princes with whom he was dissatisfied, presented pearls and diamonds of his own”that is, which he had taken from other kings”to the Empress of Austria, and having, as his historian tells us, tenderly embraced the Empress Marie Louise”who regarded him as her husband, though he had left another wife in Paris”left her grieved by the parting which she seemed hardly able to bear. Though the diplomatists still firmly believed in the possibility of peace and worked zealously to that end, and though the Emperor Napoleon himself wrote a letter to Alexander, calling him Monsieur mon frÃ¨re, and sincerely assured him that he did not want war and would always love and honor him”yet he set off to join his army, and at every station gave fresh orders to accelerate the movement of his troops from west to east. He went in a traveling coach with six horses, surrounded by pages, aides-de-camp, and an escort, along the road to Posen, Thorn, Danzig, and KÃ¶nigsberg. At each of these towns thousands of people met him with excitement and enthusiasm. The army was moving from west to east, and relays of six horses carried him in the same direction. On the tenth of June, * coming up with the army, he spent the night in apartments prepared for him on the estate of a Polish count in the Vilkavisski forest. * Old style. Next day, overtaking the army, he went in a carriage to the Niemen, and, changing into a Polish uniform, he drove to the riverbank in order to select a place for the crossing. Seeing, on the other side, some Cossacks (les Cosaques) and the wide-spreading steppes in the midst of which lay the holy city of Moscow (Moscou, la ville sainte), the capital of a realm such as the Scythia into which Alexander the Great had marched”Napoleon unexpectedly, and contrary alike to strategic and diplomatic considerations, ordered an advance, and the next day his army began to cross the Niemen. Early in the morning of the twelfth of June he came out of his tent, which was pitched that day on the steep left bank of the Niemen, and looked through a spyglass at the streams of his troops pouring out of the Vilkavisski forest and flowing over the three bridges thrown across the river. The troops, knowing of the Emperors presence, were on the lookout for him, and when they caught sight of a figure in an overcoat and a cocked hat standing apart from his suite in front of his tent on the hill, they threw up their caps and shouted: Vive lEmpereur! and one after another poured in a ceaseless stream out of the vast forest that had concealed them and, separating, flowed on and on by the three bridges to the other side. Now well go into action. Oh, when he takes it in hand himself, things get hot... by heaven!... There he is!... Vive lEmpereur! So these are the steppes of Asia! Its a nasty country all the same. Au revoir, BeauchÃ; Ill keep the best palace in Moscow for you! Au revoir. Good luck!... Did you see the Emperor? Vive lEmpereur!... preur!”If they make me Governor of India, GÃrard, Ill make you Minister of Kashmir”thats settled. Vive lEmpereur! Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! The Cossacks”those rascals”see how they run! Vive lEmpereur! There he is, do you see him? Ive seen him twice, as I see you now. The little corporal... I saw him give the cross to one of the veterans.... Vive lEmpereur! came the voices of men, old and young, of most diverse characters and social positions. On the faces of all was one common expression of joy at the commencement of the long-expected campaign and of rapture and devotion to the man in the gray coat who was standing on the hill. On the thirteenth of June a rather small, thoroughbred Arab horse was brought to Napoleon. He mounted it and rode at a gallop to one of the bridges over the Niemen, deafened continually by incessant and rapturous acclamations which he evidently endured only because it was impossible to forbid the soldiers to express their love of him by such shouting, but the shouting which accompanied him everywhere disturbed him and distracted him from the military cares that had occupied him from the time he joined the army. He rode across one of the swaying pontoon bridges to the farther side, turned sharply to the left, and galloped in the direction of KÃ³vno, preceded by enraptured, mounted chasseurs of the Guard who, breathless with delight, galloped ahead to clear a path for him through the troops. On reaching the broad river VÃliya, he stopped near a regiment of Polish Uhlans stationed by the river. Vivat! shouted the Poles, ecstatically, breaking their ranks and pressing against one another to see him. Napoleon looked up and down the river, dismounted, and sat down on a log that lay on the bank. At a mute sign from him, a telescope was handed him which he rested on the back of a happy page who had run up to him, and he gazed at the opposite bank. Then he became absorbed in a map laid out on the logs. Without lifting his head he said something, and two of his aides-de-camp galloped off to the Polish Uhlans. What? What did he say? was heard in the ranks of the Polish Uhlans when one of the aides-de-camp rode up to them. The order was to find a ford and to cross the river. The colonel of the Polish Uhlans, a handsome old man, flushed and, fumbling in his speech from excitement, asked the aide-de-camp whether he would be permitted to swim the river with his Uhlans instead of seeking a ford. In evident fear of refusal, like a boy asking for permission to get on a horse, he begged to be allowed to swim across the river before the Emperors eyes. The aide-de-camp replied that probably the Emperor would not be displeased at this excess of zeal. As soon as the aide-de-camp had said this, the old mustached officer, with happy face and sparkling eyes, raised his saber, shouted Vivat! and, commanding the Uhlans to follow him, spurred his horse and galloped into the river. He gave an angry thrust to his horse, which had grown restive under him, and plunged into the water, heading for the deepest part where the current was swift. Hundreds of Uhlans galloped in after him. It was cold and uncanny in the rapid current in the middle of the stream, and the Uhlans caught hold of one another as they fell off their horses. Some of the horses were drowned and some of the men; the others tried to swim on, some in the saddle and some clinging to their horses manes. They tried to make their way forward to the opposite bank and, though there was a ford one third of a mile away, were proud that they were swimming and drowning in this river under the eyes of the man who sat on the log and was not even looking at what they were doing. When the aide-de-camp, having returned and choosing an opportune moment, ventured to draw the Emperors attention to the devotion of the Poles to his person, the little man in the gray overcoat got up and, having summoned Berthier, began pacing up and down the bank with him, giving him instructions and occasionally glancing disapprovingly at the drowning Uhlans who distracted his attention. For him it was no new conviction that his presence in any part of the world, from Africa to the steppes of Muscovy alike, was enough to dumfound people and impel them to insane self-oblivion. He called for his horse and rode to his quarters. Some forty Uhlans were drowned in the river, though boats were sent to their assistance. The majority struggled back to the bank from which they had started. The colonel and some of his men got across and with difficulty clambered out on the further bank. And as soon as they had got out, in their soaked and streaming clothes, they shouted Vivat! and looked ecstatically at the spot where Napoleon had been but where he no longer was and at that moment considered themselves happy. That evening, between issuing one order that the forged Russian paper money prepared for use in Russia should be delivered as quickly as possible and another that a Saxon should be shot, on whom a letter containing information about the orders to the French army had been found, Napoleon also gave instructions that the Polish colonel who had needlessly plunged into the river should be enrolled in the LÃgion dhonneur of which Napoleon was himself the head. Quos vult perdere dementat. * * Those whom (God) wishes to destroy he drives mad. CHAPTER III The Emperor of Russia had, meanwhile, been in VÃlna for more than a month, reviewing troops and holding maneuvers. Nothing was ready for the war that everyone expected and to prepare for which the Emperor had come from Petersburg. There was no general plan of action. The vacillation between the various plans that were proposed had even increased after the Emperor had been at headquarters for a month. Each of the three armies had its own commander in chief, but there was no supreme commander of all the forces, and the Emperor did not assume that responsibility himself. The longer the Emperor remained in VÃlna the less did everybody”tired of waiting”prepare for the war. All the efforts of those who surrounded the sovereign seemed directed merely to making him spend his time pleasantly and forget that war was impending. In June, after many balls and fetes given by the Polish magnates, by the courtiers, and by the Emperor himself, it occurred to one of the Polish aides-de-camp in attendance that a dinner and ball should be given for the Emperor by his aides-de-camp. This idea was eagerly received. The Emperor gave his consent. The aides-de-camp collected money by subscription. The lady who was thought to be most pleasing to the Emperor was invited to act as hostess. Count Bennigsen, being a landowner in the VÃlna province, offered his country house for the fete, and the thirteenth of June was fixed for a ball, dinner, regatta, and fireworks at Zakret, Count Bennigsens country seat. The very day that Napoleon issued the order to cross the Niemen, and his vanguard, driving off the Cossacks, crossed the Russian frontier, Alexander spent the evening at the entertainment given by his aides-de-camp at Bennigsens country house. It was a gay and brilliant fete. Connoisseurs of such matters declared that rarely had so many beautiful women been assembled in one place. Countess BezÃºkhova was present among other Russian ladies who had followed the sovereign from Petersburg to VÃlna and eclipsed the refined Polish ladies by her massive, so-called Russian type of beauty. The Emperor noticed her and honored her with a dance. BorÃs DrubetskÃ³y, having left his wife in Moscow and being for the present en garÃ§on (as he phrased it), was also there and, though not an aide-de-camp, had subscribed a large sum toward the expenses. BorÃs was now a rich man who had risen to high honors and no longer sought patronage but stood on an equal footing with the highest of those of his own age. He was meeting HÃlÃ¨ne in VÃlna after not having seen her for a long time and did not recall the past, but as HÃlÃ¨ne was enjoying the favors of a very important personage and BorÃs had only recently married, they met as good friends of long standing. At midnight dancing was still going on. HÃlÃ¨ne, not having a suitable partner, herself offered to dance the mazurka with BorÃs. They were the third couple. BorÃs, coolly looking at HÃlÃ¨nes dazzling bare shoulders which emerged from a dark, gold-embroidered, gauze gown, talked to her of old acquaintances and at the same time, unaware of it himself and unnoticed by others, never for an instant ceased to observe the Emperor who was in the same room. The Emperor was not dancing, he stood in the doorway, stopping now one pair and now another with gracious words which he alone knew how to utter. As the mazurka began, BorÃs saw that Adjutant General BalashÃ«v, one of those in closest attendance on the Emperor, went up to him and contrary to court etiquette stood near him while he was talking to a Polish lady. Having finished speaking to her, the Emperor looked inquiringly at BalashÃ«v and, evidently understanding that he only acted thus because there were important reasons for so doing, nodded slightly to the lady and turned to him. Hardly had BalashÃ«v begun to speak before a look of amazement appeared on the Emperors face. He took BalashÃ«v by the arm and crossed the room with him, unconsciously clearing a path seven yards wide as the people on both sides made way for him. BorÃs noticed ArakchÃevs excited face when the sovereign went out with BalashÃ«v. ArakchÃev looked at the Emperor from under his brow and, sniffing with his red nose, stepped forward from the crowd as if expecting the Emperor to address him. (BorÃs understood that ArakchÃev envied BalashÃ«v and was displeased that evidently important news had reached the Emperor otherwise than through himself.) But the Emperor and BalashÃ«v passed out into the illuminated garden without noticing ArakchÃev who, holding his sword and glancing wrathfully around, followed some twenty paces behind them. All the time BorÃs was going through the figures of the mazurka, he was worried by the question of what news BalashÃ«v had brought and how he could find it out before others. In the figure in which he had to choose two ladies, he whispered to HÃlÃ¨ne that he meant to choose Countess Potocka who, he thought, had gone out onto the veranda, and glided over the parquet to the door opening into the garden, where, seeing BalashÃ«v and the Emperor returning to the veranda, he stood still. They were moving toward the door. BorÃs, fluttering as if he had not had time to withdraw, respectfully pressed close to the doorpost with bowed head. The Emperor, with the agitation of one who has been personally affronted, was finishing with these words: To enter Russia without declaring war! I will not make peace as long as a single armed enemy remains in my country! It seemed to BorÃs that it gave the Emperor pleasure to utter these words. He was satisfied with the form in which he had expressed his thoughts, but displeased that BorÃs had overheard it. Let no one know of it! the Emperor added with a frown. BorÃs understood that this was meant for him and, closing his eyes, slightly bowed his head. The Emperor re-entered the ballroom and remained there about another half-hour. BorÃs was thus the first to learn the news that the French army had crossed the Niemen and, thanks to this, was able to show certain important personages that much that was concealed from others was usually known to him, and by this means he rose higher in their estimation. The unexpected news of the French having crossed the Niemen was particularly startling after a month of unfulfilled expectations, and at a ball. On first receiving the news, under the influence of indignation and resentment the Emperor had found a phrase that pleased him, fully expressed his feelings, and has since become famous. On returning home at two oclock that night he sent for his secretary, ShishkÃ³v, and told him to write an order to the troops and a rescript to Field Marshal Prince SaltykÃ³v, in which he insisted on the words being inserted that he would not make peace so long as a single armed Frenchman remained on Russian soil. Next day the following letter was sent to Napoleon: Monsieur mon frÃ¨re, Yesterday I learned that, despite the loyalty with which I have kept my engagements with Your Majesty, your troops have crossed the Russian frontier, and I have this moment received from Petersburg a note, in which Count Lauriston informs me, as a reason for this aggression, that Your Majesty has considered yourself to be in a state of war with me from the time Prince KurÃ¡kin asked for his passports. The reasons on which the Duc de Bassano based his refusal to deliver them to him would never have led me to suppose that that could serve as a pretext for aggression. In fact, the ambassador, as he himself has declared, was never authorized to make that demand, and as soon as I was informed of it I let him know how much I disapproved of it and ordered him to remain at his post. If Your Majesty ds not intend to shed the blood of our peoples for such a misunderstanding, and consents to withdraw your troops from Russian territory, I will regard what has passed as not having occurred and an understanding between us will be possible. In the contrary case, Your Majesty, I shall see myself forced to repel an attack that nothing on my part has provoked. It still depends on Your Majesty to preserve humanity from the calamity of another war. I am, etc., (signed) Alexander CHAPTER IV At two in the morning of the fourteenth of June, the Emperor, having sent for BalashÃ«v and read him his letter to Napoleon, ordered him to take it and hand it personally to the French Emperor. When dispatching BalashÃ«v, the Emperor repeated to him the words that he would not make peace so long as a single armed enemy remained on Russian soil and told him to transmit those words to Napoleon. Alexander did not insert them in his letter to Napoleon, because with his characteristic tact he felt it would be injudicious to use them at a moment when a last attempt at reconciliation was being made, but he definitely instructed BalashÃ«v to repeat them personally to Napoleon. Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied by a bugler and two Cossacks, BalashÃ«v reached the French outposts at the village of RykÃ³nty, on the Russian side of the Niemen, by dawn. There he was stopped by French cavalry sentinels. A French noncommissioned officer of hussars, in crimson uniform and a shaggy cap, shouted to the approaching BalashÃ«v to halt. BalashÃ«v did not do so at once, but continued to advance along the road at a walking pace. The noncommissioned officer frowned and, muttering words of abuse, advanced his horses chest against BalashÃ«v, put his hand to his saber, and shouted rudely at the Russian general, asking: was he deaf that he did not do as he was told? BalashÃ«v mentioned who he was. The noncommissioned officer began talking with his comrades about regimental matters without looking at the Russian general. After living at the seat of the highest authority and power, after conversing with the Emperor less than three hours before, and in general being accustomed to the respect due to his rank in the service, BalashÃ«v found it very strange here on Russian soil to encounter this hostile, and still more this disrespectful, application of brute force to himself. The sun was only just appearing from behind the clouds, the air was fresh and dewy. A herd of cattle was being driven along the road from the village, and over the fields the larks rose trilling, one after another, like bubbles rising in water. BalashÃ«v looked around him, awaiting the arrival of an officer from the village. The Russian Cossacks and bugler and the French hussars looked silently at one another from time to time. A French colonel of hussars, who had evidently just left his bed, came riding from the village on a handsome sleek gray horse, accompanied by two hussars. The officer, the soldiers, and their horses all looked smart and well kept. It was that first period of a campaign when troops are still in full trim, almost like that of peacetime maneuvers, but with a shade of martial swagger in their clothes, and a touch of the gaiety and spirit of enterprise which always accompany the opening of a campaign. The French colonel with difficulty repressed a yawn, but was polite and evidently understood BalashÃ«vs importance. He led him past his soldiers and behind the outposts and told him that his wish to be presented to the Emperor would most likely be satisfied immediately, as the Emperors quarters were, he believed, not far off. They rode through the village of RykÃ³nty, past tethered French hussar horses, past sentinels and men who saluted their colonel and stared with curiosity at a Russian uniform, and came out at the other end of the village. The colonel said that the commander of the division was a mile and a quarter away and would receive BalashÃ«v and conduct him to his destination. The sun had by now risen and shone gaily on the bright verdure. They had hardly ridden up a hill, past a tavern, before they saw a group of horsemen coming toward them. In front of the group, on a black horse with trappings that glittered in the sun, rode a tall man with plumes in his hat and black hair curling down to his shoulders. He wore a red mantle, and stretched his long legs forward in French fashion. This man rode toward BalashÃ«v at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and gold lace glittering in the bright June sunshine. BalashÃ«v was only two horses length from the equestrian with the bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was galloping toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when Julner, the French colonel, whispered respectfully: The King of Naples! It was, in fact, Murat, now called King of Naples. Though it was quite incomprehensible why he should be King of Naples, he was called so, and was himself convinced that he was so, and therefore assumed a more solemn and important air than formerly. He was so sure that he really was the King of Naples that when, on the eve of his departure from that city, while walking through the streets with his wife, some Italians called out to him: Viva il re! * he turned to his wife with a pensive smile and said: Poor fellows, they dont know that I am leaving them tomorrow! * Long live the king. But though he firmly believed himself to be King of Naples and pitied the grief felt by the subjects he was abandoning, latterly, after he had been ordered to return to military service”and especially since his last interview with Napoleon in Danzig, when his august brother-in-law had told him: I made you King that you should reign in my way, but not in yours!”he had cheerfully taken up his familiar business, and”like a well-fed but not overfat horse that feels himself in harness and grows skittish between the shafts”he dressed up in clothes as variegated and expensive as possible, and gaily and contentedly galloped along the roads of Poland, without himself knowing why or whither. On seeing the Russian general he threw back his head, with its long hair curling to his shoulders, in a majestically royal manner, and looked inquiringly at the French colonel. The colonel respectfully informed His Majesty of BalashÃ«vs mission, whose name he could not pronounce. De Bal-machÃ¨ve! said the King (overcoming by his assurance the difficulty that had presented itself to the colonel). Charmed to make your acquaintance, General! he added, with a gesture of kingly condescension. As soon as the King began to speak loud and fast his royal dignity instantly forsook him, and without noticing it he passed into his natural tone of good-natured familiarity. He laid his hand on the withers of BalashÃ«vs horse and said: Well, General, it all looks like war, as if regretting a circumstance of which he was unable to judge. Your Majesty, replied BalashÃ«v, my master, the Emperor, ds not desire war and as Your Majesty sees... said BalashÃ«v, using the words Your Majesty at every opportunity, with the affectation unavoidable in frequently addressing one to whom the title was still a novelty. Murats face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened to Monsieur de Bal-machÃ¨ve. But royautÃ oblige! * and he felt it incumbent on him, as a king and an ally, to confer on state affairs with Alexanders envoy. He dismounted, took BalashÃ«vs arm, and moving a few steps away from his suite, which waited respectfully, began to pace up and down with him, trying to speak significantly. He referred to the fact that the Emperor Napoleon had resented the demand that he should withdraw his troops from Prussia, especially when that demand became generally known and the dignity of France was thereby offended. * Royalty has its obligations. BalashÃ«v replied that there was nothing offensive in the demand, because... but Murat interrupted him. Then you dont consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor? he asked unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile. BalashÃ«v told him why he considered Napoleon to be the originator of the war. Oh, my dear general! Murat again interrupted him, with all my heart I wish the Emperors may arrange the affair between them, and that the war begun by no wish of mine may finish as quickly as possible! said he, in the tone of a servant who wants to remain good friends with another despite a quarrel between their masters. And he went on to inquiries about the Grand Duke and the state of his health, and to reminiscences of the gay and amusing times he had spent with him in Naples. Then suddenly, as if remembering his royal dignity, Murat solemnly drew himself up, assumed the pose in which he had stood at his coronation, and, waving his right arm, said: I wont detain you longer, General. I wish success to your mission, and with his embroidered red mantle, his flowing feathers, and his glittering ornaments, he rejoined his suite who were respectfully awaiting him. BalashÃ«v rode on, supposing from Murats words that he would very soon be brought before Napoleon himself. But instead of that, at the next village the sentinels of Davouts infantry corps detained him as the pickets of the vanguard had done, and an adjutant of the corps commander, who was fetched, conducted him into the village to Marshal Davout. CHAPTER V Davout was to Napoleon what ArakchÃev was to Alexander”though not a coward like ArakchÃev, he was as precise, as cruel, and as unable to express his devotion to his monarch except by cruelty. In the organism of states such men are necessary, as wolves are necessary in the organism of nature, and they always exist, always appear and hold their own, however incongruous their presence and their proximity to the head of the government may be. This inevitability alone can explain how the cruel ArakchÃev, who tore out a grenadiers mustache with his own hands, whose weak nerves rendered him unable to face danger, and who was neither an educated man nor a courtier, was able to maintain his powerful position with Alexander, whose own character was chivalrous, noble, and gentle. BalashÃ«v found Davout seated on a barrel in the shed of a peasants hut, writing”he was auditing accounts. Better quarters could have been found him, but Marshal Davout was one of those men who purposely put themselves in most depressing conditions to have a justification for being gloomy. For the same reason they are always hard at work and in a hurry. How can I think of the bright side of life when, as you see, I am sitting on a barrel and working in a dirty shed? the expression of his face seemed to say. The chief pleasure and necessity of such men, when they encounter anyone who shows animation, is to flaunt their own dreary, persistent activity. Davout allowed himself that pleasure when BalashÃ«v was brought in. He became still more absorbed in his task when the Russian general entered, and after glancing over his spectacles at BalashÃ«vs face, which was animated by the beauty of the morning and by his talk with Murat, he did not rise or even stir, but scowled still more and sneered malevolently. When he noticed in BalashÃ«vs face the disagreeable impression this reception produced, Davout raised his head and coldly asked what he wanted. Thinking he could have been received in such a manner only because Davout did not know that he was adjutant general to the Emperor Alexander and even his envoy to Napoleon, BalashÃ«v hastened to inform him of his rank and mission. Contrary to his expectation, Davout, after hearing him, became still surlier and ruder. Where is your dispatch? he inquired. Give it to me. I will send it to the Emperor. BalashÃ«v replied that he had been ordered to hand it personally to the Emperor. Your Emperors orders are obeyed in your army, but here, said Davout, you must do as youre told. And, as if to make the Russian general still more conscious of his dependence on brute force, Davout sent an adjutant to call the officer on duty. BalashÃ«v took out the packet containing the Emperors letter and laid it on the table (made of a door with its hinges still hanging on it, laid across two barrels). Davout took the packet and read the inscription. You are perfectly at liberty to treat me with respect or not, protested BalashÃ«v, but permit me to observe that I have the honor to be adjutant general to His Majesty.... Davout glanced at him silently and plainly derived pleasure from the signs of agitation and confusion which appeared on BalashÃ«vs face. You will be treated as is fitting, said he and, putting the packet in his pocket, left the shed. A minute later the marshals adjutant, de CastrÃ¨s, came in and conducted BalashÃ«v to the quarters assigned him. That day he dined with the marshal, at the same board on the barrels. Next day Davout rode out early and, after asking BalashÃ«v to come to him, peremptorily requested him to remain there, to move on with the baggage train should orders come for it to move, and to talk to no one except Monsieur de CastrÃ¨s. After four days of solitude, ennui, and consciousness of his impotence and insignificance”particularly acute by contrast with the sphere of power in which he had so lately moved”and after several marches with the marshals baggage and the French army, which occupied the whole district, BalashÃ«v was brought to VÃlna”now occupied by the French”through the very gate by which he had left it four days previously. Next day the imperial gentleman-in-waiting, the Comte de Turenne, came to BalashÃ«v and informed him of the Emperor Napoleons wish to honor him with an audience. Four days before, sentinels of the PreobrazhÃnsk regiment had stood in front of the house to which BalashÃ«v was conducted, and now two French grenadiers stood there in blue uniforms unfastened in front and with shaggy caps on their heads, and an escort of hussars and Uhlans and a brilliant suite of aides-de-camp, pages, and generals, who were waiting for Napoleon to come out, were standing at the porch, round his saddle horse and his Mameluke, Rustan. Napoleon received BalashÃ«v in the very house in VÃlna from which Alexander had dispatched him on his mission. CHAPTER VI Though BalashÃ«v was used to imperial pomp, he was amazed at the luxury and magnificence of Napoleons court. The Comte de Turenne showed him into a big reception room where many generals, gentlemen-in-waiting, and Polish magnates”several of whom BalashÃ«v had seen at the court of the Emperor of Russia”were waiting. Duroc said that Napoleon would receive the Russian general before going for his ride. After some minutes, the gentleman-in-waiting who was on duty came into the great reception room and, bowing politely, asked BalashÃ«v to follow him. BalashÃ«v went into a small reception room, one door of which led into a study, the very one from which the Russian Emperor had dispatched him on his mission. He stood a minute or two, waiting. He heard hurried footsteps beyond the door, both halves of it were opened rapidly; all was silent and then from the study the sound was heard of other steps, firm and resolute”they were those of Napoleon. He had just finished dressing for his ride, and wore a blue uniform, opening in front over a white waistcoat so long that it covered his rotund stomach, white leather breeches tightly fitting the fat thighs of his short legs, and Hessian boots. His short hair had evidently just been brushed, but one lock hung down in the middle of his broad forehead. His plump white neck stood out sharply above the black collar of his uniform, and he smelled of Eau de Cologne. His full face, rather young-looking, with its prominent chin, wore a gracious and majestic expression of imperial welcome. He entered briskly, with a jerk at every step and his head slightly thrown back. His whole short corpulent figure with broad thick shoulders, and chest and stomach involuntarily protruding, had that imposing and stately appearance one sees in men of forty who live in comfort. It was evident, too, that he was in the best of spirits that day. He nodded in answer to BalashÃ«vs low and respectful bow, and coming up to him at once began speaking like a man who values every moment of his time and ds not condescend to prepare what he has to say but is sure he will always say the right thing and say it well. Good day, General! said he. I have received the letter you brought from the Emperor Alexander and am very glad to see you. He glanced with his large eyes into BalashÃ«vs face and immediately looked past him. It was plain that BalashÃ«vs personality did not interest him at all. Evidently only what took place within his own mind interested him. Nothing outside himself had any significance for him, because everything in the world, it seemed to him, depended entirely on his will. I do not, and did not, desire war, he continued, but it has been forced on me. Even now (he emphasized the word) I am ready to receive any explanations you can give me. And he began clearly and concisely to explain his reasons for dissatisfaction with the Russian government. Judging by the calmly moderate and amicable tone in which the French Emperor spoke, BalashÃ«v was firmly persuaded that he wished for peace and intended to enter into negotiations. When Napoleon, having finished speaking, looked inquiringly at the Russian envoy, BalashÃ«v began a speech he had prepared long before: Sire! The Emperor, my master... but the sight of the Emperors eyes bent on him confused him. You are flurried”compose yourself! Napoleon seemed to say, as with a scarcely perceptible smile he looked at BalashÃ«vs uniform and sword. BalashÃ«v recovered himself and began to speak. He said that the Emperor Alexander did not consider KurÃ¡kins demand for his passports a sufficient cause for war; that KurÃ¡kin had acted on his own initiative and without his sovereigns assent, that the Emperor Alexander did not desire war, and had no relations with England. Not yet! interposed Napoleon, and, as if fearing to give vent to his feelings, he frowned and nodded slightly as a sign that BalashÃ«v might proceed. After saying all he had been instructed to say, BalashÃ«v added that the Emperor Alexander wished for peace, but would not enter into negotiations except on condition that... Here BalashÃ«v hesitated: he remembered the words the Emperor Alexander had not written in his letter, but had specially inserted in the rescript to SaltykÃ³v and had told BalashÃ«v to repeat to Napoleon. BalashÃ«v remembered these words, So long as a single armed f remains on Russian soil, but some complex feeling restrained him. He could not utter them, though he wished to do so. He grew confused and said: On condition that the French army retires beyond the Niemen. Napoleon noticed BalashÃ«vs embarrassment when uttering these last words; his face twitched and the calf of his left leg began to quiver rhythmically. Without moving from where he stood he began speaking in a louder tone and more hurriedly than before. During the speech that followed, BalashÃ«v, who more than once lowered his eyes, involuntarily noticed the quivering of Napoleons left leg which increased the more Napoleon raised his voice. I desire peace, no less than the Emperor Alexander, he began. Have I not for eighteen months been doing everything to obtain it? I have waited eighteen months for explanations. But in order to begin negotiations, what is demanded of me? he said, frowning and making an energetic gesture of inquiry with his small white plump hand. The withdrawal of your army beyond the Niemen, sire, replied BalashÃ«v. The Niemen? repeated Napoleon. So now you want me to retire beyond the Niemen”only the Niemen? repeated Napoleon, looking straight at BalashÃ«v. The latter bowed his head respectfully. Instead of the demand of four months earlier to withdraw from Pomerania, only a withdrawal beyond the Niemen was now demanded. Napoleon turned quickly and began to pace the room. You say the demand now is that I am to withdraw beyond the Niemen before commencing negotiations, but in just the same way two months ago the demand was that I should withdraw beyond the Vistula and the Oder, and yet you are willing to negotiate. He went in silence from one corner of the room to the other and again stopped in front of BalashÃ«v. BalashÃ«v noticed that his left leg was quivering faster than before and his face seemed petrified in its stern expression. This quivering of his left leg was a thing Napoleon was conscious of. The vibration of my left calf is a great sign with me, he remarked at a later date. Such demands as to retreat beyond the Vistula and Oder may be made to a Prince of Baden, but not to me! Napoleon almost screamed, quite to his own surprise. If you gave me Petersburg and Moscow I could not accept such conditions. You say I have begun this war! But who first joined his army? The Emperor Alexander, not I! And you offer me negotiations when I have expended millions, when you are in alliance with England, and when your position is a bad one. You offer me negotiations! But what is the aim of your alliance with England? What has she given you? he continued hurriedly, evidently no longer trying to show the advantages of peace and discuss its possibility, but only to prove his own rectitude and power and Alexanders errors and duplicity. The commencement of his speech had obviously been made with the intention of demonstrating the advantages of his position and showing that he was nevertheless willing to negotiate. But he had begun talking, and the more he talked the less could he control his words. The whole purport of his remarks now was evidently to exalt himself and insult Alexander”just what he had least desired at the commencement of the interview. I hear you have made peace with Turkey? BalashÃ«v bowed his head affirmatively. Peace has been concluded... he began. But Napoleon did not let him speak. He evidently wanted to do all the talking himself, and continued to talk with the sort of eloquence and unrestrained irritability to which spoiled people are so prone. Yes, I know you have made peace with the Turks without obtaining Moldavia and Wallachia; I would have given your sovereign those provinces as I gave him Finland. Yes, he went on, I promised and would have given the Emperor Alexander Moldavia and Wallachia, and now he wont have those splendid provinces. Yet he might have united them to his empire and in a single reign would have extended Russia from the Gulf of Bothnia to the mouths of the Danube. Catherine the Great could not have done more, said Napoleon, growing more and more excited as he paced up and down the room, repeating to BalashÃ«v almost the very words he had used to Alexander himself at Tilsit. All that, he would have owed to my friendship. Oh, what a splendid reign! he repeated several times, then paused, drew from his pocket a gold snuffbox, lifted it to his nose, and greedily sniffed at it. What a splendid reign the Emperor Alexanders might have been! He looked compassionately at BalashÃ«v, and as soon as the latter tried to make some rejoinder hastily interrupted him. What could he wish or look for that he would not have obtained through my friendship? demanded Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders in perplexity. But no, he has preferred to surround himself with my enemies, and with whom? With Steins, Armfeldts, Bennigsens, and Wintzingerodes! Stein, a traitor expelled from his own country; Armfeldt, a rake and an intriguer; Wintzingerode, a fugitive French subject; Bennigsen, rather more of a soldier than the others, but all the same an incompetent who was unable to do anything in 1807 and who should awaken terrible memories in the Emperor Alexanders mind.... Granted that were they competent they might be made use of, continued Napoleon”hardly able to keep pace in words with the rush of thoughts that incessantly sprang up, proving how right and strong he was (in his perception the two were one and the same)”but they are not even that! They are neither fit for war nor peace! Barclay is said to be the most capable of them all, but I cannot say so, judging by his first movements. And what are they doing, all these courtiers? Pfuel proposes, Armfeldt disputes, Bennigsen considers, and Barclay, called on to act, ds not know what to decide on, and time passes bringing no result. BagratiÃ³n alone is a military man. Hes stupid, but he has experience, a quick eye, and resolution.... And what role is your young monarch playing in that monstrous crowd? They compromise him and throw on him the responsibility for all that happens. A sovereign should not be with the army unless he is a general! said Napoleon, evidently uttering these words as a direct challenge to the Emperor. He knew how Alexander desired to be a military commander. The campaign began only a week ago, and you havent even been able to defend VÃlna. You are cut in two and have been driven out of the Polish provinces. Your army is grumbling. On the contrary, Your Majesty, said BalashÃ«v, hardly able to remember what had been said to him and following these verbal fireworks with difficulty, the troops are burning with eagerness... I know everything! Napoleon interrupted him. I know everything. I know the number of your battalions as exactly as I know my own. You have not two hundred thousand men, and I have three times that number. I give you my word of honor, said Napoleon, forgetting that his word of honor could carry no weight”I give you my word of honor that I have five hundred and thirty thousand men this side of the Vistula. The Turks will be of no use to you; they are worth nothing and have shown it by making peace with you. As for the Swedes”it is their fate to be governed by mad kings. Their king was insane and they changed him for another”Bernadotte, who promptly went mad”for no Swede would ally himself with Russia unless he were mad. Napoleon grinned maliciously and again raised his snuffbox to his nose. BalashÃ«v knew how to reply to each of Napoleons remarks, and would have done so; he continually made the gesture of a man wishing to say something, but Napoleon always interrupted him. To the alleged insanity of the Swedes, BalashÃ«v wished to reply that when Russia is on her side Sweden is practically an island: but Napoleon gave an angry exclamation to drown his voice. Napoleon was in that state of irritability in which a man has to talk, talk, and talk, merely to convince himself that he is in the right. BalashÃ«v began to feel uncomfortable: as envoy he feared to demean his dignity and felt the necessity of replying; but, as a man, he shrank before the transport of groundless wrath that had evidently seized Napoleon. He knew that none of the words now uttered by Napoleon had any significance, and that Napoleon himself would be ashamed of them when he came to his senses. BalashÃ«v stood with downcast eyes, looking at the movements of Napoleons stout legs and trying to avoid meeting his eyes. But what do I care about your allies? said Napoleon. I have allies”the Poles. There are eighty thousand of them and they fight like lions. And there will be two hundred thousand of them. And probably still more perturbed by the fact that he had uttered this obvious falsehood, and that BalashÃ«v still stood silently before him in the same attitude of submission to fate, Napoleon abruptly turned round, drew close to BalashÃ«vs face, and, gesticulating rapidly and energetically with his white hands, almost shouted: Know that if you stir up Prussia against me, Ill wipe it off the map of Europe! he declared, his face pale and distorted by anger, and he struck one of his small hands energetically with the other. Yes, I will throw you back beyond the DvÃna and beyond the Dnieper, and will re-erect against you that barrier which it was criminal and blind of Europe to allow to be destroyed. Yes, that is what will happen to you. That is what you have gained by alienating me! And he walked silently several times up and down the room, his fat shoulders twitching. He put his snuffbox into his waistcoat pocket, took it out again, lifted it several times to his nose, and stopped in front of BalashÃ«v. He paused, looked ironically straight into BalashÃ«vs eyes, and said in a quiet voice: And yet what a splendid reign your master might have had! BalashÃ«v, feeling it incumbent on him to reply, said that from the Russian side things did not appear in so gloomy a light. Napoleon was silent, still looking derisively at him and evidently not listening to him. BalashÃ«v said that in Russia the best results were expected from the war. Napoleon nodded condescendingly, as if to say, I know its your duty to say that, but you dont believe it yourself. I have convinced you. When BalashÃ«v had ended, Napoleon again took out his snuffbox, sniffed at it, and stamped his foot twice on the floor as a signal. The door opened, a gentleman-in-waiting, bending respectfully, handed the Emperor his hat and gloves; another brought him a pocket handkerchief. Napoleon, without giving them a glance, turned to BalashÃ«v: Assure the Emperor Alexander from me, said he, taking his hat, that I am as devoted to him as before: I know him thoroughly and very highly esteem his lofty qualities. I will detain you no longer, General; you shall receive my letter to the Emperor. And Napoleon went quickly to the door. Everyone in the reception room rushed forward and descended the staircase. CHAPTER VII After all that Napoleon had said to him”those bursts of anger and the last dryly spoken words: I will detain you no longer, General; you shall receive my letter, BalashÃ«v felt convinced that Napoleon would not wish to see him, and would even avoid another meeting with him”an insulted envoy”especially as he had witnessed his unseemly anger. But, to his surprise, BalashÃ«v received, through Duroc, an invitation to dine with the Emperor that day. BessiÃ¨res, Caulaincourt, and Berthier were present at that dinner. Napoleon met BalashÃ«v cheerfully and amiably. He not only showed no sign of constraint or self-reproach on account of his outburst that morning, but, on the contrary, tried to reassure BalashÃ«v. It was evident that he had long been convinced that it was impossible for him to make a mistake, and that in his perception whatever he did was right, not because it harmonized with any idea of right and wrong, but because he did it. The Emperor was in very good spirits after his ride through VÃlna, where crowds of people had rapturously greeted and followed him. From all the windows of the streets through which he rode, rugs, flags, and his monogram were displayed, and the Polish ladies, welcoming him, waved their handkerchiefs to him. At dinner, having placed BalashÃ«v beside him, Napoleon not only treated him amiably but behaved as if BalashÃ«v were one of his own courtiers, one of those who sympathized with his plans and ought to rejoice at his success. In the course of conversation he mentioned Moscow and questioned BalashÃ«v about the Russian capital, not merely as an interested traveler asks about a new city he intends to visit, but as if convinced that BalashÃ«v, as a Russian, must be flattered by his curiosity. How many inhabitants are there in Moscow? How many houses? Is it true that Moscow is called ˜Holy Moscow? How many churches are there in Moscow? he asked. And receiving the reply that there were more than two hundred churches, he remarked: Why such a quantity of churches? The Russians are very devout, replied BalashÃ«v. But a large number of monasteries and churches is always a sign of the backwardness of a people, said Napoleon, turning to Caulaincourt for appreciation of this remark. BalashÃ«v respectfully ventured to disagree with the French Emperor. Every country has its own character, said he. But nowhere in Europe is there anything like that, said Napoleon. I beg your Majestys pardon, returned BalashÃ«v, besides Russia there is Spain, where there are also many churches and monasteries. This reply of BalashÃ«vs, which hinted at the recent defeats of the French in Spain, was much appreciated when he related it at Alexanders court, but it was not much appreciated at Napoleons dinner, where it passed unnoticed. The uninterested and perplexed faces of the marshals showed that they were puzzled as to what BalashÃ«vs tone suggested. If there is a point we dont see it, or it is not at all witty, their expressions seemed to say. So little was his rejoinder appreciated that Napoleon did not notice it at all and naÃ¯vely asked BalashÃ«v through what towns the direct road from there to Moscow passed. BalashÃ«v, who was on the alert all through the dinner, replied that just as all roads lead to Rome, so all roads lead to Moscow: there were many roads, and among them the road through PoltÃ¡va, which Charles XII chose. BalashÃ«v involuntarily flushed with pleasure at the aptitude of this reply, but hardly had he uttered the word PoltÃ¡va before Caulaincourt began speaking of the badness of the road from Petersburg to Moscow and of his Petersburg reminiscences. After dinner they went to drink coffee in Napoleons study, which four days previously had been that of the Emperor Alexander. Napoleon sat down, toying with his SÃ¨vres coffee cup, and motioned BalashÃ«v to a chair beside him. Napoleon was in that well-known after-dinner mood which, more than any reasoned cause, makes a man contented with himself and disposed to consider everyone his friend. It seemed to him that he was surrounded by men who adored him: and he felt convinced that, after his dinner, BalashÃ«v too was his friend and worshiper. Napoleon turned to him with a pleasant, though slightly ironic, smile. They tell me this is the room the Emperor Alexander occupied? Strange, isnt it, General? he said, evidently not doubting that this remark would be agreeable to his hearer since it went to prove his, Napoleons, superiority to Alexander. BalashÃ«v made no reply and bowed his head in silence. Yes. Four days ago in this room, Wintzingerode and Stein were deliberating, continued Napoleon with the same derisive and self-confident smile. What I cant understand, he went on, is that the Emperor Alexander has surrounded himself with my personal enemies. That I do not... understand. Has he not thought that I may do the same? and he turned inquiringly to BalashÃ«v, and evidently this thought turned him back on to the track of his mornings anger, which was still fresh in him. And let him know that I will do so! said Napoleon, rising and pushing his cup away with his hand. Ill drive all his WÃ¼rttemberg, Baden, and Weimar relations out of Germany.... Yes. Ill drive them out. Let him prepare an asylum for them in Russia! BalashÃ«v bowed his head with an air indicating that he would like to make his bow and leave, and only listened because he could not help hearing what was said to him. Napoleon did not notice this expression; he treated BalashÃ«v not as an envoy from his enemy, but as a man now fully devoted to him and who must rejoice at his former masters humiliation. And why has the Emperor Alexander taken command of the armies? What is the good of that? War is my profession, but his business is to reign and not to command armies! Why has he taken on himself such a responsibility? Again Napoleon brought out his snuffbox, paced several times up and down the room in silence, and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, went up to BalashÃ«v and with a slight smile, as confidently, quickly, and simply as if he were doing something not merely important but pleasing to BalashÃ«v, he raised his hand to the forty-year-old Russian generals face and, taking him by the ear, pulled it gently, smiling with his lips only. To have ones ear pulled by the Emperor was considered the greatest honor and mark of favor at the French court. Well, adorer and courtier of the Emperor Alexander, why dont you say anything? said he, as if it was ridiculous, in his presence, to be the adorer and courtier of anyone but himself, Napoleon. Are the horses ready for the general? he added, with a slight inclination of his head in reply to BalashÃ«vs bow. Let him have mine, he has a long way to go! The letter taken by BalashÃ«v was the last Napoleon sent to Alexander. Every detail of the interview was communicated to the Russian monarch, and the war began.... CHAPTER VIII After his interview with Pierre in Moscow, Prince Andrew went to Petersburg, on business as he told his family, but really to meet Anatole KurÃ¡gin whom he felt it necessary to encounter. On reaching Petersburg he inquired for KurÃ¡gin but the latter had already left the city. Pierre had warned his brother-in-law that Prince Andrew was on his track. Anatole KurÃ¡gin promptly obtained an appointment from the Minister of War and went to join the army in Moldavia. While in Petersburg Prince Andrew met KutÃºzov, his former commander who was always well disposed toward him, and KutÃºzov suggested that he should accompany him to the army in Moldavia, to which the old general had been appointed commander in chief. So Prince Andrew, having received an appointment on the headquarters staff, left for Turkey. Prince Andrew did not think it proper to write and challenge KurÃ¡gin. He thought that if he challenged him without some fresh cause it might compromise the young Countess RostÃ³va and so he wanted to meet KurÃ¡gin personally in order to find a fresh pretext for a duel. But he again failed to meet KurÃ¡gin in Turkey, for soon after Prince Andrew arrived, the latter returned to Russia. In a new country, amid new conditions, Prince Andrew found life easier to bear. After his betrothed had broken faith with him”which he felt the more acutely the more he tried to conceal its effects”the surroundings in which he had been happy became trying to him, and the freedom and independence he had once prized so highly were still more so. Not only could he no longer think the thoughts that had first come to him as he lay gazing at the sky on the field of Austerlitz and had later enlarged upon with Pierre, and which had filled his solitude at BoguchÃ¡rovo and then in Switzerland and Rome, but he even dreaded to recall them and the bright and boundless horizons they had revealed. He was now concerned only with the nearest practical matters unrelated to his past interests, and he seized on these the more eagerly the more those past interests were closed to him. It was as if that lofty, infinite canopy of heaven that had once towered above him had suddenly turned into a low, solid vault that weighed him down, in which all was clear, but nothing eternal or mysterious. Of the activities that presented themselves to him, army service was the simplest and most familiar. As a general on duty on KutÃºzovs staff, he applied himself to business with zeal and perseverance and surprised KutÃºzov by his willingness and accuracy in work. Not having found KurÃ¡gin in Turkey, Prince Andrew did not think it necessary to rush back to Russia after him, but all the same he knew that however long it might be before he met KurÃ¡gin, despite his contempt for him and despite all the proofs he deduced to convince himself that it was not worth stooping to a conflict with him”he knew that when he did meet him he would not be able to resist calling him out, any more than a ravenous man can help snatching at food. And the consciousness that the insult was not yet avenged, that his rancor was still unspent, weighed on his heart and poisoned the artificial tranquillity which he managed to obtain in Turkey by means of restless, plodding, and rather vainglorious and ambitious activity. In the year 1812, when news of the war with Napoleon reached Bucharest”where KutÃºzov had been living for two months, passing his days and nights with a Wallachian woman”Prince Andrew asked KutÃºzov to transfer him to the Western Army. KutÃºzov, who was already weary of BolkÃ³nskis activity which seemed to reproach his own idleness, very readily let him go and gave him a mission to Barclay de Tolly. Before joining the Western Army which was then, in May, encamped at Drissa, Prince Andrew visited Bald Hills which was directly on his way, being only two miles off the SmolÃnsk highroad. During the last three years there had been so many changes in his life, he had thought, felt, and seen so much (having traveled both in the east and the west), that on reaching Bald Hills it struck him as strange and unexpected to find the way of life there unchanged and still the same in every detail. He entered through the gates with their stone pillars and drove up the avenue leading to the house as if he were entering an enchanted, sleeping castle. The same old stateliness, the same cleanliness, the same stillness reigned there, and inside there was the same furniture, the same walls, sounds, and smell, and the same timid faces, only somewhat older. Princess Mary was still the same timid, plain maiden getting on in years, uselessly and joylessly passing the best years of her life in fear and constant suffering. Mademoiselle Bourienne was the same coquettish, self-satisfied girl, enjoying every moment of her existence and full of joyous hopes for the future. She had merely become more self-confident, Prince Andrew thought. Dessalles, the tutor he had brought from Switzerland, was wearing a coat of Russian cut and talking broken Russian to the servants, but was still the same narrowly intelligent, conscientious, and pedantic preceptor. The old prince had changed in appearance only by the loss of a tooth, which left a noticeable gap on one side of his mouth; in character he was the same as ever, only showing still more irritability and skepticism as to what was happening in the world. Little Nicholas alone had changed. He had grown, become rosier, had curly dark hair, and, when merry and laughing, quite unconsciously lifted the upper lip of his pretty little mouth just as the little princess used to do. He alone did not obey the law of immutability in the enchanted, sleeping castle. But though externally all remained as of old, the inner relations of all these people had changed since Prince Andrew had seen them last. The household was divided into two alien and hostile camps, who changed their habits for his sake and only met because he was there. To the one camp belonged the old prince, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and the architect; to the other Princess Mary, Dessalles, little Nicholas, and all the old nurses and maids. During his stay at Bald Hills all the family dined together, but they were ill at ease and Prince Andrew felt that he was a visitor for whose sake an exception was being made and that his presence made them all feel awkward. Involuntarily feeling this at dinner on the first day, he was taciturn, and the old prince noticing this also became morosely dumb and retired to his apartments directly after dinner. In the evening, when Prince Andrew went to him and, trying to rouse him, began to tell him of the young Count KÃ¡menskys campaign, the old prince began unexpectedly to talk about Princess Mary, blaming her for her superstitions and her dislike of Mademoiselle Bourienne, who, he said, was the only person really attached to him. The old prince said that if he was ill it was only because of Princess Mary: that she purposely worried and irritated him, and that by indulgence and silly talk she was spoiling little Prince Nicholas. The old prince knew very well that he tormented his daughter and that her life was very hard, but he also knew that he could not help tormenting her and that she deserved it. Why ds Prince Andrew, who sees this, say nothing to me about his sister? Ds he think me a scoundrel, or an old fool who, without any reason, keeps his own daughter at a distance and attaches this Frenchwoman to himself? He dsnt understand, so I must explain it, and he must hear me out, thought the old prince. And he began explaining why he could not put up with his daughters unreasonable character. If you ask me, said Prince Andrew, without looking up (he was censuring his father for the first time in his life), I did not wish to speak about it, but as you ask me I will give you my frank opinion. If there is any misunderstanding and discord between you and Mary, I cant blame her for it at all. I know how she loves and respects you. Since you ask me, continued Prince Andrew, becoming irritable”as he was always liable to do of late”I can only say that if there are any misunderstandings they are caused by that worthless woman, who is not fit to be my sisters companion. The old man at first stared fixedly at his son, and an unnatural smile disclosed the fresh gap between his teeth to which Prince Andrew could not get accustomed. What companion, my dear boy? Eh? Youve already been talking it over! Eh? Father, I did not want to judge, said Prince Andrew, in a hard and bitter tone, but you challenged me, and I have said, and always shall say, that Mary is not to blame, but those to blame”the one to blame”is that Frenchwoman. Ah, he has passed judgment... passed judgement! said the old man in a low voice and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, with some embarrassment, but then he suddenly jumped up and cried: Be off, be off! Let not a trace of you remain here!... Prince Andrew wished to leave at once, but Princess Mary persuaded him to stay another day. That day he did not see his father, who did not leave his room and admitted no one but Mademoiselle Bourienne and TÃkhon, but asked several times whether his son had gone. Next day, before leaving, Prince Andrew went to his sons rooms. The boy, curly-headed like his mother and glowing with health, sat on his knee, and Prince Andrew began telling him the story of Bluebeard, but fell into a reverie without finishing the story. He thought not of this pretty child, his son whom he held on his knee, but of himself. He sought in himself either remorse for having angered his father or regret at leaving home for the first time in his life on bad terms with him, and was horrified to find neither. What meant still more to him was that he sought and did not find in himself the former tenderness for his son which he had hoped to reawaken by caressing the boy and taking him on his knee. Well, go on! said his son. Prince Andrew, without replying, put him down from his knee and went out of the room. As soon as Prince Andrew had given up his daily occupations, and especially on returning to the old conditions of life amid which he had been happy, weariness of life overcame him with its former intensity, and he hastened to escape from these memories and to find some work as soon as possible. So youve decided to go, Andrew? asked his sister. Thank God that I can, replied Prince Andrew. I am very sorry you cant. Why do you say that? replied Princess Mary. Why do you say that, when you are going to this terrible war, and he is so old? Mademoiselle Bourienne says he has been asking about you.... As soon as she began to speak of that, her lips trembled and her tears began to fall. Prince Andrew turned away and began pacing the room. Ah, my God! my God! When one thinks who and what”what trash”can cause people misery! he said with a malignity that alarmed Princess Mary. She understood that when speaking of trash he referred not only to Mademoiselle Bourienne, the cause of her misery, but also to the man who had ruined his own happiness. Andrew! One thing I beg, I entreat of you! she said, touching his elbow and looking at him with eyes that shone through her tears. I understand you (she looked down). Dont imagine that sorrow is the work of men. Men are His tools. She looked a little above Prince Andrews head with the confident, accustomed look with which one looks at the place where a familiar portrait hangs. Sorrow is sent by Him, not by men. Men are His instruments, they are not to blame. If you think someone has wronged you, forget it and forgive! We have no right to punish. And then you will know the happiness of forgiving. If I were a woman I would do so, Mary. That is a womans virtue. But a man should not and cannot forgive and forget, he replied, and though till that moment he had not been thinking of KurÃ¡gin, all his unexpended anger suddenly swelled up in his heart. If Mary is already persuading me to forgive, it means that I ought long ago to have punished him, he thought. And giving her no further reply, he began thinking of the glad vindictive moment when he would meet KurÃ¡gin who he knew was now in the army. Princess Mary begged him to stay one day more, saying that she knew how unhappy her father would be if Andrew left without being reconciled to him, but Prince Andrew replied that he would probably soon be back again from the army and would certainly write to his father, but that the longer he stayed now the more embittered their differences would become. Good-by, Andrew! Remember that misfortunes come from God, and men are never to blame, were the last words he heard from his sister when he took leave of her. Then it must be so! thought Prince Andrew as he drove out of the avenue from the house at Bald Hills. She, poor innocent creature, is left to be victimized by an old man who has outlived his wits. The old man feels he is guilty, but cannot change himself. My boy is growing up and rejoices in life, in which like everybody else he will deceive or be deceived. And I am off to the army. Why? I myself dont know. I want to meet that man whom I despise, so as to give him a chance to kill and laugh at me! These conditions of life had been the same before, but then they were all connected, while now they had all tumbled to pieces. Only senseless things, lacking coherence, presented themselves one after another to Prince Andrews mind. CHAPTER IX Prince Andrew reached the general headquarters of the army at the end of June. The first army, with which was the Emperor, occupied the fortified camp at Drissa; the second army was retreating, trying to effect a junction with the first one from which it was said to be cut off by large French forces. Everyone was dissatisfied with the general course of affairs in the Russian army, but no one anticipated any danger of invasion of the Russian provinces, and no one thought the war would extend farther than the western, the Polish, provinces. Prince Andrew found Barclay de Tolly, to whom he had been assigned, on the bank of the Drissa. As there was not a single town or large village in the vicinity of the camp, the immense number of generals and courtiers accompanying the army were living in the best houses of the villages on both sides of the river, over a radius of six miles. Barclay de Tolly was quartered nearly three miles from the Emperor. He received BolkÃ³nski stiffly and coldly and told him in his foreign accent that he would mention him to the Emperor for a decision as to his employment, but asked him meanwhile to remain on his staff. Anatole KurÃ¡gin, whom Prince Andrew had hoped to find with the army, was not there. He had gone to Petersburg, but Prince Andrew was glad to hear this. His mind was occupied by the interests of the center that was conducting a gigantic war, and he was glad to be free for a while from the distraction caused by the thought of KurÃ¡gin. During the first four days, while no duties were required of him, Prince Andrew rode round the whole fortified camp and, by the aid of his own knowledge and by talks with experts, tried to form a definite opinion about it. But the question whether the camp was advantageous or disadvantageous remained for him undecided. Already from his military experience and what he had seen in the Austrian campaign, he had come to the conclusion that in war the most deeply considered plans have no significance and that all depends on the way unexpected movements of the enemy”that cannot be foreseen”are met, and on how and by whom the whole matter is handled. To clear up this last point for himself, Prince Andrew, utilizing his position and acquaintances, tried to fathom the character of the control of the army and of the men and parties engaged in it, and he deduced for himself the following of the state of affairs. While the Emperor had still been at VÃlna, the forces had been divided into three armies. First, the army under Barclay de Tolly, secondly, the army under BagratiÃ³n, and thirdly, the one commanded by TormÃ¡sov. The Emperor was with the first army, but not as commander in chief. In the orders issued it was stated, not that the Emperor would take command, but only that he would be with the army. The Emperor, moreover, had with him not a commander in chiefs staff but the imperial headquarters staff. In attendance on him was the head of the imperial staff, Quartermaster General Prince VolkÃ³nski, as well as generals, imperial aides-de-camp, diplomatic officials, and a large number of foreigners, but not the army staff. Besides these, there were in attendance on the Emperor without any definite appointments: ArakchÃev, the ex-Minister of War; Count Bennigsen, the senior general in rank; the Grand Duke TsarÃvich Constantine PÃ¡vlovich; Count RumyÃ¡ntsev, the Chancellor; Stein, a former Prussian minister; Armfeldt, a Swedish general; Pfuel, the chief author of the plan of campaign; Paulucci, an adjutant general and Sardinian ÃmigrÃ; Wolzogen”and many others. Though these men had no military appointment in the army, their position gave them influence, and often a corps commander, or even the commander in chief, did not know in what capacity he was questioned by Bennigsen, the Grand Duke, ArakchÃev, or Prince VolkÃ³nski, or was given this or that advice and did not know whether a certain order received in the form of advice emanated from the man who gave it or from the Emperor and whether it had to be executed or not. But this was only the external condition; the essential significance of the presence of the Emperor and of all these people, from a courtiers point of view (and in an Emperors vicinity all became courtiers), was clear to everyone. It was this: the Emperor did not assume the title of commander in chief, but disposed of all the armies; the men around him were his assistants. ArakchÃev was a faithful custodian to enforce order and acted as the sovereigns bodyguard. Bennigsen was a landlord in the VÃlna province who appeared to be doing the honors of the district, but was in reality a good general, useful as an adviser and ready at hand to replace Barclay. The Grand Duke was there because it suited him to be. The ex-Minister Stein was there because his advice was useful and the Emperor Alexander held him in high esteem personally. Armfeldt virulently hated Napoleon and was a general full of self-confidence, a quality that always influenced Alexander. Paulucci was there because he was bold and decided in speech. The adjutants general were there because they always accompanied the Emperor, and lastly and chiefly Pfuel was there because he had drawn up the plan of campaign against Napoleon and, having induced Alexander to believe in the efficacy of that plan, was directing the whole business of the war. With Pfuel was Wolzogen, who expressed Pfuels thoughts in a more comprehensible way than Pfuel himself (who was a harsh, bookish theorist, self-confident to the point of despising everyone else) was able to do. Besides these Russians and foreigners who propounded new and unexpected ideas every day”especially the foreigners, who did so with a boldness characteristic of people employed in a country not their own”there were many secondary personages accompanying the army because their principals were there. Among the opinions and voices in this immense, restless, brilliant, and proud sphere, Prince Andrew noticed the following sharply defined subdivisions of tendencies and parties: The first party consisted of Pfuel and his adherents”military theorists who believed in a science of war with immutable laws”laws of oblique movements, outflankings, and so forth. Pfuel and his adherents demanded a retirement into the depths of the country in accordance with precise laws defined by a pseudo-theory of war, and they saw only barbarism, ignorance, or evil intention in every deviation from that theory. To this party belonged the foreign nobles, Wolzogen, Wintzingerode, and others, chiefly Germans. The second party was directly opposed to the first; one extreme, as always happens, was met by representatives of the other. The members of this party were those who had demanded an advance from VÃlna into Poland and freedom from all prearranged plans. Besides being advocates of bold action, this section also represented nationalism, which made them still more one-sided in the dispute. They were Russians: BagratiÃ³n, ErmÃ³lov (who was beginning to come to the front), and others. At that time a famous joke of ErmÃ³lovs was being circulated, that as a great favor he had petitioned the Emperor to make him a German. The men of that party, remembering SuvÃ³rov, said that what one had to do was not to reason, or stick pins into maps, but to fight, beat the enemy, keep him out of Russia, and not let the army get discouraged. To the third party”in which the Emperor had most confidence”belonged the courtiers who tried to arrange compromises between the other two. The members of this party, chiefly civilians and to whom ArakchÃev belonged, thought and said what men who have no convictions but wish to seem to have some generally say. They said that undoubtedly war, particularly against such a genius as Bonaparte (they called him Bonaparte now), needs most deeply devised plans and profound scientific knowledge and in that respect Pfuel was a genius, but at the same time it had to be acknowledged that the theorists are often one-sided, and therefore one should not trust them absolutely, but should also listen to what Pfuels opponents and practical men of experience in warfare had to say, and then choose a middle course. They insisted on the retention of the camp at Drissa, according to Pfuels plan, but on changing the movements of the other armies. Though, by this course, neither one aim nor the other could be attained, yet it seemed best to the adherents of this third party. Of a fourth opinion the most conspicuous representative was the TsarÃvich, who could not forget his disillusionment at Austerlitz, where he had ridden out at the head of the Guards, in his casque and cavalry uniform as to a review, expecting to crush the French gallantly; but unexpectedly finding himself in the front line had narrowly escaped amid the general confusion. The men of this party had both the quality and the defect of frankness in their opinions. They feared Napoleon, recognized his strength and their own weakness, and frankly said so. They said: Nothing but sorrow, shame, and ruin will come of all this! We have abandoned VÃlna and VÃtebsk and shall abandon Drissa. The only reasonable thing left to do is to conclude peace as soon as possible, before we are turned out of Petersburg. This view was very general in the upper army circles and found support also in Petersburg and from the chancellor, RumyÃ¡ntsev, who, for other reasons of state, was in favor of peace. The fifth party consisted of those who were adherents of Barclay de Tolly, not so much as a man but as minister of war and commander in chief. Be he what he may (they always began like that), he is an honest, practical man and we have nobody better. Give him real power, for war cannot be conducted successfully without unity of command, and he will show what he can do, as he did in Finland. If our army is well organized and strong and has withdrawn to Drissa without suffering any defeats, we owe this entirely to Barclay. If Barclay is now to be superseded by Bennigsen all will be lost, for Bennigsen showed his incapacity already in 1807. The sixth party, the Bennigsenites, said, on the contrary, that at any rate there was no one more active and experienced than Bennigsen: and twist about as you may, you will have to come to Bennigsen eventually. Let the others make mistakes now! said they, arguing that our retirement to Drissa was a most shameful reverse and an unbroken series of blunders. The more mistakes that are made the better. It will at any rate be understood all the sooner that things cannot go on like this. What is wanted is not some Barclay or other, but a man like Bennigsen, who made his mark in 1807, and to whom Napoleon himself did justice”a man whose authority would be willingly recognized, and Bennigsen is the only such man. The seventh party consisted of the sort of people who are always to be found, especially around young sovereigns, and of whom there were particularly many round Alexander”generals and imperial aides-de-camp passionately devoted to the Emperor, not merely as a monarch but as a man, adoring him sincerely and disinterestedly, as RostÃ³v had done in 1805, and who saw in him not only all the virtues but all human capabilities as well. These men, though enchanted with the sovereign for refusing the command of the army, yet blamed him for such excessive modesty, and only desired and insisted that their adored sovereign should abandon his diffidence and openly announce that he would place himself at the head of the army, gather round him a commander in chiefs staff, and, consulting experienced theoreticians and practical men where necessary, would himself lead the troops, whose spirits would thereby be raised to the highest pitch. The eighth and largest group, which in its enormous numbers was to the others as ninety-nine to one, consisted of men who desired neither peace nor war, neither an advance nor a defensive camp at the Drissa or anywhere else, neither Barclay nor the Emperor, neither Pfuel nor Bennigsen, but only the one most essential thing”as much advantage and pleasure for themselves as possible. In the troubled waters of conflicting and intersecting intrigues that eddied about the Emperors headquarters, it was possible to succeed in many ways unthinkable at other times. A man who simply wished to retain his lucrative post would today agree with Pfuel, tomorrow with his opponent, and the day after, merely to avoid responsibility or to please the Emperor, would declare that he had no opinion at all on the matter. Another who wished to gain some advantage would attract the Emperors attention by loudly advocating the very thing the Emperor had hinted at the day before, and would dispute and shout at the council, beating his breast and challenging those who did not agree with him to duels, thereby proving that he was prepared to sacrifice himself for the common good. A third, in the absence of opponents, between two councils would simply solicit a special gratuity for his faithful services, well knowing that at that moment people would be too busy to refuse him. A fourth while seemingly overwhelmed with work would often come accidentally under the Emperors eye. A fifth, to achieve his long-cherished aim of dining with the Emperor, would stubbornly insist on the correctness or falsity of some newly emerging opinion and for this object would produce arguments more or less forcible and correct. All the men of this party were fishing for rubles, decorations, and promotions, and in this pursuit watched only the weathercock of imperial favor, and directly they noticed it turning in any direction, this whole drone population of the army began blowing hard that way, so that it was all the harder for the Emperor to turn it elsewhere. Amid the uncertainties of the position, with the menace of serious danger giving a peculiarly threatening character to everything, amid this vortex of intrigue, egotism, conflict of views and feelings, and the diversity of race among these people”this eighth and largest party of those preoccupied with personal interests imparted great confusion and obscurity to the common task. Whatever question arose, a swarm of these drones, without having finished their buzzing on a previous theme, flew over to the new one and by their hum drowned and obscured the voices of those who were disputing honestly. From among all these parties, just at the time Prince Andrew reached the army, another, a ninth party, was being formed and was beginning to raise its voice. This was the party of the elders, reasonable men experienced and capable in state affairs, who, without sharing any of those conflicting opinions, were able to take a detached view of what was going on at the staff at headquarters and to consider means of escape from this muddle, indecision, intricacy, and weakness. The men of this party said and thought that what was wrong resulted chiefly from the Emperors presence in the army with his military court and from the consequent presence there of an indefinite, conditional, and unsteady fluctuation of relations, which is in place at court but harmful in an army; that a sovereign should reign but not command the army, and that the only way out of the position would be for the Emperor and his court to leave the army; that the mere presence of the Emperor paralyzed the action of fifty thousand men required to secure his personal safety, and that the worst commander in chief, if independent, would be better than the very best one trammeled by the presence and authority of the monarch. Just at the time Prince Andrew was living unoccupied at Drissa, ShishkÃ³v, the Secretary of State and one of the chief representatives of this party, wrote a letter to the Emperor which ArakchÃev and BalashÃ«v agreed to sign. In this letter, availing himself of permission given him by the Emperor to discuss the general course of affairs, he respectfully suggested”on the plea that it was necessary for the sovereign to arouse a warlike spirit in the people of the capital”that the Emperor should leave the army. That arousing of the people by their sovereign and his call to them to defend their country”the very incitement which was the chief cause of Russias triumph in so far as it was produced by the Tsars personal presence in Moscow”was suggested to the Emperor, and accepted by him, as a pretext for quitting the army. CHAPTER X This letter had not yet been presented to the Emperor when Barclay, one day at dinner, informed BolkÃ³nski that the sovereign wished to see him personally, to question him about Turkey, and that Prince Andrew was to present himself at Bennigsens quarters at six that evening. News was received at the Emperors quarters that very day of a fresh movement by Napoleon which might endanger the army”news subsequently found to be false. And that morning Colonel Michaud had ridden round the Drissa fortifications with the Emperor and had pointed out to him that this fortified camp constructed by Pfuel, and till then considered a chef-duvre of tactical science which would ensure Napoleons destruction, was an absurdity, threatening the destruction of the Russian army. Prince Andrew arrived at Bennigsens quarters”a country gentlemans house of moderate size, situated on the very banks of the river. Neither Bennigsen nor the Emperor was there, but ChernÃ½shev, the Emperors aide-de-camp, received BolkÃ³nski and informed him that the Emperor, accompanied by General Bennigsen and Marquis Paulucci, had gone a second time that day to inspect the fortifications of the Drissa camp, of the suitability of which serious doubts were beginning to be felt. ChernÃ½shev was sitting at a window in the first room with a French novel in his hand. This room had probably been a music room; there was still an organ in it on which some rugs were piled, and in one corner stood the folding bedstead of Bennigsens adjutant. This adjutant was also there and sat dozing on the rolled-up bedding, evidently exhausted by work or by feasting. Two doors led from the room, one straight on into what had been the drawing room, and another, on the right, to the study. Through the first door came the sound of voices conversing in German and occasionally in French. In that drawing room were gathered, by the Emperors wish, not a military council (the Emperor preferred indefiniteness), but certain persons whose opinions he wished to know in view of the impending difficulties. It was not a council of war, but, as it were, a council to elucidate certain questions for the Emperor personally. To this semicouncil had been invited the Swedish General Armfeldt, Adjutant General Wolzogen, Wintzingerode (whom Napoleon had referred to as a renegade French subject), Michaud, Toll, Count Stein who was not a military man at all, and Pfuel himself, who, as Prince Andrew had heard, was the mainspring of the whole affair. Prince Andrew had an opportunity of getting a good look at him, for Pfuel arrived soon after himself and, in passing through to the drawing room, stopped a minute to speak to ChernÃ½shev. At first sight, Pfuel, in his ill-made uniform of a Russian general, which fitted him badly like a fancy costume, seemed familiar to Prince Andrew, though he saw him now for the first time. There was about him something of Weyrother, Mack, and Schmidt, and many other German theorist-generals whom Prince Andrew had seen in 1805, but he was more typical than any of them. Prince Andrew had never yet seen a German theorist in whom all the characteristics of those others were united to such an extent. Pfuel was short and very thin but broad-boned, of coarse, robust build, broad in the hips, and with prominent shoulder blades. His face was much wrinkled and his eyes deep set. His hair had evidently been hastily brushed smooth in front of the temples, but stuck up behind in quaint little tufts. He entered the room, looking restlessly and angrily around, as if afraid of everything in that large apartment. Awkwardly holding up his sword, he addressed ChernÃ½shev and asked in German where the Emperor was. One could see that he wished to pass through the rooms as quickly as possible, finish with the bows and greetings, and sit down to business in front of a map, where he would feel at home. He nodded hurriedly in reply to ChernÃ½shev, and smiled ironically on hearing that the sovereign was inspecting the fortifications that he, Pfuel, had planned in accord with his theory. He muttered something to himself abruptly and in a bass voice, as self-assured Germans do”it might have been stupid fellow... or the whole affair will be ruined, or something absurd will come of it.... Prince Andrew did not catch what he said and would have passed on, but ChernÃ½shev introduced him to Pfuel, remarking that Prince Andrew was just back from Turkey where the war had terminated so fortunately. Pfuel barely glanced”not so much at Prince Andrew as past him”and said, with a laugh: That must have been a fine tactical war; and, laughing contemptuously, went on into the room from which the sound of voices was heard. Pfuel, always inclined to be irritably sarcastic, was particularly disturbed that day, evidently by the fact that they had dared to inspect and criticize his camp in his absence. From this short interview with Pfuel, Prince Andrew, thanks to his Austerlitz experiences, was able to form a clear conception of the man. Pfuel was one of those hopelessly and immutably self-confident men, self-confident to the point of martyrdom as only Germans are, because only Germans are self-confident on the basis of an abstract notion”science, that is, the supposed knowledge of absolute truth. A Frenchman is self-assured because he regards himself personally, both in mind and body, as irresistibly attractive to men and women. An Englishman is self-assured, as being a citizen of the best-organized state in the world, and therefore as an Englishman always knows what he should do and knows that all he ds as an Englishman is undoubtedly correct. An Italian is self-assured because he is excitable and easily forgets himself and other people. A Russian is self-assured just because he knows nothing and ds not want to know anything, since he ds not believe that anything can be known. The Germans self-assurance is worst of all, stronger and more repulsive than any other, because he imagines that he knows the truth”science”which he himself has invented but which is for him the absolute truth. Pfuel was evidently of that sort. He had a science”the theory of oblique movements deduced by him from the history of Frederick the Greats wars, and all he came across in the history of more recent warfare seemed to him absurd and barbarous”monstrous collisions in which so many blunders were committed by both sides that these wars could not be called wars, they did not accord with the theory, and therefore could not serve as material for science. In 1806 Pfuel had been one of those responsible, for the plan of campaign that ended in Jena and AuerstÃ¤dt, but he did not see the least proof of the fallibility of his theory in the disasters of that war. On the contrary, the deviations made from his theory were, in his opinion, the sole cause of the whole disaster, and with characteristically gleeful sarcasm he would remark, There, I said the whole affair would go to the devil! Pfuel was one of those theoreticians who so love their theory that they lose sight of the theorys object”its practical application. His love of theory made him hate everything practical, and he would not listen to it. He was even pleased by failures, for failures resulting from deviations in practice from the theory only proved to him the accuracy of his theory. He said a few words to Prince Andrew and ChernÃ½shev about the present war, with the air of a man who knows beforehand that all will go wrong, and who is not displeased that it should be so. The unbrushed tufts of hair sticking up behind and the hastily brushed hair on his temples expressed this most eloquently. He passed into the next room, and the deep, querulous sounds of his voice were at once heard from there. CHAPTER XI Prince Andrews eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when Count Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to BolkÃ³nski, but not pausing, went into the study, giving instructions to his adjutant as he went. The Emperor was following him, and Bennigsen had hastened on to make some preparations and to be ready to receive the sovereign. ChernÃ½shev and Prince Andrew went out into the porch, where the Emperor, who looked fatigued, was dismounting. Marquis Paulucci was talking to him with particular warmth and the Emperor, with his head bent to the left, was listening with a dissatisfied air. The Emperor moved forward evidently wishing to end the conversation, but the flushed and excited Italian, oblivious of decorum, followed him and continued to speak. And as for the man who advised forming this camp”the Drissa camp, said Paulucci, as the Emperor mounted the steps and noticing Prince Andrew scanned his unfamiliar face, as to that person, sire... continued Paulucci, desperately, apparently unable to restrain himself, the man who advised the Drissa camp”I see no alternative but the lunatic asylum or the gallows! Without heeding the end of the Italians remarks, and as though not hearing them, the Emperor, recognizing BolkÃ³nski, addressed him graciously. I am very glad to see you! Go in there where they are meeting, and wait for me. The Emperor went into the study. He was followed by Prince Peter MikhÃ¡ylovich VolkÃ³nski and Baron Stein, and the door closed behind them. Prince Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperors permission, accompanied Paulucci, whom he had known in Turkey, into the drawing room where the council was assembled. Prince Peter MikhÃ¡ylovich VolkÃ³nski occupied the position, as it were, of chief of the Emperors staff. He came out of the study into the drawing room with some maps which he spread on a table, and put questions on which he wished to hear the opinion of the gentlemen present. What had happened was that news (which afterwards proved to be false) had been received during the night of a movement by the French to outflank the Drissa camp. The first to speak was General Armfeldt who, to meet the difficulty that presented itself, unexpectedly proposed a perfectly new position away from the Petersburg and Moscow roads. The reason for this was inexplicable (unless he wished to show that he, too, could have an opinion), but he urged that at this point the army should unite and there await the enemy. It was plain that Armfeldt had thought out that plan long ago and now expounded it not so much to answer the questions put”which, in fact, his plan did not answer”as to avail himself of the opportunity to air it. It was one of the millions of proposals, one as good as another, that could be made as long as it was quite unknown what character the war would take. Some disputed his arguments, others defended them. Young Count Toll objected to the Swedish generals views more warmly than anyone else, and in the course of the dispute drew from his side pocket a well-filled notebook, which he asked permission to read to them. In these voluminous notes Toll suggested another scheme, totally different from Armfeldts or Pfuels plan of campaign. In answer to Toll, Paulucci suggested an advance and an attack, which, he urged, could alone extricate us from the present uncertainty and from the trap (as he called the Drissa camp) in which we were situated. During all these discussions Pfuel and his interpreter, Wolzogen (his bridge in court relations), were silent. Pfuel only snorted contemptuously and turned away, to show that he would never demean himself by replying to such nonsense as he was now hearing. So when Prince VolkÃ³nski, who was in the chair, called on him to give his opinion, he merely said: Why ask me? General Armfeldt has proposed a splendid position with an exposed rear, or why not this Italian gentlemans attack”very fine, or a retreat, also good! Why ask me? said he. Why, you yourselves know everything better than I do. But when VolkÃ³nski said, with a frown, that it was in the Emperors name that he asked his opinion, Pfuel rose and, suddenly growing animated, began to speak: Everything has been spoiled, everything muddled, everybody thought they knew better than I did, and now you come to me! How mend matters? There is nothing to mend! The principles laid down by me must be strictly adhered to, said he, drumming on the table with his bony fingers. What is the difficulty? Nonsense, childishness! He went up to the map and speaking rapidly began proving that no eventuality could alter the efficiency of the Drissa camp, that everything had been foreseen, and that if the enemy were really going to outflank it, the enemy would inevitably be destroyed. Paulucci, who did not know German, began questioning him in French. Wolzogen came to the assistance of his chief, who spoke French badly, and began translating for him, hardly able to keep pace with Pfuel, who was rapidly demonstrating that not only all that had happened, but all that could happen, had been foreseen in his scheme, and that if there were now any difficulties the whole fault lay in the fact that his plan had not been precisely executed. He kept laughing sarcastically, he demonstrated, and at last contemptuously ceased to demonstrate, like a mathematician who ceases to prove in various ways the accuracy of a problem that has already been proved. Wolzogen took his place and continued to explain his views in French, every now and then turning to Pfuel and saying, Is it not so, your excellency? But Pfuel, like a man heated in a fight who strikes those on his own side, shouted angrily at his own supporter, Wolzogen: Well, of course, what more is there to explain? Paulucci and Michaud both attacked Wolzogen simultaneously in French. Armfeldt addressed Pfuel in German. Toll explained to VolkÃ³nski in Russian. Prince Andrew listened and observed in silence. Of all these men Prince Andrew sympathized most with Pfuel, angry, determined, and absurdly self-confident as he was. Of all those present, evidently he alone was not seeking anything for himself, nursed no hatred against anyone, and only desired that the plan, formed on a theory arrived at by years of toil, should be carried out. He was ridiculous, and unpleasantly sarcastic, but yet he inspired involuntary respect by his boundless devotion to an idea. Besides this, the remarks of all except Pfuel had one common trait that had not been noticeable at the council of war in 1805: there was now a panic fear of Napoleons genius, which, though concealed, was noticeable in every rejoinder. Everything was assumed to be possible for Napoleon, they expected him from every side, and invoked his terrible name to shatter each others proposals. Pfuel alone seemed to consider Napoleon a barbarian like everyone else who opposed his theory. But besides this feeling of respect, Pfuel evoked pity in Prince Andrew. From the tone in which the courtiers addressed him and the way Paulucci had allowed himself to speak of him to the Emperor, but above all from a certain desperation in Pfuels own expressions, it was clear that the others knew, and Pfuel himself felt, that his fall was at hand. And despite his self-confidence and grumpy German sarcasm he was pitiable, with his hair smoothly brushed on the temples and sticking up in tufts behind. Though he concealed the fact under a show of irritation and contempt, he was evidently in despair that the sole remaining chance of verifying his theory by a huge experiment and proving its soundness to the whole world was slipping away from him. The discussions continued a long time, and the longer they lasted the more heated became the disputes, culminating in shouts and personalities, and the less was it possible to arrive at any general conclusion from all that had been said. Prince Andrew, listening to this polyglot talk and to these surmises, plans, refutations, and shouts, felt nothing but amazement at what they were saying. A thought that had long since and often occurred to him during his military activities”the idea that there is not and cannot be any science of war, and that therefore there can be no such thing as a military genius”now appeared to him an obvious truth. What theory and science is possible about a matter the conditions and circumstances of which are unknown and cannot be defined, especially when the strength of the acting forces cannot be ascertained? No one was or is able to foresee in what condition our or the enemys armies will be in a days time, and no one can gauge the force of this or that detachment. Sometimes”when there is not a coward at the front to shout, ˜We are cut off! and start running, but a brave and jolly lad who shouts, ˜Hurrah!”a detachment of five thousand is worth thirty thousand, as at SchÃ¶n Grabern, while at times fifty thousand run from eight thousand, as at Austerlitz. What science can there be in a matter in which, as in all practical matters, nothing can be defined and everything depends on innumerable conditions, the significance of which is determined at a particular moment which arrives no one knows when? Armfeldt says our army is cut in half, and Paulucci says we have got the French army between two fires; Michaud says that the worthlessness of the Drissa camp lies in having the river behind it, and Pfuel says that is what constitutes its strength; Toll proposes one plan, Armfeldt another, and they are all good and all bad, and the advantages of any suggestions can be seen only at the moment of trial. And why do they all speak of a ˜military genius? Is a man a genius who can order bread to be brought up at the right time and say who is to go to the right and who to the left? It is only because military men are invested with pomp and power and crowds of sychophants flatter power, attributing to it qualities of genius it ds not possess. The best generals I have known were, on the contrary, stupid or absent-minded men. BagratiÃ³n was the best, Napoleon himself admitted that. And of Bonaparte himself! I remember his limited, self-satisfied face on the field of Austerlitz. Not only ds a good army commander not need any special qualities, on the contrary he needs the absence of the highest and best human attributes”love, ptry, tenderness, and philosophic inquiring doubt. He should be limited, firmly convinced that what he is doing is very important (otherwise he will not have sufficient patience), and only then will he be a brave leader. God forbid that he should be humane, should love, or pity, or think of what is just and unjust. It is understandable that a theory of their ˜genius was invented for them long ago because they have power! The success of a military action depends not on them, but on the man in the ranks who shouts, ˜We are lost! or who shouts, ˜Hurrah! And only in the ranks can one serve with assurance of being useful. So thought Prince Andrew as he listened to the talking, and he roused himself only when Paulucci called him and everyone was leaving. At the review next day the Emperor asked Prince Andrew where he would like to serve, and Prince Andrew lost his standing in court circles forever by not asking to remain attached to the sovereigns person, but for permission to serve in the army. CHAPTER XII Before the beginning of the campaign, RostÃ³v had received a letter from his parents in which they told him briefly of NatÃ¡shas illness and the breaking off of her engagement to Prince Andrew (which they explained by NatÃ¡shas having rejected him) and again asked Nicholas to retire from the army and return home. On receiving this letter, Nicholas did not even make any attempt to get leave of absence or to retire from the army, but wrote to his parents that he was sorry NatÃ¡sha was ill and her engagement broken off, and that he would do all he could to meet their wishes. To SÃ³nya he wrote separately. Adored friend of my soul! he wrote. Nothing but honor could keep me from returning to the country. But now, at the commencement of the campaign, I should feel dishonored, not only in my comrades eyes but in my own, if I preferred my own happiness to my love and duty to the Fatherland. But this shall be our last separation. Believe me, directly the war is over, if I am still alive and still loved by you, I will throw up everything and fly to you, to press you forever to my ardent breast. It was, in fact, only the commencement of the campaign that prevented RostÃ³v from returning home as he had promised and marrying SÃ³nya. The autumn in OtrÃ¡dn with the hunting, and the winter with the Christmas holidays and SÃ³nyas love, had opened out to him a vista of tranquil rural joys and peace such as he had never known before, and which now allured him. A splendid wife, children, a good pack of hounds, a dozen leashes of smart borzois, agriculture, neighbors, service by election... thought he. But now the campaign was beginning, and he had to remain with his regiment. And since it had to be so, Nicholas RostÃ³v, as was natural to him, felt contented with the life he led in the regiment and was able to find pleasure in that life. On his return from his furlough Nicholas, having been joyfully welcomed by his comrades, was sent to obtain remounts and brought back from the Ukraine excellent horses which pleased him and earned him commendation from his commanders. During his absence he had been promoted captain, and when the regiment was put on war footing with an increase in numbers, he was again allotted his old squadron. The campaign began, the regiment was moved into Poland on double pay, new officers arrived, new men and horses, and above all everybody was infected with the merrily excited mood that gs with the commencement of a war, and RostÃ³v, conscious of his advantageous position in the regiment, devoted himself entirely to the pleasures and interests of military service, though he knew that sooner or later he would have to relinquish them. The troops retired from VÃlna for various complicated reasons of state, political and strategic. Each step of the retreat was accompanied by a complicated interplay of interests, arguments, and passions at headquarters. For the PÃ¡vlograd hussars, however, the whole of this retreat during the finest period of summer and with sufficient supplies was a very simple and agreeable business. It was only at headquarters that there was depression, uneasiness, and intriguing; in the body of the army they did not ask themselves where they were going or why. If they regretted having to retreat, it was only because they had to leave billets they had grown accustomed to, or some pretty young Polish lady. If the thought that things looked bad chanced to enter anyones head, he tried to be as cheerful as befits a good soldier and not to think of the general trend of affairs, but only of the task nearest to hand. First they camped gaily before VÃlna, making acquaintance with the Polish landowners, preparing for reviews and being reviewed by the Emperor and other high commanders. Then came an order to retreat to SventsyÃ¡ni and destroy any provisions they could not carry away with them. SventsyÃ¡ni was remembered by the hussars only as the drunken camp, a name the whole army gave to their encampment there, and because many complaints were made against the troops, who, taking advantage of the order to collect provisions, took also horses, carriages, and carpets from the Polish proprietors. RostÃ³v remembered SventsyÃ¡ni, because on the first day of their arrival at that small town he changed his sergeant major and was unable to manage all the drunken men of his squadron who, unknown to him, had appropriated five barrels of old beer. From SventsyÃ¡ni they retired farther and farther to Drissa, and thence again beyond Drissa, drawing near to the frontier of Russia proper. On the thirteenth of July the PÃ¡vlograds took part in a serious action for the first time. On the twelfth of July, on the eve of that action, there was a heavy storm of rain and hail. In general, the summer of 1812 was remarkable for its storms. The two PÃ¡vlograd squadrons were bivouacking on a field of rye, which was already in ear but had been completely trodden down by cattle and horses. The rain was descending in torrents, and RostÃ³v, with a young officer named IlyÃn, his protÃgÃ, was sitting in a hastily constructed shelter. An officer of their regiment, with long mustaches extending onto his cheeks, who after riding to the staff had been overtaken by the rain, entered RostÃ³vs shelter. I have come from the staff, Count. Have you heard of RaÃvskis exploit? And the officer gave them details of the SaltÃ¡nov battle, which he had heard at the staff. RostÃ³v, smoking his pipe and turning his head about as the water trickled down his neck, listened inattentively, with an occasional glance at IlyÃn, who was pressing close to him. This officer, a lad of sixteen who had recently joined the regiment, was now in the same relation to Nicholas that Nicholas had been to DenÃsov seven years before. IlyÃn tried to imitate RostÃ³v in everything and adored him as a girl might have done. Zdrzhinski, the officer with the long mustache, spoke grandiloquently of the SaltÃ¡nov dam being a Russian Thermopylae, and of how a deed worthy of antiquity had been performed by General RaÃvski. He recounted how RaÃvski had led his two sons onto the dam under terrific fire and had charged with them beside him. RostÃ³v heard the story and not only said nothing to encourage Zdrzhinskis enthusiasm but, on the contrary, looked like a man ashamed of what he was hearing, though with no intention of contradicting it. Since the campaigns of Austerlitz and of 1807 RostÃ³v knew by experience that men always lie when describing military exploits, as he himself had done when recounting them; besides that, he had experience enough to know that nothing happens in war at all as we can imagine or relate it. And so he did not like Zdrzhinskis tale, nor did he like Zdrzhinski himself who, with his mustaches extending over his cheeks, bent low over the face of his hearer, as was his habit, and crowded RostÃ³v in the narrow shanty. RostÃ³v looked at him in silence. In the first place, there must have been such a confusion and crowding on the dam that was being attacked that if RaÃvski did lead his sons there, it could have had no effect except perhaps on some dozen men nearest to him, thought he, the rest could not have seen how or with whom RaÃvski came onto the dam. And even those who did see it would not have been much stimulated by it, for what had they to do with RaÃvskis tender paternal feelings when their own skins were in danger? And besides, the fate of the Fatherland did not depend on whether they took the SaltÃ¡nov dam or not, as we are told was the case at Thermopylae. So why should he have made such a sacrifice? And why expose his own children in the battle? I would not have taken my brother PÃtya there, or even IlyÃn, whos a stranger to me but a nice lad, but would have tried to put them somewhere under cover, Nicholas continued to think, as he listened to Zdrzhinski. But he did not express his thoughts, for in such matters, too, he had gained experience. He knew that this tale redounded to the glory of our arms and so one had to pretend not to doubt it. And he acted accordingly. I cant stand this any more, said IlyÃn, noticing that RostÃ³v did not relish Zdrzhinskis conversation. My stockings and shirt... and the water is running on my seat! Ill go and look for shelter. The rain seems less heavy. IlyÃn went out and Zdrzhinski rode away. Five minutes later IlyÃn, splashing through the mud, came running back to the shanty. Hurrah! RostÃ³v, come quick! Ive found it! About two hundred yards away theres a tavern where ours have already gathered. We can at least get dry there, and Mary HendrÃkhovnas there. Mary HendrÃkhovna was the wife of the regimental doctor, a pretty young German woman he had married in Poland. The doctor, whether from lack of means or because he did not like to part from his young wife in the early days of their marriage, took her about with him wherever the hussar regiment went and his jealousy had become a standing joke among the hussar officers. RostÃ³v threw his cloak over his shoulders, shouted to LavrÃºshka to follow with the things, and”now slipping in the mud, now splashing right through it”set off with IlyÃn in the lessening rain and the darkness that was occasionally rent by distant lightning. RostÃ³v, where are you? Here. What lightning! they called to one another. CHAPTER XIII In the tavern, before which stood the doctors covered cart, there were already some five officers. Mary HendrÃkhovna, a plump little blonde German, in a dressing jacket and nightcap, was sitting on a broad bench in the front corner. Her husband, the doctor, lay asleep behind her. RostÃ³v and IlyÃn, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts and laughter. Dear me, how jolly we are! said RostÃ³v laughing. And why do you stand there gaping? What swells they are! Why, the water streams from them! Dont make our drawing room so wet. Dont mess Mary HendrÃkhovnas dress! cried other voices. RostÃ³v and IlyÃn hastened to find a corner where they could change into dry clothes without offending Mary HendrÃkhovnas modesty. They were going into a tiny recess behind a partition to change, but found it completely filled by three officers who sat playing cards by the light of a solitary candle on an empty box, and these officers would on no account yield their position. Mary HendrÃkhovna obliged them with the loan of a petticoat to be used as a curtain, and behind that screen RostÃ³v and IlyÃn, helped by LavrÃºshka who had brought their kits, changed their wet things for dry ones. A fire was made up in the dilapidated brick stove. A board was found, fixed on two saddles and covered with a horsecloth, a small samovar was produced and a cellaret and half a bottle of rum, and having asked Mary HendrÃkhovna to preside, they all crowded round her. One offered her a clean handkerchief to wipe her charming hands, another spread a jacket under her little feet to keep them from the damp, another hung his coat over the window to keep out the draft, and yet another waved the flies off her husbands face, lest he should wake up. Leave him alone, said Mary HendrÃkhovna, smiling timidly and happily. He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night. Oh, no, Mary HendrÃkhovna, replied the officer, one must look after the doctor. Perhaps hell take pity on me someday, when it comes to cutting off a leg or an arm for me. There were only three tumblers, the water was so muddy that one could not make out whether the tea was strong or weak, and the samovar held only six tumblers of water, but this made it all the pleasanter to take turns in order of seniority to receive ones tumbler from Mary HendrÃkhovnas plump little hands with their short and not overclean nails. All the officers appeared to be, and really were, in love with her that evening. Even those playing cards behind the partition soon left their game and came over to the samovar, yielding to the general mood of courting Mary HendrÃkhovna. She, seeing herself surrounded by such brilliant and polite young men, beamed with satisfaction, try as she might to hide it, and perturbed as she evidently was each time her husband moved in his sleep behind her. There was only one spoon, sugar was more plentiful than anything else, but it took too long to dissolve, so it was decided that Mary HendrÃkhovna should stir the sugar for everyone in turn. RostÃ³v received his tumbler, and adding some rum to it asked Mary HendrÃkhovna to stir it. But you take it without sugar? she said, smiling all the time, as if everything she said and everything the others said was very amusing and had a double meaning. It is not the sugar I want, but only that your little hand should stir my tea. Mary HendrÃkhovna assented and began looking for the spoon which someone meanwhile had pounced on. Use your finger, Mary HendrÃkhovna, it will be still nicer, said RostÃ³v. Too hot! she replied, blushing with pleasure. IlyÃn put a few drops of rum into the bucket of water and brought it to Mary HendrÃkhovna, asking her to stir it with her finger. This is my cup, said he. Only dip your finger in it and Ill drink it all up. When they had emptied the samovar, RostÃ³v took a pack of cards and proposed that they should play Kings with Mary HendrÃkhovna. They drew lots to settle who should make up her set. At RostÃ³vs suggestion it was agreed that whver became King should have the right to kiss Mary HendrÃkhovnas hand, and that the Booby should go to refill and reheat the samovar for the doctor when the latter awoke. Well, but supposing Mary HendrÃkhovna is ˜King? asked IlyÃn. As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law! They had hardly begun to play before the doctors disheveled head suddenly appeared from behind Mary HendrÃkhovna. He had been awake for some time, listening to what was being said, and evidently found nothing entertaining or amusing in what was going on. His face was sad and depressed. Without greeting the officers, he scratched himself and asked to be allowed to pass as they were blocking the way. As soon as he had left the room all the officers burst into loud laughter and Mary HendrÃkhovna blushed till her eyes filled with tears and thereby became still more attractive to them. Returning from the yard, the doctor told his wife (who had ceased to smile so happily, and looked at him in alarm, awaiting her sentence) that the rain had ceased and they must go to sleep in their covered cart, or everything in it would be stolen. But Ill send an orderly.... Two of them! said RostÃ³v. What an idea, doctor! Ill stand guard on it myself! said IlyÃn. No, gentlemen, you have had your sleep, but I have not slept for two nights, replied the doctor, and he sat down morosely beside his wife, waiting for the game to end. Seeing his gloomy face as he frowned at his wife, the officers grew still merrier, and some of them could not refrain from laughter, for which they hurriedly sought plausible pretexts. When he had gone, taking his wife with him, and had settled down with her in their covered cart, the officers lay down in the tavern, covering themselves with their wet cloaks, but they did not sleep for a long time; now they exchanged remarks, recalling the doctors uneasiness and his wifes delight, now they ran out into the porch and reported what was taking place in the covered trap. Several times RostÃ³v, covering his head, tried to go to sleep, but some remark would arouse him and conversation would be resumed, to the accompaniment of unreasoning, merry, childlike laughter. CHAPTER XIV It was nearly three oclock but no one was yet asleep, when the quartermaster appeared with an order to move on to the little town of OstrÃ³vna. Still laughing and talking, the officers began hurriedly getting ready and again boiled some muddy water in the samovar. But RostÃ³v went off to his squadron without waiting for tea. Day was breaking, the rain had ceased, and the clouds were dispersing. It felt damp and cold, especially in clothes that were still moist. As they left the tavern in the twilight of the dawn, RostÃ³v and IlyÃn both glanced under the wet and glistening leather hood of the doctors cart, from under the apron of which his feet were sticking out, and in the middle of which his wifes nightcap was visible and her sleepy breathing audible. She really is a dear little thing, said RostÃ³v to IlyÃn, who was following him. A charming woman! said IlyÃn, with all the gravity of a boy of sixteen. Half an hour later the squadron was lined up on the road. The command was heard to mount and the soldiers crossed themselves and mounted. RostÃ³v riding in front gave the order Forward! and the hussars, with clanking sabers and subdued talk, their horses hoofs splashing in the mud, defiled in fours and moved along the broad road planted with birch trees on each side, following the infantry and a battery that had gone on in front. Tattered, blue-purple clouds, reddening in the east, were scudding before the wind. It was growing lighter and lighter. That curly grass which always grows by country roadsides became clearly visible, still wet with the nights rain; the drooping branches of the birches, also wet, swayed in the wind and flung down bright drops of water to one side. The soldiers faces were more and more clearly visible. RostÃ³v, always closely followed by IlyÃn, rode along the side of the road between two rows of birch trees. When campaigning, RostÃ³v allowed himself the indulgence of riding not a regimental but a Cossack horse. A judge of horses and a sportsman, he had lately procured himself a large, fine, mettlesome, DonÃts horse, dun-colored, with light mane and tail, and when he rode it no one could outgallop him. To ride this horse was a pleasure to him, and he thought of the horse, of the morning, of the doctors wife, but not once of the impending danger. Formerly, when going into action, RostÃ³v had felt afraid; now he had not the least feeling of fear. He was fearless, not because he had grown used to being under fire (one cannot grow used to danger), but because he had learned how to manage his thoughts when in danger. He had grown accustomed when going into action to think about anything but what would seem most likely to interest him”the impending danger. During the first period of his service, hard as he tried and much as he reproached himself with cowardice, he had not been able to do this, but with time it had come of itself. Now he rode beside IlyÃn under the birch trees, occasionally plucking leaves from a branch that met his hand, sometimes touching his horses side with his foot, or, without turning round, handing a pipe he had finished to an hussar riding behind him, with as calm and careless an air as though he were merely out for a ride. He glanced with pity at the excited face of IlyÃn, who talked much and in great agitation. He knew from experience the tormenting expectation of terror and death the cornet was suffering and knew that only time could help him. As soon as the sun appeared in a clear strip of sky beneath the clouds, the wind fell, as if it dared not spoil the beauty of the summer morning after the storm; drops still continued to fall, but vertically now, and all was still. The whole sun appeared on the horizon and disappeared behind a long narrow cloud that hung above it. A few minutes later it reappeared brighter still from behind the top of the cloud, tearing its edge. Everything grew bright and glittered. And with that light, and as if in reply to it, came the sound of guns ahead of them. Before RostÃ³v had had time to consider and determine the distance of that firing, Count Ostermann-TolstÃ³ys adjutant came galloping from VÃtebsk with orders to advance at a trot along the road. The squadron overtook and passed the infantry and the battery”which had also quickened their pace”rode down a hill, and passing through an empty and deserted village again ascended. The horses began to lather and the men to flush. Halt! Dress your ranks! the order of the regimental commander was heard ahead. Forward by the left. Walk, march! came the order from in front. And the hussars, passing along the line of troops on the left flank of our position, halted behind our Uhlans who were in the front line. To the right stood our infantry in a dense column: they were the reserve. Higher up the hill, on the very horizon, our guns were visible through the wonderfully clear air, brightly illuminated by slanting morning sunbeams. In front, beyond a hollow dale, could be seen the enemys columns and guns. Our advanced line, already in action, could be heard briskly exchanging shots with the enemy in the dale. At these sounds, long unheard, RostÃ³vs spirits rose, as at the strains of the merriest music. Trap-ta-ta-tap! cracked the shots, now together, now several quickly one after another. Again all was silent and then again it sounded as if someone were walking on detonators and exploding them. The hussars remained in the same place for about an hour. A cannonade began. Count Ostermann with his suite rode up behind the squadron, halted, spoke to the commander of the regiment, and rode up the hill to the guns. After Ostermann had gone, a command rang out to the Uhlans. Form column! Prepare to charge! The infantry in front of them parted into platoons to allow the cavalry to pass. The Uhlans started, the streamers on their spears fluttering, and trotted downhill toward the French cavalry which was seen below to the left. As soon as the Uhlans descended the hill, the hussars were ordered up the hill to support the battery. As they took the places vacated by the Uhlans, bullets came from the front, whining and whistling, but fell spent without taking effect. The sounds, which he had not heard for so long, had an even more pleasurable and exhilarating effect on RostÃ³v than the previous sounds of firing. Drawing himself up, he viewed the field of battle opening out before him from the hill, and with his whole soul followed the movement of the Uhlans. They swooped down close to the French dragoons, something confused happened there amid the smoke, and five minutes later our Uhlans were galloping back, not to the place they had occupied but more to the left, and among the orange-colored Uhlans on chestnut horses and behind them, in a large group, blue French dragoons on gray horses could be seen. CHAPTER XV RostÃ³v, with his keen sportsmans eye, was one of the first to catch sight of these blue French dragoons pursuing our Uhlans. Nearer and nearer in disorderly crowds came the Uhlans and the French dragoons pursuing them. He could already see how these men, who looked so small at the foot of the hill, jostled and overtook one another, waving their arms and their sabers in the air. RostÃ³v gazed at what was happening before him as at a hunt. He felt instinctively that if the hussars struck at the French dragoons now, the latter could not withstand them, but if a charge was to be made it must be done now, at that very moment, or it would be too late. He looked around. A captain, standing beside him, was gazing like himself with eyes fixed on the cavalry below them. Andrew SevastyÃ¡nych! said RostÃ³v. You know, we could crush them.... A fine thing too! replied the captain, and really... RostÃ³v, without waiting to hear him out, touched his horse, galloped to the front of his squadron, and before he had time to finish giving the word of command, the whole squadron, sharing his feeling, was following him. RostÃ³v himself did not know how or why he did it. He acted as he did when hunting, without reflecting or considering. He saw the dragoons near and that they were galloping in disorder; he knew they could not withstand an attack”knew there was only that moment and that if he let it slip it would not return. The bullets were whining and whistling so stimulatingly around him and his horse was so eager to go that he could not restrain himself. He touched his horse, gave the word of command, and immediately, hearing behind him the tramp of the horses of his deployed squadron, rode at full trot downhill toward the dragoons. Hardly had they reached the bottom of the hill before their pace instinctively changed to a gallop, which grew faster and faster as they drew nearer to our Uhlans and the French dragoons who galloped after them. The dragoons were now close at hand. On seeing the hussars, the foremost began to turn, while those behind began to halt. With the same feeling with which he had galloped across the path of a wolf, RostÃ³v gave rein to his DonÃts horse and galloped to intersect the path of the dragoons disordered lines. One Uhlan stopped, another who was on foot flung himself to the ground to avoid being knocked over, and a riderless horse fell in among the hussars. Nearly all the French dragoons were galloping back. RostÃ³v, picking out one on a gray horse, dashed after him. On the way he came upon a bush, his gallant horse cleared it, and almost before he had righted himself in his saddle he saw that he would immediately overtake the enemy he had selected. That Frenchman, by his uniform an officer, was going at a gallop, crouching on his gray horse and urging it on with his saber. In another moment RostÃ³vs horse dashed its breast against the hindquarters of the officers horse, almost knocking it over, and at the same instant RostÃ³v, without knowing why, raised his saber and struck the Frenchman with it. The instant he had done this, all RostÃ³vs animation vanished. The officer fell, not so much from the blow”which had but slightly cut his arm above the elbow”as from the shock to his horse and from fright. RostÃ³v reined in his horse, and his eyes sought his f to see whom he had vanquished. The French dragoon officer was hopping with one foot on the ground, the other being caught in the stirrup. His eyes, screwed up with fear as if he every moment expected another blow, gazed up at RostÃ³v with shrinking terror. His pale and mud-stained face”fair and young, with a dimple in the chin and light-blue eyes”was not an enemys face at all suited to a battlefield, but a most ordinary, homelike face. Before RostÃ³v had decided what to do with him, the officer cried, I surrender! He hurriedly but vainly tried to get his foot out of the stirrup and did not remove his frightened blue eyes from RostÃ³vs face. Some hussars who galloped up disengaged his foot and helped him into the saddle. On all sides, the hussars were busy with the dragoons; one was wounded, but though his face was bleeding, he would not give up his horse; another was perched up behind an hussar with his arms round him; a third was being helped by an hussar to mount his horse. In front, the French infantry were firing as they ran. The hussars galloped hastily back with their prisoners. RostÃ³v galloped back with the rest, aware of an unpleasant feeling of depression in his heart. Something vague and confused, which he could not at all account for, had come over him with the capture of that officer and the blow he had dealt him. Count Ostermann-TolstÃ³y met the returning hussars, sent for RostÃ³v, thanked him, and said he would report his gallant deed to the Emperor and would recommend him for a St. Georges Cross. When sent for by Count Ostermann, RostÃ³v, remembering that he had charged without orders, felt sure his commander was sending for him to punish him for breach of discipline. Ostermanns flattering words and promise of a reward should therefore have struck him all the more pleasantly, but he still felt that same vaguely disagreeable feeling of moral nausea. But what on earth is worrying me? he asked himself as he rode back from the general. IlyÃn? No, hes safe. Have I disgraced myself in any way? No, thats not it. Something else, resembling remorse, tormented him. Yes, oh yes, that French officer with the dimple. And I remember how my arm paused when I raised it. RostÃ³v saw the prisoners being led away and galloped after them to have a look at his Frenchman with the dimple on his chin. He was sitting in his foreign uniform on an hussar packhorse and looked anxiously about him. The sword cut on his arm could scarcely be called a wound. He glanced at RostÃ³v with a feigned smile and waved his hand in greeting. RostÃ³v still had the same indefinite feeling, as of shame. All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that RostÃ³v, without being dull or angry, was silent, thoughtful, and preoccupied. He drank reluctantly, tried to remain alone, and kept turning something over in his mind. RostÃ³v was always thinking about that brilliant exploit of his, which to his amazement had gained him the St. Georges Cross and even given him a reputation for bravery, and there was something he could not at all understand. So others are even more afraid than I am! he thought. So thats all there is in what is called heroism! And did I do it for my countrys sake? And how was he to blame, with his dimple and blue eyes? And how frightened he was! He thought that I should kill him. Why should I kill him? My hand trembled. And they have given me a St. Georges Cross.... I cant make it out at all. But while Nicholas was considering these questions and still could reach no clear solution of what puzzled him so, the wheel of fortune in the service, as often happens, turned in his favor. After the affair at OstrÃ³vna he was brought into notice, received command of an hussar battalion, and when a brave officer was needed he was chosen. CHAPTER XVI On receiving news of NatÃ¡shas illness, the countess, though not quite well yet and still weak, went to Moscow with PÃtya and the rest of the household, and the whole family moved from MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievnas house to their own and settled down in town. NatÃ¡shas illness was so serious that, fortunately for her and for her parents, the consideration of all that had caused the illness, her conduct and the breaking off of her engagement, receded into the background. She was so ill that it was impossible for them to consider in how far she was to blame for what had happened. She could not eat or sleep, grew visibly thinner, coughed, and, as the doctors made them feel, was in danger. They could not think of anything but how to help her. Doctors came to see her singly and in consultation, talked much in French, German, and Latin, blamed one another, and prescribed a great variety of medicines for all the diseases known to them, but the simple idea never occurred to any of them that they could not know the disease NatÃ¡sha was suffering from, as no disease suffered by a live man can be known, for every living person has his own peculiarities and always has his own peculiar, personal, novel, complicated disease, unknown to medicine”not a disease of the lungs, liver, skin, heart, nerves, and so on mentioned in medical books, but a disease consisting of one of the innumerable combinations of the maladies of those organs. This simple thought could not occur to the doctors (as it cannot occur to a wizard that he is unable to work his charms) because the business of their lives was to cure, and they received money for it and had spent the best years of their lives on that business. But, above all, that thought was kept out of their minds by the fact that they saw they were really useful, as in fact they were to the whole RostÃ³v family. Their usefulness did not depend on making the patient swallow substances for the most part harmful (the harm was scarcely perceptible, as they were given in small doses), but they were useful, necessary, and indispensable because they satisfied a mental need of the invalid and of those who loved her”and that is why there are, and always will be, pseudo-healers, wise women, homeopaths, and allopaths. They satisfied that eternal human need for hope of relief, for sympathy, and that something should be done, which is felt by those who are suffering. They satisfied the need seen in its most elementary form in a child, when it wants to have a place rubbed that has been hurt. A child knocks itself and runs at once to the arms of its mother or nurse to have the aching spot rubbed or kissed, and it feels better when this is done. The child cannot believe that the strongest and wisest of its people have no remedy for its pain, and the hope of relief and the expression of its mothers sympathy while she rubs the bump comforts it. The doctors were of use to NatÃ¡sha because they kissed and rubbed her bump, assuring her that it would soon pass if only the coachman went to the chemists in the ArbÃ¡t and got a powder and some pills in a pretty box for a ruble and seventy kopeks, and if she took those powders in boiled water at intervals of precisely two hours, neither more nor less. What would SÃ³nya and the count and countess have done, how would they have looked, if nothing had been done, if there had not been those pills to give by the clock, the warm drinks, the chicken cutlets, and all the other details of life ordered by the doctors, the carrying out of which supplied an occupation and consolation to the family circle? How would the count have borne his dearly loved daughters illness had he not known that it was costing him a thousand rubles, and that he would not grudge thousands more to benefit her, or had he not known that if her illness continued he would not grudge yet other thousands and would take her abroad for consultations there, and had he not been able to explain the details of how MÃtivier and Feller had not understood the symptoms, but Frise had, and MÃºdrov had diagnosed them even better? What would the countess have done had she not been able sometimes to scold the invalid for not strictly obeying the doctors orders? Youll never get well like that, she would say, forgetting her grief in her vexation, if you wont obey the doctor and take your medicine at the right time! You mustnt trifle with it, you know, or it may turn to pneumonia, she would go on, deriving much comfort from the utterance of that foreign word, incomprehensible to others as well as to herself. What would SÃ³nya have done without the glad consciousness that she had not undressed during the first three nights, in order to be ready to carry out all the doctors injunctions with precision, and that she still kept awake at night so as not to miss the proper time when the slightly harmful pills in the little gilt box had to be administered? Even to NatÃ¡sha herself it was pleasant to see that so many sacrifices were being made for her sake, and to know that she had to take medicine at certain hours, though she declared that no medicine would cure her and that it was all nonsense. And it was even pleasant to be able to show, by disregarding the orders, that she did not believe in medical treatment and did not value her life. The doctor came every day, felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, and regardless of her grief-stricken face joked with her. But when he had gone into another room, to which the countess hurriedly followed him, he assumed a grave air and thoughtfully shaking his head said that though there was danger, he had hopes of the effect of this last medicine and one must wait and see, that the malady was chiefly mental, but... And the countess, trying to conceal the action from herself and from him, slipped a gold coin into his hand and always returned to the patient with a more tranquil mind. The symptoms of NatÃ¡shas illness were that she ate little, slept little, coughed, and was always low-spirited. The doctors said that she could not get on without medical treatment, so they kept her in the stifling atmosphere of the town, and the RostÃ³vs did not move to the country that summer of 1812. In spite of the many pills she swallowed and the drops and powders out of the little bottles and boxes of which Madame Schoss who was fond of such things made a large collection, and in spite of being deprived of the country life to which she was accustomed, youth prevailed. NatÃ¡shas grief began to be overlaid by the impressions of daily life, it ceased to press so painfully on her heart, it gradually faded into the past, and she began to recover physically. CHAPTER XVII NatÃ¡sha was calmer but no happier. She not merely avoided all external forms of pleasure”balls, promenades, concerts, and theaters”but she never laughed without a sound of tears in her laughter. She could not sing. As soon as she began to laugh, or tried to sing by herself, tears choked her: tears of remorse, tears at the recollection of those pure times which could never return, tears of vexation that she should so uselessly have ruined her young life which might have been so happy. Laughter and singing in particular seemed to her like a blasphemy, in face of her sorrow. Without any need of self-restraint, no wish to coquet ever entered her head. She said and felt at that time that no man was more to her than NastÃ¡sya IvÃ¡novna, the buffoon. Something stood sentinel within her and forbade her every joy. Besides, she had lost all the old interests of her carefree girlish life that had been so full of hope. The previous autumn, the hunting, Uncle, and the Christmas holidays spent with Nicholas at OtrÃ¡dn were what she recalled oftenest and most painfully. What would she not have given to bring back even a single day of that time! But it was gone forever. Her presentiment at the time had not deceived her”that that state of freedom and readiness for any enjoyment would not return again. Yet it was necessary to live on. It comforted her to reflect that she was not better as she had formerly imagined, but worse, much worse, than anybody else in the world. But this was not enough. She knew that, and asked herself, What next? But there was nothing to come. There was no joy in life, yet life was passing. NatÃ¡sha apparently tried not to be a burden or a hindrance to anyone, but wanted nothing for herself. She kept away from everyone in the house and felt at ease only with her brother PÃtya. She liked to be with him better than with the others, and when alone with him she sometimes laughed. She hardly ever left the house and of those who came to see them was glad to see only one person, Pierre. It would have been impossible to treat her with more delicacy, greater care, and at the same time more seriously than did Count BezÃºkhov. NatÃ¡sha unconsciously felt this delicacy and so found great pleasure in his society. But she was not even grateful to him for it; nothing good on Pierres part seemed to her to be an effort, it seemed so natural for him to be kind to everyone that there was no merit in his kindness. Sometimes NatÃ¡sha noticed embarrassment and awkwardness on his part in her presence, especially when he wanted to do something to please her, or feared that something they spoke of would awaken memories distressing to her. She noticed this and attributed it to his general kindness and shyness, which she imagined must be the same toward everyone as it was to her. After those involuntary words”that if he were free he would have asked on his knees for her hand and her love”uttered at a moment when she was so strongly agitated, Pierre never spoke to NatÃ¡sha of his feelings; and it seemed plain to her that those words, which had then so comforted her, were spoken as all sorts of meaningless words are spoken to comfort a crying child. It was not because Pierre was a married man, but because NatÃ¡sha felt very strongly with him that moral barrier the absence of which she had experienced with KurÃ¡gin that it never entered her head that the relations between him and herself could lead to love on her part, still less on his, or even to the kind of tender, self-conscious, romantic friendship between a man and a woman of which she had known several instances. Before the end of the fast of St. Peter, AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novna BelÃ³va, a country neighbor of the RostÃ³vs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions at the shrines of the Moscow saints. She suggested that NatÃ¡sha should fast and prepare for Holy Communion, and NatÃ¡sha gladly welcomed the idea. Despite the doctors orders that she should not go out early in the morning, NatÃ¡sha insisted on fasting and preparing for the sacrament, not as they generally prepared for it in the RostÃ³v family by attending three services in their own house, but as AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novna did, by going to church every day for a week and not once missing Vespers, Matins, or Mass. The countess was pleased with NatÃ¡shas zeal; after the poor results of the medical treatment, in the depths of her heart she hoped that prayer might help her daughter more than medicines and, though not without fear and concealing it from the doctor, she agreed to NatÃ¡shas wish and entrusted her to BelÃ³va. AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novna used to come to wake NatÃ¡sha at three in the morning, but generally found her already awake. She was afraid of being late for Matins. Hastily washing, and meekly putting on her shabbiest dress and an old mantilla, NatÃ¡sha, shivering in the fresh air, went out into the deserted streets lit by the clear light of dawn. By AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novnas advice NatÃ¡sha prepared herself not in their own parish, but at a church where, according to the devout AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novna, the priest was a man of very severe and lofty life. There were never many people in the church; NatÃ¡sha always stood beside BelÃ³va in the customary place before an icon of the Blessed Virgin, let into the screen before the choir on the left side, and a feeling, new to her, of humility before something great and incomprehensible, seized her when at that unusual morning hour, gazing at the dark face of the Virgin illuminated by the candles burning before it and by the morning light falling from the window, she listened to the words of the service which she tried to follow with understanding. When she understood them her personal feeling became interwoven in the prayers with shades of its own. When she did not understand, it was sweeter still to think that the wish to understand everything is pride, that it is impossible to understand all, that it is only necessary to believe and to commit oneself to God, whom she felt guiding her soul at those moments. She crossed herself, bowed low, and when she did not understand, in horror at her own vileness, simply asked God to forgive her everything, everything, to have mercy upon her. The prayers to which she surrendered herself most of all were those of repentance. On her way home at an early hour when she met no one but bricklayers going to work or men sweeping the street, and everybody within the houses was still asleep, NatÃ¡sha experienced a feeling new to her, a sense of the possibility of correcting her faults, the possibility of a new, clean life, and of happiness. During the whole week she spent in this way, that feeling grew every day. And the happiness of taking communion, or communing as AgrafÃna IvÃ¡novna, joyously playing with the word, called it, seemed to NatÃ¡sha so great that she felt she should never live till that blessed Sunday. But the happy day came, and on that memorable Sunday, when, dressed in white muslin, she returned home after communion, for the first time for many months she felt calm and not oppressed by the thought of the life that lay before her. The doctor who came to see her that day ordered her to continue the powders he had prescribed a fortnight previously. She must certainly go on taking them morning and evening, said he, evidently sincerely satisfied with his success. Only, please be particular about it. Be quite easy, he continued playfully, as he adroitly took the gold coin in his palm. She will soon be singing and frolicking about. The last medicine has done her a very great deal of good. She has freshened up very much. The countess, with a cheerful expression on her face, looked down at her nails and spat a little for luck as she returned to the drawing room. CHAPTER XVIII At the beginning of July more and more disquieting reports about the war began to spread in Moscow; people spoke of an appeal by the Emperor to the people, and of his coming himself from the army to Moscow. And as up to the eleventh of July no manifesto or appeal had been received, exaggerated reports became current about them and about the position of Russia. It was said that the Emperor was leaving the army because it was in danger, it was said that SmolÃnsk had surrendered, that Napoleon had an army of a million and only a miracle could save Russia. On the eleventh of July, which was Saturday, the manifesto was received but was not yet in print, and Pierre, who was at the RostÃ³vs, promised to come to dinner next day, Sunday, and bring a copy of the manifesto and appeal, which he would obtain from Count RostopchÃn. That Sunday, the RostÃ³vs went to Mass at the RazumÃ³vskis private chapel as usual. It was a hot July day. Even at ten oclock, when the RostÃ³vs got out of their carriage at the chapel, the sultry air, the shouts of hawkers, the light and gay summer clothes of the crowd, the dusty leaves of the trees on the boulevard, the sounds of the band and the white trousers of a battalion marching to parade, the rattling of wheels on the cobblestones, and the brilliant, hot sunshine were all full of that summer languor, that content and discontent with the present, which is most strongly felt on a bright, hot day in town. All the Moscow notabilities, all the RostÃ³vs acquaintances, were at the RazumÃ³vskis chapel, for, as if expecting something to happen, many wealthy families who usually left town for their country estates had not gone away that summer. As NatÃ¡sha, at her mothers side, passed through the crowd behind a liveried footman who cleared the way for them, she heard a young man speaking about her in too loud a whisper. Thats RostÃ³va, the one who... Shes much thinner, but all the same shes pretty! She heard, or thought she heard, the names of KurÃ¡gin and BolkÃ³nski. But she was always imagining that. It always seemed to her that everyone who looked at her was thinking only of what had happened to her. With a sinking heart, wretched as she always was now when she found herself in a crowd, NatÃ¡sha in her lilac silk dress trimmed with black lace walked”as women can walk”with the more repose and stateliness the greater the pain and shame in her soul. She knew for certain that she was pretty, but this no longer gave her satisfaction as it used to. On the contrary it tormented her more than anything else of late, and particularly so on this bright, hot summer day in town. Its Sunday again”another week past, she thought, recalling that she had been here the Sunday before, and always the same life that is no life, and the same surroundings in which it used to be so easy to live. Im pretty, Im young, and I know that now I am good. I used to be bad, but now I know I am good, she thought, but yet my best years are slipping by and are no good to anyone. She stood by her mothers side and exchanged nods with acquaintances near her. From habit she scrutinized the ladies dresses, condemned the bearing of a lady standing close by who was not crossing herself properly but in a cramped manner, and again she thought with vexation that she was herself being judged and was judging others, and suddenly, at the sound of the service, she felt horrified at her own vileness, horrified that the former purity of her soul was again lost to her. A comely, fresh-looking old man was conducting the service with that mild solemnity which has so elevating and soothing an effect on the souls of the worshipers. The gates of the sanctuary screen were closed, the curtain was slowly drawn, and from behind it a soft mysterious voice pronounced some words. Tears, the cause of which she herself did not understand, made NatÃ¡sha™s breast heave, and a joyous but oppressive feeling agitated her. Teach me what I should do, how to live my life, how I may grow good forever, forever! she pleaded. The deacon came out onto the raised space before the altar screen and, holding his thumb extended, drew his long hair from under his dalmatic and, making the sign of the cross on his breast, began in a loud and solemn voice to recite the words of the prayer.... In peace let us pray unto the Lord. As one community, without distinction of class, without enmity, united by brotherly love”let us pray! thought NatÃ¡sha. For the peace that is from above, and for the salvation of our souls. For the world of angels and all the spirits who dwell above us, prayed NatÃ¡sha. When they prayed for the warriors, she thought of her brother and DenÃsov. When they prayed for all traveling by land and sea, she remembered Prince Andrew, prayed for him, and asked God to forgive her all the wrongs she had done him. When they prayed for those who love us, she prayed for the members of her own family, her father and mother and SÃ³nya, realizing for the first time how wrongly she had acted toward them, and feeling all the strength of her love for them. When they prayed for those who hate us, she tried to think of her enemies and people who hated her, in order to pray for them. She included among her enemies the creditors and all who had business dealings with her father, and always at the thought of enemies and those who hated her she remembered Anatole who had done her so much harm”and though he did not hate her she gladly prayed for him as for an enemy. Only at prayer did she feel able to think clearly and calmly of Prince Andrew and Anatole, as men for whom her feelings were as nothing compared with her awe and devotion to God. When they prayed for the Imperial family and the Synod, she bowed very low and made the sign of the cross, saying to herself that even if she did not understand, still she could not doubt, and at any rate loved the governing Synod and prayed for it. When he had finished the Litany the deacon crossed the stole over his breast and said, Let us commit ourselves and our whole lives to Christ the Lord! Commit ourselves to God, NatÃ¡sha inwardly repeated. Lord God, I submit myself to Thy will! she thought. I want nothing, wish for nothing; teach me what to do and how to use my will! Take me, take me! prayed NatÃ¡sha, with impatient emotion in her heart, not crossing herself but letting her slender arms hang down as if expecting some invisible power at any moment to take her and deliver her from herself, from her regrets, desires, remorse, hopes, and sins. The countess looked round several times at her daughter™s softened face and shining eyes and prayed God to help her. Unexpectedly, in the middle of the service, and not in the usual order NatÃ¡sha knew so well, the deacon brought out a small stool, the one he knelt on when praying on Trinity Sunday, and placed it before the doors of the sanctuary screen. The priest came out with his purple velvet biretta on his head, adjusted his hair, and knelt down with an effort. Everybody followed his example and they looked at one another in surprise. Then came the prayer just received from the Synod”a prayer for the deliverance of Russia from hostile invasion. Lord God of might, God of our salvation! began the priest in that voice, clear, not grandiloquent but mild, in which only the Slav clergy read and which acts so irresistibly on a Russian heart. Lord God of might, God of our salvation! Look this day in mercy and blessing on Thy humble people, and graciously hear us, spare us, and have mercy upon us! This foe confounding Thy land, desiring to lay waste the whole world, rises against us; these lawless men are gathered together to overthrow Thy kingdom, to destroy Thy dear Jerusalem, Thy beloved Russia; to defile Thy temples, to overthrow Thine altars, and to desecrate our holy shrines. How long, O Lord, how long shall the wicked triumph? How long shall they wield unlawful power? Lord God! Hear us when we pray to Thee; strengthen with Thy might our most gracious sovereign lord, the Emperor Alexander PÃ¡vlovich; be mindful of his uprightness and meekness, reward him according to his righteousness, and let it preserve us, Thy chosen Israel! Bless his counsels, his undertakings, and his work; strengthen his kingdom by Thine almighty hand, and give him victory over his enemy, even as Thou gavest Moses the victory over Amalek, Gideon over Midian, and David over Goliath. Preserve his army, put a bow of brass in the hands of those who have armed themselves in Thy Name, and gird their loins with strength for the fight. Take up the spear and shield and arise to help us; confound and put to shame those who have devised evil against us, may they be before the faces of Thy faithful warriors as dust before the wind, and may Thy mighty Angel confound them and put them to flight; may they be ensnared when they know it not, and may the plots they have laid in secret be turned against them; let them fall before Thy servants™ feet and be laid low by our hosts! Lord, Thou art able to save both great and small; Thou art God, and man cannot prevail against Thee! God of our fathers! Remember Thy bounteous mercy and loving-kindness which are from of old; turn not Thy face from us, but be gracious to our unworthiness, and in Thy great goodness and Thy many mercies regard not our transgressions and iniquities! Create in us a clean heart and renew a right spirit within us, strengthen us all in Thy faith, fortify our hope, inspire us with true love one for another, arm us with unity of spirit in the righteous defense of the heritage Thou gavest to us and to our fathers, and let not the scepter of the wicked be exalted against the destiny of those Thou hast sanctified. O Lord our God, in whom we believe and in whom we put our trust, let us not be confounded in our hope of Thy mercy, and give us a token of Thy blessing, that those who hate us and our Orthodox faith may see it and be put to shame and perish, and may all the nations know that Thou art the Lord and we are Thy people. Show Thy mercy upon us this day, O Lord, and grant us Thy salvation; make the hearts of Thy servants to rejoice in Thy mercy; smite down our enemies and destroy them swiftly beneath the feet of Thy faithful servants! For Thou art the defense, the succor, and the victory of them that put their trust in Thee, and to Thee be all glory, to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, now and forever, world without end. Amen. In NatÃ¡sha™s receptive condition of soul this prayer affected her strongly. She listened to every word about the victory of Moses over Amalek, of Gideon over Midian, and of David over Goliath, and about the destruction of Thy Jerusalem, and she prayed to God with the tenderness and emotion with which her heart was overflowing, but without fully understanding what she was asking of God in that prayer. She shared with all her heart in the prayer for the spirit of righteousness, for the strengthening of the heart by faith and hope, and its animation by love. But she could not pray that her enemies might be trampled under foot when but a few minutes before she had been wishing she had more of them that she might pray for them. But neither could she doubt the righteousness of the prayer that was being read on bended knees. She felt in her heart a devout and tremulous awe at the thought of the punishment that overtakes men for their sins, and especially of her own sins, and she prayed to God to forgive them all, and her too, and to give them all, and her too, peace and happiness. And it seemed to her that God heard her prayer. CHAPTER XIX From the day when Pierre, after leaving the RostÃ³vs™ with NatÃ¡sha™s grateful look fresh in his mind, had gazed at the comet that seemed to be fixed in the sky and felt that something new was appearing on his own horizon”from that day the problem of the vanity and uselessness of all earthly things, that had incessantly tormented him, no longer presented itself. That terrible question Why? Wherefore? which had come to him amid every occupation, was now replaced, not by another question or by a reply to the former question, but by her image. When he listened to, or himself took part in, trivial conversations, when he read or heard of human baseness or folly, he was not horrified as formerly, and did not ask himself why men struggled so about these things when all is so transient and incomprehensible”but he remembered her as he had last seen her, and all his doubts vanished”not because she had answered the questions that had haunted him, but because his conception of her transferred him instantly to another, a brighter, realm of spiritual activity in which no one could be justified or guilty”a realm of beauty and love which it was worth living for. Whatever worldly baseness presented itself to him, he said to himself: Well, supposing N. N. has swindled the country and the Tsar, and the country and the Tsar confer honors upon him, what does that matter? She smiled at me yesterday and asked me to come again, and I love her, and no one will ever know it. And his soul felt calm and peaceful. Pierre still went into society, drank as much and led the same idle and dissipated life, because besides the hours he spent at the RostÃ³vs™ there were other hours he had to spend somehow, and the habits and acquaintances he had made in Moscow formed a current that bore him along irresistibly. But latterly, when more and more disquieting reports came from the seat of war and NatÃ¡sha™s health began to improve and she no longer aroused in him the former feeling of careful pity, an ever-increasing restlessness, which he could not explain, took possession of him. He felt that the condition he was in could not continue long, that a catastrophe was coming which would change his whole life, and he impatiently sought everywhere for signs of that approaching catastrophe. One of his brother Masons had revealed to Pierre the following prophecy concerning Napoleon, drawn from the Revelation of St. John. In chapter 13, verse 18, of the Apocalypse, it is said: Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six. And in the fifth verse of the same chapter: And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies; and power was given unto him to continue forty and two months. The French alphabet, written out with the same numerical values as the Hebrew, in which the first nine letters denote units and the others tens, will have the following significance: a b c d e f g h i k 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 l m n o p q r s 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90 t u v w x y 100 110 120 130 140 150 z 160 Writing the words L™Empereur NapolÃ©on in numbers, it appears that the sum of them is 666, and that Napoleon was therefore the beast foretold in the Apocalypse. Moreover, by applying the same system to the words quarante-deux, * which was the term allowed to the beast that spoke great things and blasphemies, the same number 666 was obtained; from which it followed that the limit fixed for Napoleon™s power had come in the year 1812 when the French emperor was forty-two. This prophecy pleased Pierre very much and he often asked himself what would put an end to the power of the beast, that is, of Napoleon, and tried by the same system of using letters as numbers and adding them up, to find an answer to the question that engrossed him. He wrote the words L™Empereur Alexandre, La nation russe and added up their numbers, but the sums were either more or less than 666. Once when making such calculations he wrote down his own name in French, Comte Pierre Besouhoff, but the sum of the numbers did not come right. Then he changed the spelling, substituting a z for the s and adding de and the article le, still without obtaining the desired result. Then it occurred to him: if the answer to the question were contained in his name, his nationality would also be given in the answer. So he wrote Le russe Besuhof and adding up the numbers got 671. This was only five too much, and five was represented by e, the very letter elided from the article le before the word Empereur. By omitting the e, though incorrectly, Pierre got the answer he sought. L™russe Besuhof made 666. This discovery excited him. How, or by what means, he was connected with the great event foretold in the Apocalypse he did not know, but he did not doubt that connection for a moment. His love for NatÃ¡sha, Antichrist, Napoleon, the invasion, the comet, 666, L™Empereur NapolÃ©on, and L™russe Besuhof”all this had to mature and culminate, to lift him out of that spellbound, petty sphere of Moscow habits in which he felt himself held captive and lead him to a great achievement and great happiness. * Forty-two. On the eve of the Sunday when the special prayer was read, Pierre had promised the RostÃ³vs to bring them, from Count RostopchÃn whom he knew well, both the appeal to the people and the news from the army. In the morning, when he went to call at RostopchÃn™s he met there a courier fresh from the army, an acquaintance of his own, who often danced at Moscow balls. Do, please, for heaven™s sake, relieve me of something! said the courier. I have a sackful of letters to parents. Among these letters was one from Nicholas RostÃ³v to his father. Pierre took that letter, and RostopchÃn also gave him the Emperor™s appeal to Moscow, which had just been printed, the last army orders, and his own most recent bulletin. Glancing through the army orders, Pierre found in one of them, in the lists of killed, wounded, and rewarded, the name of Nicholas RostÃ³v, awarded a St. George™s Cross of the Fourth Class for courage shown in the OstrÃ³vna affair, and in the same order the name of Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski, appointed to the command of a regiment of Chasseurs. Though he did not want to remind the RostÃ³vs of BolkÃ³nski, Pierre could not refrain from making them happy by the news of their son™s having received a decoration, so he sent that printed army order and Nicholas™ letter to the RostÃ³vs, keeping the appeal, the bulletin, and the other orders to take with him when he went to dinner. His conversation with Count RostopchÃn and the latter™s tone of anxious hurry, the meeting with the courier who talked casually of how badly things were going in the army, the rumors of the discovery of spies in Moscow and of a leaflet in circulation stating that Napoleon promised to be in both the Russian capitals by the autumn, and the talk of the Emperor™s being expected to arrive next day”all aroused with fresh force that feeling of agitation and expectation in Pierre which he had been conscious of ever since the appearance of the comet, and especially since the beginning of the war. He had long been thinking of entering the army and would have done so had he not been hindered, first, by his membership of the Society of Freemasons to which he was bound by oath and which preached perpetual peace and the abolition of war, and secondly, by the fact that when he saw the great mass of Muscovites who had donned uniform and were talking patriotism, he somehow felt ashamed to take the step. But the chief reason for not carrying out his intention to enter the army lay in the vague idea that he was L™russe Besuhof who had the number of the beast, 666; that his part in the great affair of setting a limit to the power of the beast that spoke great and blasphemous things had been predestined from eternity, and that therefore he ought not to undertake anything, but wait for what was bound to come to pass. CHAPTER XX A few intimate friends were dining with the RostÃ³vs that day, as usual on Sundays. Pierre came early so as to find them alone. He had grown so stout this year that he would have been abnormal had he not been so tall, so broad of limb, and so strong that he carried his bulk with evident ease. He went up the stairs, puffing and muttering something. His coachman did not even ask whether he was to wait. He knew that when his master was at the RostÃ³vs™ he stayed till midnight. The RostÃ³vs™ footman rushed eagerly forward to help him off with his cloak and take his hat and stick. Pierre, from club habit, always left both hat and stick in the anteroom. The first person he saw in the house was NatÃ¡sha. Even before he saw her, while taking off his cloak, he heard her. She was practicing solfa exercises in the music room. He knew that she had not sung since her illness, and so the sound of her voice surprised and delighted him. He opened the door softly and saw her, in the lilac dress she had worn at church, walking about the room singing. She had her back to him when he opened the door, but when, turning quickly, she saw his broad, surprised face, she blushed and came rapidly up to him. I want to try to sing again, she said, adding as if by way of excuse, it is, at least, something to do. That™s capital! How glad I am you™ve come! I am so happy today, she said, with the old animation Pierre had not seen in her for a long time. You know Nicholas has received a St. George™s Cross? I am so proud of him. Oh yes, I sent that announcement. But I don™t want to interrupt you, he added, and was about to go to the drawing room. NatÃ¡sha stopped him. Count, is it wrong of me to sing? she said blushing, and fixing her eyes inquiringly on him. No... Why should it be? On the contrary... But why do you ask me? I don™t know myself, NatÃ¡sha answered quickly, but I should not like to do anything you disapproved of. I believe in you completely. You don™t know how important you are to me, how much you™ve done for me.... She spoke rapidly and did not notice how Pierre flushed at her words. I saw in that same army order that he, BolkÃ³nski (she whispered the name hastily), is in Russia, and in the army again. What do you think?”she was speaking hurriedly, evidently afraid her strength might fail her”Will he ever forgive me? Will he not always have a bitter feeling toward me? What do you think? What do you think? I think... Pierre replied, that he has nothing to forgive.... If I were in his place... By association of ideas, Pierre was at once carried back to the day when, trying to comfort her, he had said that if he were not himself but the best man in the world and free, he would ask on his knees for her hand; and the same feeling of pity, tenderness, and love took possession of him and the same words rose to his lips. But she did not give him time to say them. Yes, you... you... she said, uttering the word you rapturously”that™s a different thing. I know no one kinder, more generous, or better than you; nobody could be! Had you not been there then, and now too, I don™t know what would have become of me, because... Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, she turned away, lifted her music before her eyes, began singing again, and again began walking up and down the room. Just then PÃ©tya came running in from the drawing room. PÃ©tya was now a handsome rosy lad of fifteen with full red lips and resembled NatÃ¡sha. He was preparing to enter the university, but he and his friend ObolÃ©nski had lately, in secret, agreed to join the hussars. PÃ©tya had come rushing out to talk to his namesake about this affair. He had asked Pierre to find out whether he would be accepted in the hussars. Pierre walked up and down the drawing room, not listening to what PÃ©tya was saying. PÃ©tya pulled him by the arm to attract his attention. Well, what about my plan? Peter KirÃlych, for heaven™s sake! You are my only hope, said PÃ©tya. Oh yes, your plan. To join the hussars? I™ll mention it, I™ll bring it all up today. Well, mon cher, have you got the manifesto? asked the old count. The countess has been to Mass at the RazumÃ³vskis™ and heard the new prayer. She says it™s very fine. Yes, I™ve got it, said Pierre. The Emperor is to be here tomorrow... there™s to be an Extraordinary Meeting of the nobility, and they are talking of a levy of ten men per thousand. Oh yes, let me congratulate you! Yes, yes, thank God! Well, and what news from the army? We are again retreating. They say we™re already near SmolÃ©nsk, replied Pierre. O Lord, O Lord! exclaimed the count. Where is the manifesto? The Emperor™s appeal? Oh yes! Pierre began feeling in his pockets for the papers, but could not find them. Still slapping his pockets, he kissed the hand of the countess who entered the room and glanced uneasily around, evidently expecting NatÃ¡sha, who had left off singing but had not yet come into the drawing room. On my word, I don™t know what I™ve done with it, he said. There he is, always losing everything! remarked the countess. NatÃ¡sha entered with a softened and agitated expression of face and sat down looking silently at Pierre. As soon as she entered, Pierre™s features, which had been gloomy, suddenly lighted up, and while still searching for the papers he glanced at her several times. No, really! I™ll drive home, I must have left them there. I™ll certainly... But you™ll be late for dinner. Oh! And my coachman has gone. But SÃ³nya, who had gone to look for the papers in the anteroom, had found them in Pierre™s hat, where he had carefully tucked them under the lining. Pierre was about to begin reading. No, after dinner, said the old count, evidently expecting much enjoyment from that reading. At dinner, at which champagne was drunk to the health of the new chevalier of St. George, ShinshÃn told them the town news, of the illness of the old Georgian princess, of MÃ©tivier™s disappearance from Moscow, and of how some German fellow had been brought to RostopchÃn and accused of being a French spyer (so Count RostopchÃn had told the story), and how RostopchÃn let him go and assured the people that he was not a spire at all, but only an old German ruin. People are being arrested... said the count. I™ve told the countess she should not speak French so much. It™s not the time for it now. And have you heard? ShinshÃn asked. Prince GolÃtsyn has engaged a master to teach him Russian. It is becoming dangerous to speak French in the streets. And how about you, Count Peter KirÃlych? If they call up the militia, you too will have to mount a horse, remarked the old count, addressing Pierre. Pierre had been silent and preoccupied all through dinner, seeming not to grasp what was said. He looked at the count. Oh yes, the war, he said. No! What sort of warrior should I make? And yet everything is so strange, so strange! I can™t make it out. I don™t know, I am very far from having military tastes, but in these times no one can answer for himself. After dinner the count settled himself comfortably in an easy chair and with a serious face asked SÃ³nya, who was considered an excellent reader, to read the appeal. To Moscow, our ancient Capital! The enemy has entered the borders of Russia with immense forces. He comes to despoil our beloved country. SÃ³nya read painstakingly in her high-pitched voice. The count listened with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages. NatÃ¡sha sat erect, gazing with a searching look now at her father and now at Pierre. Pierre felt her eyes on him and tried not to look round. The countess shook her head disapprovingly and angrily at every solemn expression in the manifesto. In all these words she saw only that the danger threatening her son would not soon be over. ShinshÃn, with a sarcastic smile on his lips, was evidently preparing to make fun of anything that gave him the opportunity: SÃ³nya™s reading, any remark of the count™s, or even the manifesto itself should no better pretext present itself. After reading about the dangers that threatened Russia, the hopes the Emperor placed on Moscow and especially on its illustrious nobility, SÃ³nya, with a quiver in her voice due chiefly to the attention that was being paid to her, read the last words: We ourselves will not delay to appear among our people in that Capital and in other parts of our realm for consultation, and for the direction of all our levies, both those now barring the enemy™s path and those freshly formed to defeat him wherever he may appear. May the ruin he hopes to bring upon us recoil on his own head, and may Europe delivered from bondage glorify the name of Russia! Yes, that™s it! cried the count, opening his moist eyes and sniffing repeatedly, as if a strong vinaigrette had been held to his nose; and he added, Let the Emperor but say the word and we™ll sacrifice everything and begrudge nothing. Before ShinshÃn had time to utter the joke he was ready to make on the count™s patriotism, NatÃ¡sha jumped up from her place and ran to her father. What a darling our Papa is! she cried, kissing him, and she again looked at Pierre with the unconscious coquetry that had returned to her with her better spirits. There! Here™s a patriot for you! said ShinshÃn. Not a patriot at all, but simply... NatÃ¡sha replied in an injured tone. Everything seems funny to you, but this isn™t at all a joke.... A joke indeed! put in the count. Let him but say the word and we™ll all go.... We™re not Germans! But did you notice, it says, ˜for consultation™? said Pierre. Never mind what it™s for.... At this moment, PÃ©tya, to whom nobody was paying any attention, came up to his father with a very flushed face and said in his breaking voice that was now deep and now shrill: Well, Papa, I tell you definitely, and Mamma too, it™s as you please, but I say definitely that you must let me enter the army, because I can™t... that™s all.... The countess, in dismay, looked up to heaven, clasped her hands, and turned angrily to her husband. That comes of your talking! said she. But the count had already recovered from his excitement. Come, come! said he. Here™s a fine warrior! No! Nonsense! You must study. It™s not nonsense, Papa. FÃ©dya ObolÃ©nski is younger than I, and he™s going too. Besides, all the same I can™t study now when... PÃ©tya stopped short, flushed till he perspired, but still got out the words, when our Fatherland is in danger. That™ll do, that™ll do”nonsense.... But you said yourself that we would sacrifice everything. PÃ©tya! Be quiet, I tell you! cried the count, with a glance at his wife, who had turned pale and was staring fixedly at her son. And I tell you”Peter KirÃlych here will also tell you... Nonsense, I tell you. Your mother™s milk has hardly dried on your lips and you want to go into the army! There, there, I tell you, and the count moved to go out of the room, taking the papers, probably to reread them in his study before having a nap. Well, Peter KirÃlych, let™s go and have a smoke, he said. Pierre was agitated and undecided. NatÃ¡sha™s unwontedly brilliant eyes, continually glancing at him with a more than cordial look, had reduced him to this condition. No, I think I™ll go home. Home? Why, you meant to spend the evening with us.... You don™t often come nowadays as it is, and this girl of mine, said the count good-naturedly, pointing to NatÃ¡sha, only brightens up when you™re here. Yes, I had forgotten... I really must go home... business... said Pierre hurriedly. Well, then, au revoir! said the count, and went out of the room. Why are you going? Why are you upset? asked NatÃ¡sha, and she looked challengingly into Pierre™s eyes. Because I love you! was what he wanted to say, but he did not say it, and only blushed till the tears came, and lowered his eyes. Because it is better for me to come less often... because... No, simply I have business.... Why? No, tell me! NatÃ¡sha began resolutely and suddenly stopped. They looked at each other with dismayed and embarrassed faces. He tried to smile but could not: his smile expressed suffering, and he silently kissed her hand and went out. Pierre made up his mind not to go to the RostÃ³vs™ any more. CHAPTER XXI After the definite refusal he had received, PÃ©tya went to his room and there locked himself in and wept bitterly. When he came in to tea, silent, morose, and with tear-stained face, everybody pretended not to notice anything. Next day the Emperor arrived in Moscow, and several of the RostÃ³vs™ domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That morning PÃ©tya was a long time dressing and arranging his hair and collar to look like a grown-up man. He frowned before his looking glass, gesticulated, shrugged his shoulders, and finally, without saying a word to anyone, took his cap and left the house by the back door, trying to avoid notice. PÃ©tya decided to go straight to where the Emperor was and to explain frankly to some gentleman-in-waiting (he imagined the Emperor to be always surrounded by gentlemen-in-waiting) that he, Count RostÃ³v, in spite of his youth wished to serve his country; that youth could be no hindrance to loyalty, and that he was ready to... While dressing, PÃ©tya had prepared many fine things he meant to say to the gentleman-in-waiting. It was on the very fact of being so young that PÃ©tya counted for success in reaching the Emperor”he even thought how surprised everyone would be at his youthfulness”and yet in the arrangement of his collar and hair and by his sedate deliberate walk he wished to appear a grown-up man. But the farther he went and the more his attention was diverted by the ever-increasing crowds moving toward the KrÃ©mlin, the less he remembered to walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he approached the KrÃ©mlin he even began to avoid being crushed and resolutely stuck out his elbows in a menacing way. But within the Trinity Gateway he was so pressed to the wall by people who probably were unaware of the patriotic intentions with which he had come that in spite of all his determination he had to give in, and stop while carriages passed in, rumbling beneath the archway. Beside PÃ©tya stood a peasant woman, a footman, two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing some time in the gateway, PÃ©tya tried to move forward in front of the others without waiting for all the carriages to pass, and he began resolutely working his way with his elbows, but the woman just in front of him, who was the first against whom he directed his efforts, angrily shouted at him: What are you shoving for, young lordling? Don™t you see we™re all standing still? Then why push? Anybody can shove, said the footman, and also began working his elbows to such effect that he pushed PÃ©tya into a very filthy corner of the gateway. PÃ©tya wiped his perspiring face with his hands and pulled up the damp collar which he had arranged so well at home to seem like a man™s. He felt that he no longer looked presentable, and feared that if he were now to approach the gentlemen-in-waiting in that plight he would not be admitted to the Emperor. But it was impossible to smarten oneself up or move to another place, because of the crowd. One of the generals who drove past was an acquaintance of the RostÃ³vs™, and PÃ©tya thought of asking his help, but came to the conclusion that that would not be a manly thing to do. When the carriages had all passed in, the crowd, carrying PÃ©tya with it, streamed forward into the KrÃ©mlin Square which was already full of people. There were people not only in the square, but everywhere”on the slopes and on the roofs. As soon as PÃ©tya found himself in the square he clearly heard the sound of bells and the joyous voices of the crowd that filled the whole KrÃ©mlin. For a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were bared, and everyone rushed forward in one direction. PÃ©tya was being pressed so that he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted, Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! PÃ©tya stood on tiptoe and pushed and pinched, but could see nothing except the people about him. All the faces bore the same expression of excitement and enthusiasm. A tradesman™s wife standing beside PÃ©tya sobbed, and the tears ran down her cheeks. Father! Angel! Dear one! she kept repeating, wiping away her tears with her fingers. Hurrah! was heard on all sides. For a moment the crowd stood still, but then it made another rush forward. Quite beside himself, PÃ©tya, clinching his teeth and rolling his eyes ferociously, pushed forward, elbowing his way and shouting hurrah! as if he were prepared that instant to kill himself and everyone else, but on both sides of him other people with similarly ferocious faces pushed forward and everybody shouted hurrah! So this is what the Emperor is! thought PÃ©tya. No, I can™t petition him myself”that would be too bold. But in spite of this he continued to struggle desperately forward, and from between the backs of those in front he caught glimpses of an open space with a strip of red cloth spread out on it; but just then the crowd swayed back”the police in front were pushing back those who had pressed too close to the procession: the Emperor was passing from the palace to the Cathedral of the Assumption”and PÃ©tya unexpectedly received such a blow on his side and ribs and was squeezed so hard that suddenly everything grew dim before his eyes and he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, a man of clerical appearance with a tuft of gray hair at the back of his head and wearing a shabby blue cassock”probably a church clerk and chanter”was holding him under the arm with one hand while warding off the pressure of the crowd with the other. You™ve crushed the young gentleman! said the clerk. What are you up to? Gently!... They™ve crushed him, crushed him! The Emperor entered the Cathedral of the Assumption. The crowd spread out again more evenly, and the clerk led PÃ©tya”pale and breathless”to the Tsar-cannon. Several people were sorry for PÃ©tya, and suddenly a crowd turned toward him and pressed round him. Those who stood nearest him attended to him, unbuttoned his coat, seated him on the raised platform of the cannon, and reproached those others (whoever they might be) who had crushed him. One might easily get killed that way! What do they mean by it? Killing people! Poor dear, he™s as white as a sheet!”various voices were heard saying. PÃ©tya soon came to himself, the color returned to his face, the pain had passed, and at the cost of that temporary unpleasantness he had obtained a place by the cannon from where he hoped to see the Emperor who would be returning that way. PÃ©tya no longer thought of presenting his petition. If he could only see the Emperor he would be happy! While the service was proceeding in the Cathedral of the Assumption”it was a combined service of prayer on the occasion of the Emperor™s arrival and of thanksgiving for the conclusion of peace with the Turks”the crowd outside spread out and hawkers appeared, selling kvass, gingerbread, and poppyseed sweets (of which PÃ©tya was particularly fond), and ordinary conversation could again be heard. A tradesman™s wife was showing a rent in her shawl and telling how much the shawl had cost; another was saying that all silk goods had now got dear. The clerk who had rescued PÃ©tya was talking to a functionary about the priests who were officiating that day with the bishop. The clerk several times used the word plenary (of the service), a word PÃ©tya did not understand. Two young citizens were joking with some serf girls who were cracking nuts. All these conversations, especially the joking with the girls, were such as might have had a particular charm for PÃ©tya at his age, but they did not interest him now. He sat on his elevation”the pedestal of the cannon”still agitated as before by the thought of the Emperor and by his love for him. The feeling of pain and fear he had experienced when he was being crushed, together with that of rapture, still further intensified his sense of the importance of the occasion. Suddenly the sound of a firing of cannon was heard from the embankment, to celebrate the signing of peace with the Turks, and the crowd rushed impetuously toward the embankment to watch the firing. PÃ©tya too would have run there, but the clerk who had taken the young gentleman under his protection stopped him. The firing was still proceeding when officers, generals, and gentlemen-in-waiting came running out of the cathedral, and after them others in a more leisurely manner: caps were again raised, and those who had run to look at the cannon ran back again. At last four men in uniforms and sashes emerged from the cathedral doors. Hurrah! hurrah! shouted the crowd again. Which is he? Which? asked PÃ©tya in a tearful voice, of those around him, but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and PÃ©tya, fixing on one of those four men, whom he could not clearly see for the tears of joy that filled his eyes, concentrated all his enthusiasm on him”though it happened not to be the Emperor”frantically shouted Hurrah! and resolved that tomorrow, come what might, he would join the army. The crowd ran after the Emperor, followed him to the palace, and began to disperse. It was already late, and PÃ©tya had not eaten anything and was drenched with perspiration, yet he did not go home but stood with that diminishing, but still considerable, crowd before the palace while the Emperor dined”looking in at the palace windows, expecting he knew not what, and envying alike the notables he saw arriving at the entrance to dine with the Emperor and the court footmen who served at table, glimpses of whom could be seen through the windows. While the Emperor was dining, ValÃºev, looking out of the window, said: The people are still hoping to see Your Majesty again. The dinner was nearly over, and the Emperor, munching a biscuit, rose and went out onto the balcony. The people, with PÃ©tya among them, rushed toward the balcony. Angel! Dear one! Hurrah! Father!... cried the crowd, and PÃ©tya with it, and again the women and men of weaker mold, PÃ©tya among them, wept with joy. A largish piece of the biscuit the Emperor was holding in his hand broke off, fell on the balcony parapet, and then to the ground. A coachman in a jerkin, who stood nearest, sprang forward and snatched it up. Several people in the crowd rushed at the coachman. Seeing this the Emperor had a plateful of biscuits brought him and began throwing them down from the balcony. PÃ©tya™s eyes grew bloodshot, and still more excited by the danger of being crushed, he rushed at the biscuits. He did not know why, but he had to have a biscuit from the Tsar™s hand and he felt that he must not give way. He sprang forward and upset an old woman who was catching at a biscuit; the old woman did not consider herself defeated though she was lying on the ground”she grabbed at some biscuits but her hand did not reach them. PÃ©tya pushed her hand away with his knee, seized a biscuit, and as if fearing to be too late, again shouted Hurrah! with a voice already hoarse. The Emperor went in, and after that the greater part of the crowd began to disperse. There! I said if only we waited”and so it was! was being joyfully said by various people. Happy as PÃ©tya was, he felt sad at having to go home knowing that all the enjoyment of that day was over. He did not go straight home from the KrÃ©mlin, but called on his friend ObolÃ©nski, who was fifteen and was also entering the regiment. On returning home PÃ©tya announced resolutely and firmly that if he was not allowed to enter the service he would run away. And next day, Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v”though he had not yet quite yielded”went to inquire how he could arrange for PÃ©tya to serve where there would be least danger. CHAPTER XXII Two days later, on the fifteenth of July, an immense number of carriages were standing outside the SlobÃ³da Palace. The great halls were full. In the first were the nobility and gentry in their uniforms, in the second bearded merchants in full-skirted coats of blue cloth and wearing medals. In the noblemen™s hall there was an incessant movement and buzz of voices. The chief magnates sat on high-backed chairs at a large table under the portrait of the Emperor, but most of the gentry were strolling about the room. All these nobles, whom Pierre met every day at the Club or in their own houses, were in uniform”some in that of Catherine™s day, others in that of Emperor Paul, others again in the new uniforms of Alexander™s time or the ordinary uniform of the nobility, and the general characteristic of being in uniform imparted something strange and fantastic to these diverse and familiar personalities, both old and young. The old men, dim-eyed, toothless, bald, sallow, and bloated, or gaunt and wrinkled, were especially striking. For the most part they sat quietly in their places and were silent, or, if they walked about and talked, attached themselves to someone younger. On all these faces, as on the faces of the crowd PÃ©tya had seen in the Square, there was a striking contradiction: the general expectation of a solemn event, and at the same time the everyday interests in a boston card party, Peter the cook, ZinaÃda DmÃtrievna™s health, and so on. Pierre was there too, buttoned up since early morning in a nobleman™s uniform that had become too tight for him. He was agitated; this extraordinary gathering not only of nobles but also of the merchant-class”les Ã©tats gÃ©nÃ©raux (States-General)”evoked in him a whole series of ideas he had long laid aside but which were deeply graven in his soul: thoughts of the Contrat Social and the French Revolution. The words that had struck him in the Emperor™s appeal”that the sovereign was coming to the capital for consultation with his people”strengthened this idea. And imagining that in this direction something important which he had long awaited was drawing near, he strolled about watching and listening to conversations, but nowhere finding any confirmation of the ideas that occupied him. The Emperor™s manifesto was read, evoking enthusiasm, and then all moved about discussing it. Besides the ordinary topics of conversation, Pierre heard questions of where the marshals of the nobility were to stand when the Emperor entered, when a ball should be given in the Emperor™s honor, whether they should group themselves by districts or by whole provinces... and so on; but as soon as the war was touched on, or what the nobility had been convened for, the talk became undecided and indefinite. Then all preferred listening to speaking. A middle-aged man, handsome and virile, in the uniform of a retired naval officer, was speaking in one of the rooms, and a small crowd was pressing round him. Pierre went up to the circle that had formed round the speaker and listened. Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v, in a military uniform of Catherine™s time, was sauntering with a pleasant smile among the crowd, with all of whom he was acquainted. He too approached that group and listened with a kindly smile and nods of approval, as he always did, to what the speaker was saying. The retired naval man was speaking very boldly, as was evident from the expression on the faces of the listeners and from the fact that some people Pierre knew as the meekest and quietest of men walked away disapprovingly or expressed disagreement with him. Pierre pushed his way into the middle of the group, listened, and convinced himself that the man was indeed a liberal, but of views quite different from his own. The naval officer spoke in a particularly sonorous, musical, and aristocratic baritone voice, pleasantly swallowing his r™s and generally slurring his consonants: the voice of a man calling out to his servant, Heah! Bwing me my pipe! It was indicative of dissipation and the exercise of authority. What if the SmolÃ©nsk people have offahd to waise militia for the Empewah? Ah we to take SmolÃ©nsk as our patte™n? If the noble awistocwacy of the pwovince of Moscow thinks fit, it can show its loyalty to our sov™weign the Empewah in other ways. Have we fo™gotten the waising of the militia in the yeah ˜seven? All that did was to enwich the pwiests™ sons and thieves and wobbahs.... Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v smiled blandly and nodded approval. And was our militia of any use to the Empia? Not at all! It only wuined our farming! Bettah have another conscwiption... o™ ou™ men will wetu™n neithah soldiers no™ peasants, and we™ll get only depwavity fwom them. The nobility don™t gwudge theah lives”evewy one of us will go and bwing in more wecwuits, and the sov™weign (that was the way he referred to the Emperor) need only say the word and we™ll all die fo™ him! added the orator with animation. Count RostÃ³v™s mouth watered with pleasure and he nudged Pierre, but Pierre wanted to speak himself. He pushed forward, feeling stirred, but not yet sure what stirred him or what he would say. Scarcely had he opened his mouth when one of the senators, a man without a tooth in his head, with a shrewd though angry expression, standing near the first speaker, interrupted him. Evidently accustomed to managing debates and to maintaining an argument, he began in low but distinct tones: I imagine, sir, said he, mumbling with his toothless mouth, that we have been summoned here not to discuss whether it™s best for the empire at the present moment to adopt conscription or to call out the militia. We have been summoned to reply to the appeal with which our sovereign the Emperor has honored us. But to judge what is best”conscription or the militia”we can leave to the supreme authority.... Pierre suddenly saw an outlet for his excitement. He hardened his heart against the senator who was introducing this set and narrow attitude into the deliberations of the nobility. Pierre stepped forward and interrupted him. He himself did not yet know what he would say, but he began to speak eagerly, occasionally lapsing into French or expressing himself in bookish Russian. Excuse me, your excellency, he began. (He was well acquainted with the senator, but thought it necessary on this occasion to address him formally.) Though I don™t agree with the gentleman... (he hesitated: he wished to say, Mon trÃ¨s honorable prÃ©opinant”My very honorable opponent) with the gentleman... whom I have not the honor of knowing, I suppose that the nobility have been summoned not merely to express their sympathy and enthusiasm but also to consider the means by which we can assist our Fatherland! I imagine, he went on, warming to his subject, that the Emperor himself would not be satisfied to find in us merely owners of serfs whom we are willing to devote to his service, and chair Ã canon * we are ready to make of ourselves”and not to obtain from us any co-co-counsel. * Food for cannon. Many persons withdrew from the circle, noticing the senator™s sarcastic smile and the freedom of Pierre™s remarks. Only Count RostÃ³v was pleased with them as he had been pleased with those of the naval officer, the senator, and in general with whatever speech he had last heard. I think that before discussing these questions, Pierre continued, we should ask the Emperor”most respectfully ask His Majesty”to let us know the number of our troops and the position in which our army and our forces now are, and then... But scarcely had Pierre uttered these words before he was attacked from three sides. The most vigorous attack came from an old acquaintance, a boston player who had always been well disposed toward him, StepÃ¡n StepÃ¡novich AdrÃ¡ksin. AdrÃ¡ksin was in uniform, and whether as a result of the uniform or from some other cause Pierre saw before him quite a different man. With a sudden expression of malevolence on his aged face, AdrÃ¡ksin shouted at Pierre: In the first place, I tell you we have no right to question the Emperor about that, and secondly, if the Russian nobility had that right, the Emperor could not answer such a question. The troops are moved according to the enemy™s movements and the number of men increases and decreases.... Another voice, that of a nobleman of medium height and about forty years of age, whom Pierre had formerly met at the gypsies™ and knew as a bad cardplayer, and who, also transformed by his uniform, came up to Pierre, interrupted AdrÃ¡ksin. Yes, and this is not a time for discussing, he continued, but for acting: there is war in Russia! The enemy is advancing to destroy Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry off our wives and children. The nobleman smote his breast. We will all arise, everyone of us will go, for our father the Tsar! he shouted, rolling his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices were heard in the crowd. We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith, the throne, and the Fatherland! We must cease raving if we are sons of our Fatherland! We will show Europe how Russia rises to the defense of Russia! Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word. He felt that his words, apart from what meaning they conveyed, were less audible than the sound of his opponent™s voice. Count RostÃ³v at the back of the crowd was expressing approval; several persons, briskly turning a shoulder to the orator at the end of a phrase, said: That™s right, quite right! Just so! Pierre wished to say that he was ready to sacrifice his money, his serfs, or himself, only one ought to know the state of affairs in order to be able to improve it, but he was unable to speak. Many voices shouted and talked at the same time, so that Count RostÃ³v had not time to signify his approval of them all, and the group increased, dispersed, re-formed, and then moved with a hum of talk into the largest hall and to the big table. Not only was Pierre™s attempt to speak unsuccessful, but he was rudely interrupted, pushed aside, and people turned away from him as from a common enemy. This happened not because they were displeased by the substance of his speech, which had even been forgotten after the many subsequent speeches, but to animate it the crowd needed a tangible object to love and a tangible object to hate. Pierre became the latter. Many other orators spoke after the excited nobleman, and all in the same tone. Many spoke eloquently and with originality. GlÃnka, the editor of the Russian Messenger, who was recognized (cries of author! author! were heard in the crowd), said that hell must be repulsed by hell, and that he had seen a child smiling at lightning flashes and thunderclaps, but we will not be that child. Yes, yes, at thunderclaps! was repeated approvingly in the back rows of the crowd. The crowd drew up to the large table, at which sat gray-haired or bald seventy-year-old magnates, uniformed and besashed, almost all of whom Pierre had seen in their own homes with their buffoons, or playing boston at the clubs. With an incessant hum of voices the crowd advanced to the table. Pressed by the throng against the high backs of the chairs, the orators spoke one after another and sometimes two together. Those standing behind noticed what a speaker omitted to say and hastened to supply it. Others in that heat and crush racked their brains to find some thought and hastened to utter it. The old magnates, whom Pierre knew, sat and turned to look first at one and then at another, and their faces for the most part only expressed the fact that they found it very hot. Pierre, however, felt excited, and the general desire to show that they were ready to go to all lengths”which found expression in the tones and looks more than in the substance of the speeches”infected him too. He did not renounce his opinions, but felt himself in some way to blame and wished to justify himself. I only said that it would be more to the purpose to make sacrifices when we know what is needed! said he, trying to be heard above the other voices. One of the old men nearest to him looked round, but his attention was immediately diverted by an exclamation at the other side of the table. Yes, Moscow will be surrendered! She will be our expiation! shouted one man. He is the enemy of mankind! cried another. Allow me to speak.... Gentlemen, you are crushing me!... CHAPTER XXIII At that moment Count RostopchÃn with his protruding chin and alert eyes, wearing the uniform of a general with sash over his shoulder, entered the room, stepping briskly to the front of the crowd of gentry. Our sovereign the Emperor will be here in a moment, said RostopchÃn. I am straight from the palace. Seeing the position we are in, I think there is little need for discussion. The Emperor has deigned to summon us and the merchants. Millions will pour forth from there”he pointed to the merchants™ hall”but our business is to supply men and not spare ourselves.... That is the least we can do! A conference took place confined to the magnates sitting at the table. The whole consultation passed more than quietly. After all the preceding noise the sound of their old voices saying one after another, I agree, or for variety, I too am of that opinion, and so on had even a mournful effect. The secretary was told to write down the resolution of the Moscow nobility and gentry, that they would furnish ten men, fully equipped, out of every thousand serfs, as the SmolÃ©nsk gentry had done. Their chairs made a scraping noise as the gentlemen who had conferred rose with apparent relief, and began walking up and down, arm in arm, to stretch their legs and converse in couples. The Emperor! The Emperor! a sudden cry resounded through the halls and the whole throng hurried to the entrance. The Emperor entered the hall through a broad path between two lines of nobles. Every face expressed respectful, awe-struck curiosity. Pierre stood rather far off and could not hear all that the Emperor said. From what he did hear he understood that the Emperor spoke of the danger threatening the empire and of the hopes he placed on the Moscow nobility. He was answered by a voice which informed him of the resolution just arrived at. Gentlemen! said the Emperor with a quivering voice. There was a rustling among the crowd and it again subsided, so that Pierre distinctly heard the pleasantly human voice of the Emperor saying with emotion: I never doubted the devotion of the Russian nobles, but today it has surpassed my expectations. I thank you in the name of the Fatherland! Gentlemen, let us act! Time is most precious.... The Emperor ceased speaking, the crowd began pressing round him, and rapturous exclamations were heard from all sides. Yes, most precious... a royal word, said Count RostÃ³v, with a sob. He stood at the back, and, though he had heard hardly anything, understood everything in his own way. From the hall of the nobility the Emperor went to that of the merchants. There he remained about ten minutes. Pierre was among those who saw him come out from the merchants™ hall with tears of emotion in his eyes. As became known later, he had scarcely begun to address the merchants before tears gushed from his eyes and he concluded in a trembling voice. When Pierre saw the Emperor he was coming out accompanied by two merchants, one of whom Pierre knew, a fat otkupshchÃk. The other was the mayor, a man with a thin sallow face and narrow beard. Both were weeping. Tears filled the thin man™s eyes, and the fat otkupshchÃk sobbed outright like a child and kept repeating: Our lives and property”take them, Your Majesty! Pierre™s one feeling at the moment was a desire to show that he was ready to go all lengths and was prepared to sacrifice everything. He now felt ashamed of his speech with its constitutional tendency and sought an opportunity of effacing it. Having heard that Count MamÃ³nov was furnishing a regiment, BezÃºkhov at once informed RostopchÃn that he would give a thousand men and their maintenance. Old RostÃ³v could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears, and at once consented to PÃ©tya™s request and went himself to enter his name. Next day the Emperor left Moscow. The assembled nobles all took off their uniforms and settled down again in their homes and clubs, and not without some groans gave orders to their stewards about the enrollment, feeling amazed themselves at what they had done. BOOK TEN: 1812 CHAPTER I Napoleon began the war with Russia because he could not resist going to Dresden, could not help having his head turned by the homage he received, could not help donning a Polish uniform and yielding to the stimulating influence of a June morning, and could not refrain from bursts of anger in the presence of KurÃ¡kin and then of BalashÃ«v. Alexander refused negotiations because he felt himself to be personally insulted. Barclay de Tolly tried to command the army in the best way, because he wished to fulfill his duty and earn fame as a great commander. RostÃ³v charged the French because he could not restrain his wish for a gallop across a level field; and in the same way the innumerable people who took part in the war acted in accord with their personal characteristics, habits, circumstances, and aims. They were moved by fear or vanity, rejoiced or were indignant, reasoned, imagining that they knew what they were doing and did it of their own free will, but they all were involuntary tools of history, carrying on a work concealed from them but comprehensible to us. Such is the inevitable fate of men of action, and the higher they stand in the social hierarchy the less are they free. The actors of 1812 have long since left the stage, their personal interests have vanished leaving no trace, and nothing remains of that time but its historic results. Providence compelled all these men, striving to attain personal aims, to further the accomplishment of a stupendous result no one of them at all expected”neither Napoleon, nor Alexander, nor still less any of those who did the actual fighting. The cause of the destruction of the French army in 1812 is clear to us now. No one will deny that that cause was, on the one hand, its advance into the heart of Russia late in the season without any preparation for a winter campaign and, on the other, the character given to the war by the burning of Russian towns and the hatred of the foe this aroused among the Russian people. But no one at the time foresaw (what now seems so evident) that this was the only way an army of eight hundred thousand men”the best in the world and led by the best general”could be destroyed in conflict with a raw army of half its numerical strength, and led by inexperienced commanders as the Russian army was. Not only did no one see this, but on the Russian side every effort was made to hinder the only thing that could save Russia, while on the French side, despite Napoleon™s experience and so-called military genius, every effort was directed to pushing on to Moscow at the end of the summer, that is, to doing the very thing that was bound to lead to destruction. In historical works on the year 1812 French writers are very fond of saying that Napoleon felt the danger of extending his line, that he sought a battle and that his marshals advised him to stop at SmolÃ©nsk, and of making similar statements to show that the danger of the campaign was even then understood. Russian authors are still fonder of telling us that from the commencement of the campaign a Scythian war plan was adopted to lure Napoleon into the depths of Russia, and this plan some of them attribute to Pfuel, others to a certain Frenchman, others to Toll, and others again to Alexander himself”pointing to notes, projects, and letters which contain hints of such a line of action. But all these hints at what happened, both from the French side and the Russian, are advanced only because they fit in with the event. Had that event not occurred these hints would have been forgotten, as we have forgotten the thousands and millions of hints and expectations to the contrary which were current then but have now been forgotten because the event falsified them. There are always so many conjectures as to the issue of any event that however it may end there will always be people to say: I said then that it would be so, quite forgetting that amid their innumerable conjectures many were to quite the contrary effect. Conjectures as to Napoleon™s awareness of the danger of extending his line, and (on the Russian side) as to luring the enemy into the depths of Russia, are evidently of that kind, and only by much straining can historians attribute such conceptions to Napoleon and his marshals, or such plans to the Russian commanders. All the facts are in flat contradiction to such conjectures. During the whole period of the war not only was there no wish on the Russian side to draw the French into the heart of the country, but from their first entry into Russia everything was done to stop them. And not only was Napoleon not afraid to extend his line, but he welcomed every step forward as a triumph and did not seek battle as eagerly as in former campaigns, but very lazily. At the very beginning of the war our armies were divided, and our sole aim was to unite them, though uniting the armies was no advantage if we meant to retire and lure the enemy into the depths of the country. Our Emperor joined the army to encourage it to defend every inch of Russian soil and not to retreat. The enormous Drissa camp was formed on Pfuel™s plan, and there was no intention of retiring farther. The Emperor reproached the commanders in chief for every step they retired. He could not bear the idea of letting the enemy even reach SmolÃ©nsk, still less could he contemplate the burning of Moscow, and when our armies did unite he was displeased that SmolÃ©nsk was abandoned and burned without a general engagement having been fought under its walls. So thought the Emperor, and the Russian commanders and people were still more provoked at the thought that our forces were retreating into the depths of the country. Napoleon having cut our armies apart advanced far into the country and missed several chances of forcing an engagement. In August he was at SmolÃ©nsk and thought only of how to advance farther, though as we now see that advance was evidently ruinous to him. The facts clearly show that Napoleon did not foresee the danger of the advance on Moscow, nor did Alexander and the Russian commanders then think of luring Napoleon on, but quite the contrary. The luring of Napoleon into the depths of the country was not the result of any plan, for no one believed it to be possible; it resulted from a most complex interplay of intrigues, aims, and wishes among those who took part in the war and had no perception whatever of the inevitable, or of the one way of saving Russia. Everything came about fortuitously. The armies were divided at the commencement of the campaign. We tried to unite them, with the evident intention of giving battle and checking the enemy™s advance, and by this effort to unite them while avoiding battle with a much stronger enemy, and necessarily withdrawing the armies at an acute angle”we led the French on to SmolÃ©nsk. But we withdrew at an acute angle not only because the French advanced between our two armies; the angle became still more acute and we withdrew still farther, because Barclay de Tolly was an unpopular foreigner disliked by BagratiÃ³n (who would come under his command), and BagratiÃ³n”being in command of the second army”tried to postpone joining up and coming under Barclay™s command as long as he could. BagratiÃ³n was slow in effecting the junction”though that was the chief aim of all at headquarters”because, as he alleged, he exposed his army to danger on this march, and it was best for him to retire more to the left and more to the south, worrying the enemy from flank and rear and securing from the Ukraine recruits for his army; and it looks as if he planned this in order not to come under the command of the detested foreigner Barclay, whose rank was inferior to his own. The Emperor was with the army to encourage it, but his presence and ignorance of what steps to take, and the enormous number of advisers and plans, destroyed the first army™s energy and it retired. The intention was to make a stand at the Drissa camp, but Paulucci, aiming at becoming commander in chief, unexpectedly employed his energy to influence Alexander, and Pfuel™s whole plan was abandoned and the command entrusted to Barclay. But as Barclay did not inspire confidence his power was limited. The armies were divided, there was no unity of command, and Barclay was unpopular; but from this confusion, division, and the unpopularity of the foreign commander in chief, there resulted on the one hand indecision and the avoidance of a battle (which we could not have refrained from had the armies been united and had someone else, instead of Barclay, been in command) and on the other an ever-increasing indignation against the foreigners and an increase in patriotic zeal. At last the Emperor left the army, and as the most convenient and indeed the only pretext for his departure it was decided that it was necessary for him to inspire the people in the capitals and arouse the nation in general to a patriotic war. And by this visit of the Emperor to Moscow the strength of the Russian army was trebled. He left in order not to obstruct the commander in chief™s undivided control of the army, and hoping that more decisive action would then be taken, but the command of the armies became still more confused and enfeebled. Bennigsen, the TsarÃ©vich, and a swarm of adjutants general remained with the army to keep the commander in chief under observation and arouse his energy, and Barclay, feeling less free than ever under the observation of all these eyes of the Emperor, became still more cautious of undertaking any decisive action and avoided giving battle. Barclay stood for caution. The TsarÃ©vich hinted at treachery and demanded a general engagement. LubomÃrski, BronnÃtski, Wlocki, and the others of that group stirred up so much trouble that Barclay, under pretext of sending papers to the Emperor, dispatched these Polish adjutants general to Petersburg and plunged into an open struggle with Bennigsen and the TsarÃ©vich. At SmolÃ©nsk the armies at last reunited, much as BagratiÃ³n disliked it. BagratiÃ³n drove up in a carriage to the house occupied by Barclay. Barclay donned his sash and came out to meet and report to his senior officer BagratiÃ³n. Despite his seniority in rank BagratiÃ³n, in this contest of magnanimity, took his orders from Barclay, but, having submitted, agreed with him less than ever. By the Emperor™s orders BagratiÃ³n reported direct to him. He wrote to ArakchÃ©ev, the Emperor™s confidant: It must be as my sovereign pleases, but I cannot work with the Minister (meaning Barclay). For God™s sake send me somewhere else if only in command of a regiment. I cannot stand it here. Headquarters are so full of Germans that a Russian cannot exist and there is no sense in anything. I thought I was really serving my sovereign and the Fatherland, but it turns out that I am serving Barclay. I confess I do not want to. The swarm of BronnÃtskis and Wintzingerodes and their like still further embittered the relations between the commanders in chief, and even less unity resulted. Preparations were made to fight the French before SmolÃ©nsk. A general was sent to survey the position. This general, hating Barclay, rode to visit a friend of his own, a corps commander, and, having spent the day with him, returned to Barclay and condemned, as unsuitable from every point of view, the battleground he had not seen. While disputes and intrigues were going on about the future field of battle, and while we were looking for the French”having lost touch with them”the French stumbled upon NevÃ©rovski™s division and reached the walls of SmolÃ©nsk. It was necessary to fight an unexpected battle at SmolÃ©nsk to save our lines of communication. The battle was fought and thousands were killed on both sides. SmolÃ©nsk was abandoned contrary to the wishes of the Emperor and of the whole people. But SmolÃ©nsk was burned by its own inhabitants who had been misled by their governor. And these ruined inhabitants, setting an example to other Russians, went to Moscow thinking only of their own losses but kindling hatred of the foe. Napoleon advanced farther and we retired, thus arriving at the very result which caused his destruction. CHAPTER II The day after his son had left, Prince Nicholas sent for Princess Mary to come to his study. Well? Are you satisfied now? said he. You™ve made me quarrel with my son! Satisfied, are you? That™s all you wanted! Satisfied?... It hurts me, it hurts. I™m old and weak and this is what you wanted. Well then, gloat over it! Gloat over it! After that Princess Mary did not see her father for a whole week. He was ill and did not leave his study. Princess Mary noticed to her surprise that during this illness the old prince not only excluded her from his room, but did not admit Mademoiselle Bourienne either. TÃkhon alone attended him. At the end of the week the prince reappeared and resumed his former way of life, devoting himself with special activity to building operations and the arrangement of the gardens and completely breaking off his relations with Mademoiselle Bourienne. His looks and cold tone to his daughter seemed to say: There, you see? You plotted against me, you lied to Prince Andrew about my relations with that Frenchwoman and made me quarrel with him, but you see I need neither her nor you! Princess Mary spent half of every day with little Nicholas, watching his lessons, teaching him Russian and music herself, and talking to Dessalles; the rest of the day she spent over her books, with her old nurse, or with God™s folk who sometimes came by the back door to see her. Of the war Princess Mary thought as women do think about wars. She feared for her brother who was in it, was horrified by and amazed at the strange cruelty that impels men to kill one another, but she did not understand the significance of this war, which seemed to her like all previous wars. She did not realize the significance of this war, though Dessalles with whom she constantly conversed was passionately interested in its progress and tried to explain his own conception of it to her, and though the God™s folk who came to see her reported, in their own way, the rumors current among the people of an invasion by Antichrist, and though Julie (now Princess DrubetskÃ¡ya), who had resumed correspondence with her, wrote patriotic letters from Moscow. I write you in Russian, my good friend, wrote Julie in her Frenchified Russian, because I have a detestation for all the French, and the same for their language which I cannot support to hear spoken.... We in Moscow are elated by enthusiasm for our adored Emperor. My poor husband is enduring pains and hunger in Jewish taverns, but the news which I have inspires me yet more. You heard probably of the heroic exploit of RaÃ©vski, embracing his two sons and saying: ˜I will perish with them but we will not be shaken!™ And truly though the enemy was twice stronger than we, we were unshakable. We pass the time as we can, but in war as in war! The princesses Aline and Sophie sit whole days with me, and we, unhappy widows of live men, make beautiful conversations over our charpie, only you, my friend, are missing... and so on. The chief reason Princess Mary did not realize the full significance of this war was that the old prince never spoke of it, did not recognize it, and laughed at Dessalles when he mentioned it at dinner. The prince™s tone was so calm and confident that Princess Mary unhesitatingly believed him. All that July the old prince was exceedingly active and even animated. He planned another garden and began a new building for the domestic serfs. The only thing that made Princess Mary anxious about him was that he slept very little and, instead of sleeping in his study as usual, changed his sleeping place every day. One day he would order his camp bed to be set up in the glass gallery, another day he remained on the couch or on the lounge chair in the drawing room and dozed there without undressing, while”instead of Mademoiselle Bourienne”a serf boy read to him. Then again he would spend a night in the dining room. On August 1, a second letter was received from Prince Andrew. In his first letter which came soon after he had left home, Prince Andrew had dutifully asked his father™s forgiveness for what he had allowed himself to say and begged to be restored to his favor. To this letter the old prince had replied affectionately, and from that time had kept the Frenchwoman at a distance. Prince Andrew™s second letter, written near VÃtebsk after the French had occupied that town, gave a brief account of the whole campaign, enclosed for them a plan he had drawn and forecasts as to the further progress of the war. In this letter Prince Andrew pointed out to his father the danger of staying at Bald Hills, so near the theater of war and on the army™s direct line of march, and advised him to move to Moscow. At dinner that day, on Dessalles™ mentioning that the French were said to have already entered VÃtebsk, the old prince remembered his son™s letter. There was a letter from Prince Andrew today, he said to Princess Mary”Haven™t you read it? No, Father, she replied in a frightened voice. She could not have read the letter as she did not even know it had arrived. He writes about this war, said the prince, with the ironic smile that had become habitual to him in speaking of the present war. That must be very interesting, said Dessalles. Prince Andrew is in a position to know... Oh, very interesting! said Mademoiselle Bourienne. Go and get it for me, said the old prince to Mademoiselle Bourienne. You know”under the paperweight on the little table. Mademoiselle Bourienne jumped up eagerly. No, don™t! he exclaimed with a frown. You go, Michael IvÃ¡novich. Michael IvÃ¡novich rose and went to the study. But as soon as he had left the room the old prince, looking uneasily round, threw down his napkin and went himself. They can™t do anything... always make some muddle, he muttered. While he was away Princess Mary, Dessalles, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and even little Nicholas exchanged looks in silence. The old prince returned with quick steps, accompanied by Michael IvÃ¡novich, bringing the letter and a plan. These he put down beside him”not letting anyone read them at dinner. On moving to the drawing room he handed the letter to Princess Mary and, spreading out before him the plan of the new building and fixing his eyes upon it, told her to read the letter aloud. When she had done so Princess Mary looked inquiringly at her father. He was examining the plan, evidently engrossed in his own ideas. What do you think of it, Prince? Dessalles ventured to ask. I? I?... said the prince as if unpleasantly awakened, and not taking his eyes from the plan of the building. Very possibly the theater of war will move so near to us that... Ha ha ha! The theater of war! said the prince. I have said and still say that the theater of war is Poland and the enemy will never get beyond the Niemen. Dessalles looked in amazement at the prince, who was talking of the Niemen when the enemy was already at the Dnieper, but Princess Mary, forgetting the geographical position of the Niemen, thought that what her father was saying was correct. When the snow melts they™ll sink in the Polish swamps. Only they could fail to see it, the prince continued, evidently thinking of the campaign of 1807 which seemed to him so recent. Bennigsen should have advanced into Prussia sooner, then things would have taken a different turn... But, Prince, Dessalles began timidly, the letter mentions VÃtebsk.... Ah, the letter? Yes... replied the prince peevishly. Yes... yes... His face suddenly took on a morose expression. He paused. Yes, he writes that the French were beaten at... at... what river is it? Dessalles dropped his eyes. The prince says nothing about that, he remarked gently. Doesn™t he? But I didn™t invent it myself. No one spoke for a long time. Yes... yes... Well, Michael IvÃ¡novich, he suddenly went on, raising his head and pointing to the plan of the building, tell me how you mean to alter it.... Michael IvÃ¡novich went up to the plan, and the prince after speaking to him about the building looked angrily at Princess Mary and Dessalles and went to his own room. Princess Mary saw Dessalles™ embarrassed and astonished look fixed on her father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that her father had forgotten his son™s letter on the drawing room table; but she was not only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the reason of his confusion and silence, but was afraid even to think about it. In the evening Michael IvÃ¡novich, sent by the prince, came to Princess Mary for Prince Andrew™s letter which had been forgotten in the drawing room. She gave it to him and, unpleasant as it was to her to do so, ventured to ask him what her father was doing. Always busy, replied Michael IvÃ¡novich with a respectfully ironic smile which caused Princess Mary to turn pale. He™s worrying very much about the new building. He has been reading a little, but now”Michael IvÃ¡novich went on, lowering his voice”now he™s at his desk, busy with his will, I expect. (One of the prince™s favorite occupations of late had been the preparation of some papers he meant to leave at his death and which he called his will.) And AlpÃ¡tych is being sent to SmolÃ©nsk? asked Princess Mary. Oh, yes, he has been waiting to start for some time. CHAPTER III When Michael IvÃ¡novich returned to the study with the letter, the old prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript”his Remarks as he termed it”which was to be transmitted to the Emperor after his death. When Michael IvÃ¡novich went in there were tears in the prince™s eyes evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had been written. He took the letter from Michael IvÃ¡novich™s hand, put it in his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in AlpÃ¡tych who had long been waiting. The prince had a list of things to be bought in SmolÃ©nsk and, walking up and down the room past AlpÃ¡tych who stood by the door, he gave his instructions. First, notepaper”do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample, gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax, as in Michael IvÃ¡novich™s list. He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes. Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed. Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to be of a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather case had to be ordered to keep the will in. The instructions to AlpÃ¡tych took over two hours and still the prince did not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed his eyes, and dozed off. AlpÃ¡tych made a slight movement. Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I™ll send after you. AlpÃ¡tych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it, fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table to write to the governor. It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished to sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing thoughts came to him in bed. So he called TÃkhon and went through the rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night. He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed unsatisfactory, but worst of all was his customary couch in the study. That couch was dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive thoughts he had had when lying there. It was unsatisfactory everywhere, but the corner behind the piano in the sitting room was better than other places: he had never slept there yet. With the help of a footman TÃkhon brought in the bedstead and began putting it up. That™s not right! That™s not right! cried the prince, and himself pushed it a few inches from the corner and then closer in again. Well, at last I™ve finished, now I™ll rest, thought the prince, and let TÃkhon undress him. Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself of his coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on the bed, and appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously at his withered yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring the moment of making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on the bed. Ugh, how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and you would release me! thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that effort for the twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had he done so before he felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if it were breathing heavily and jolting. This happened to him almost every night. He opened his eyes as they were closing. No peace, damn them! he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. Ah yes, there was something else important, very important, that I was keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them. No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Mary talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something in my pocket”can™t remember.... TÃkhon, what did we talk about at dinner? About Prince Michael... Be quiet, quiet! The prince slapped his hand on the table. Yes, I know, Prince Andrew™s letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said something about VÃtebsk. Now I™ll read it. He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table”on which stood a glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle”moved close to the bed, and putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness of the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he grasp its meaning for a moment. The French at VÃtebsk, in four days™ march they may be at SmolÃ©nsk; perhaps are already there! TÃkhon! TÃkhon jumped up. No, no, I don™t want anything! he shouted. He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And there rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian camp, and himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face, vigorous and alert, entering PotÃ«mkin™s gaily colored tent, and a burning sense of jealousy of the favorite agitated him now as strongly as it had done then. He recalled all the words spoken at that first meeting with PotÃ«mkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather sallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile and her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then that same face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with ZÃºbov over her coffin about his right to kiss her hand. Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all the present! Quicker, quicker”and that they should leave me in peace! CHAPTER IV Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski™s estate, lay forty miles east from SmolÃ©nsk and two miles from the main road to Moscow. The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to AlpÃ¡tych, Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that, as the prince was not very well and was taking no steps to secure his safety, though from Prince Andrew™s letter it was evident that to remain at Bald Hills might be dangerous, he respectfully advised her to send a letter by AlpÃ¡tych to the Provincial Governor at SmolÃ©nsk, asking him to let her know the state of affairs and the extent of the danger to which Bald Hills was exposed. Dessalles wrote this letter to the Governor for Princess Mary, she signed it, and it was given to AlpÃ¡tych with instructions to hand it to the Governor and to come back as quickly as possible if there was danger. Having received all his orders AlpÃ¡tych, wearing a white beaver hat”a present from the prince”and carrying a stick as the prince did, went out accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready harnessed to a small conveyance with a leather hood. The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness stuffed with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive with ringing bells; but on a long journey AlpÃ¡tych liked to have them. His satellites”the senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery maid, a cook, two old women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and various domestic serfs”were seeing him off. His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on and behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle, and one of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle. There! There! Women™s fuss! Women, women! said AlpÃ¡tych, puffing and speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the trap. After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, AlpÃ¡tych, not trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald head and crossed himself three times. If there is anything... come back, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych! For Christ™s sake think of us! cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war and the enemy. Women, women! Women™s fuss! muttered AlpÃ¡tych to himself and started on his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye and the still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black fields just being plowed a second time. As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year™s splendid crop of corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there were already being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing and the harvest, and asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of the prince™s orders. Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town toward evening on the fourth of August. AlpÃ¡tych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on the road. As he approached SmolÃ©nsk he heard the sounds of distant firing, but these did not impress him. What struck him most was the sight of a splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and which was being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder. This fact impressed AlpÃ¡tych, but in thinking about his own business he soon forgot it. All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that limit. Everything not connected with the execution of the prince™s orders did not interest and did not even exist for AlpÃ¡tych. On reaching SmolÃ©nsk on the evening of the fourth of August he put up in the GÃ¡china suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by FerapÃ³ntov, where he had been in the habit of putting up for the last thirty years. Some thirty years ago FerapÃ³ntov, by AlpÃ¡tych™s advice, had bought a wood from the prince, had begun to trade, and now had a house, an inn, and a corn dealer™s shop in that province. He was a stout, dark, red-faced peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a broad knob of a nose, similar knobs over his black frowning brows, and a round belly. Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, FerapÃ³ntov was standing before his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing AlpÃ¡tych he went up to him. You™re welcome, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych. Folks are leaving the town, but you have come to it, said he. Why are they leaving the town? asked AlpÃ¡tych. That™s what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French. Women™s fuss, women™s fuss! said AlpÃ¡tych. Just what I think, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych. What I say is: orders have been given not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants are asking three rubles for carting”it isn™t Christian! YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for hay for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed. All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning AlpÃ¡tych donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on business. It was a sunny morning and by eight o™clock it was already hot. A good day for harvesting, thought AlpÃ¡tych. From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At eight o™clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of musketry. Many people were hurrying through the streets and there were many soldiers, but cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at their shops, and service was being held in the churches as usual. AlpÃ¡tych went to the shops, to government offices, to the post office, and to the Governor™s. In the offices and shops and at the post office everyone was talking about the army and about the enemy who was already attacking the town, everybody was asking what should be done, and all were trying to calm one another. In front of the Governor™s house AlpÃ¡tych found a large number of people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor™s. At the porch he met two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This man, an ex-captain of police, was saying angrily: It™s no joke, you know! It™s all very well if you™re single. ˜One man though undone is but one,™ as the proverb says, but with thirteen in your family and all the property... They™ve brought us to utter ruin! What sort of governors are they to do that? They ought to be hanged”the brigands!... Oh come, that™s enough! said the other. What do I care? Let him hear! We™re not dogs, said the ex-captain of police, and looking round he noticed AlpÃ¡tych. Oh, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych! What have you come for? To see the Governor by his excellency™s order, answered AlpÃ¡tych, lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the bosom of his coat as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... He has ordered me to inquire into the position of affairs, he added. Yes, go and find out! shouted the angry gentleman. They™ve brought things to such a pass that there are no carts or anything!... There it is again, do you hear? said he, pointing in the direction whence came the sounds of firing. They™ve brought us all to ruin... the brigands! he repeated, and descended the porch steps. AlpÃ¡tych swayed his head and went upstairs. In the waiting room were tradesmen, women, and officials, looking silently at one another. The door of the Governor™s room opened and they all rose and moved forward. An official ran out, said some words to a merchant, called a stout official with a cross hanging on his neck to follow him, and vanished again, evidently wishing to avoid the inquiring looks and questions addressed to him. AlpÃ¡tych moved forward and next time the official came out addressed him, one hand placed in the breast of his buttoned coat, and handed him two letters. To his Honor Baron Asch, from General-in-Chief Prince BolkÃ³nski, he announced with such solemnity and significance that the official turned to him and took the letters. A few minutes later the Governor received AlpÃ¡tych and hurriedly said to him: Inform the prince and princess that I knew nothing: I acted on the highest instructions”here... and he handed a paper to AlpÃ¡tych. Still, as the prince is unwell my advice is that they should go to Moscow. I am just starting myself. Inform them... But the Governor did not finish: a dusty perspiring officer ran into the room and began to say something in French. The Governor™s face expressed terror. Go, he said, nodding his head to AlpÃ¡tych, and began questioning the officer. Eager, frightened, helpless glances were turned on AlpÃ¡tych when he came out of the Governor™s room. Involuntarily listening now to the firing, which had drawn nearer and was increasing in strength, AlpÃ¡tych hurried to his inn. The paper handed to him by the Governor said this: I assure you that the town of SmolÃ©nsk is not in the slightest danger as yet and it is unlikely that it will be threatened with any. I from the one side and Prince BagratiÃ³n from the other are marching to unite our forces before SmolÃ©nsk, which junction will be effected on the 22nd instant, and both armies with their united forces will defend our compatriots of the province entrusted to your care till our efforts shall have beaten back the enemies of our Fatherland, or till the last warrior in our valiant ranks has perished. From this you will see that you have a perfect right to reassure the inhabitants of SmolÃ©nsk, for those defended by two such brave armies may feel assured of victory. (Instructions from Barclay de Tolly to Baron Asch, the civil governor of SmolÃ©nsk, 1812.) People were anxiously roaming about the streets. Carts piled high with household utensils, chairs, and cupboards kept emerging from the gates of the yards and moving along the streets. Loaded carts stood at the house next to FerapÃ³ntov™s and women were wailing and lamenting as they said good-by. A small watchdog ran round barking in front of the harnessed horses. AlpÃ¡tych entered the innyard at a quicker pace than usual and went straight to the shed where his horses and trap were. The coachman was asleep. He woke him up, told him to harness, and went into the passage. From the host™s room came the sounds of a child crying, the despairing sobs of a woman, and the hoarse angry shouting of FerapÃ³ntov. The cook began running hither and thither in the passage like a frightened hen, just as AlpÃ¡tych entered. He™s done her to death. Killed the mistress!... Beat her... dragged her about so!... What for? asked AlpÃ¡tych. She kept begging to go away. She™s a woman! ˜Take me away,™ says she, ˜don™t let me perish with my little children! Folks,™ she says, ˜are all gone, so why,™ she says, ˜don™t we go?™ And he began beating and pulling her about so! At these words AlpÃ¡tych nodded as if in approval, and not wishing to hear more went to the door of the room opposite the innkeeper™s, where he had left his purchases. You brute, you murderer! screamed a thin, pale woman who, with a baby in her arms and her kerchief torn from her head, burst through the door at that moment and down the steps into the yard. FerapÃ³ntov came out after her, but on seeing AlpÃ¡tych adjusted his waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed AlpÃ¡tych into the opposite room. Going already? said he. AlpÃ¡tych, without answering or looking at his host, sorted his packages and asked how much he owed. We™ll reckon up! Well, have you been to the Governor™s? asked FerapÃ³ntov. What has been decided? AlpÃ¡tych replied that the Governor had not told him anything definite. With our business, how can we get away? said FerapÃ³ntov. We™d have to pay seven rubles a cartload to DorogobÃºzh and I tell them they™re not Christians to ask it! SelivÃ¡nov, now, did a good stroke last Thursday”sold flour to the army at nine rubles a sack. Will you have some tea? he added. While the horses were being harnessed AlpÃ¡tych and FerapÃ³ntov over their tea talked of the price of corn, the crops, and the good weather for harvesting. Well, it seems to be getting quieter, remarked FerapÃ³ntov, finishing his third cup of tea and getting up. Ours must have got the best of it. The orders were not to let them in. So we™re in force, it seems.... They say the other day Matthew IvÃ¡nych PlÃ¡tov drove them into the river MÃ¡rina and drowned some eighteen thousand in one day. AlpÃ¡tych collected his parcels, handed them to the coachman who had come in, and settled up with the innkeeper. The noise of wheels, hoofs, and bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed out. It was by now late in the afternoon. Half the street was in shadow, the other half brightly lit by the sun. AlpÃ¡tych looked out of the window and went to the door. Suddenly the strange sound of a far-off whistling and thud was heard, followed by a boom of cannon blending into a dull roar that set the windows rattling. He went out into the street: two men were running past toward the bridge. From different sides came whistling sounds and the thud of cannon balls and bursting shells falling on the town. But these sounds were hardly heard in comparison with the noise of the firing outside the town and attracted little attention from the inhabitants. The town was being bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had ordered up after four o™clock. The people did not at once realize the meaning of this bombardment. At first the noise of the falling bombs and shells only aroused curiosity. FerapÃ³ntov™s wife, who till then had not ceased wailing under the shed, became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the gate, listening to the sounds and looking in silence at the people. The cook and a shop assistant came to the gate. With lively curiosity everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they flew over their heads. Several people came round the corner talking eagerly. What force! remarked one. Knocked the roof and ceiling all to splinters! Routed up the earth like a pig, said another. That™s grand, it bucks one up! laughed the first. Lucky you jumped aside, or it would have wiped you out! Others joined those men and stopped and told how cannon balls had fallen on a house close to them. Meanwhile still more projectiles, now with the swift sinister whistle of a cannon ball, now with the agreeable intermittent whistle of a shell, flew over people™s heads incessantly, but not one fell close by, they all flew over. AlpÃ¡tych was getting into his trap. The innkeeper stood at the gate. What are you staring at? he shouted to the cook, who in her red skirt, with sleeves rolled up, swinging her bare elbows, had stepped to the corner to listen to what was being said. What marvels! she exclaimed, but hearing her master™s voice she turned back, pulling down her tucked-up skirt. Once more something whistled, but this time quite close, swooping downwards like a little bird; a flame flashed in the middle of the street, something exploded, and the street was shrouded in smoke. Scoundrel, what are you doing? shouted the innkeeper, rushing to the cook. At that moment the pitiful wailing of women was heard from different sides, the frightened baby began to cry, and people crowded silently with pale faces round the cook. The loudest sound in that crowd was her wailing. Oh-h-h! Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don™t let me die! My good souls!... Five minutes later no one remained in the street. The cook, with her thigh broken by a shell splinter, had been carried into the kitchen. AlpÃ¡tych, his coachman, FerapÃ³ntov™s wife and children and the house porter were all sitting in the cellar, listening. The roar of guns, the whistling of projectiles, and the piteous moaning of the cook, which rose above the other sounds, did not cease for a moment. The mistress rocked and hushed her baby and when anyone came into the cellar asked in a pathetic whisper what had become of her husband who had remained in the street. A shopman who entered told her that her husband had gone with others to the cathedral, whence they were fetching the wonder-working icon of SmolÃ©nsk. Toward dusk the cannonade began to subside. AlpÃ¡tych left the cellar and stopped in the doorway. The evening sky that had been so clear was clouded with smoke, through which, high up, the sickle of the new moon shone strangely. Now that the terrible din of the guns had ceased a hush seemed to reign over the town, broken only by the rustle of footsteps, the moaning, the distant cries, and the crackle of fires which seemed widespread everywhere. The cook™s moans had now subsided. On two sides black curling clouds of smoke rose and spread from the fires. Through the streets soldiers in various uniforms walked or ran confusedly in different directions like ants from a ruined ant-hill. Several of them ran into FerapÃ³ntov™s yard before AlpÃ¡tych™s eyes. AlpÃ¡tych went out to the gate. A retreating regiment, thronging and hurrying, blocked the street. Noticing him, an officer said: The town is being abandoned. Get away, get away! and then, turning to the soldiers, shouted: I™ll teach you to run into the yards! AlpÃ¡tych went back to the house, called the coachman, and told him to set off. FerapÃ³ntov™s whole household came out too, following AlpÃ¡tych and the coachman. The women, who had been silent till then, suddenly began to wail as they looked at the fires”the smoke and even the flames of which could be seen in the failing twilight”and as if in reply the same kind of lamentation was heard from other parts of the street. Inside the shed AlpÃ¡tych and the coachman arranged the tangled reins and traces of their horses with trembling hands. As AlpÃ¡tych was driving out of the gate he saw some ten soldiers in FerapÃ³ntov™s open shop, talking loudly and filling their bags and knapsacks with flour and sunflower seeds. Just then FerapÃ³ntov returned and entered his shop. On seeing the soldiers he was about to shout at them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair, burst into sobs and laughter: Loot everything, lads! Don™t let those devils get it! he cried, taking some bags of flour himself and throwing them into the street. Some of the soldiers were frightened and ran away, others went on filling their bags. On seeing AlpÃ¡tych, FerapÃ³ntov turned to him: Russia is done for! he cried. AlpÃ¡tych, I™ll set the place on fire myself. We™re done for!... and FerapÃ³ntov ran into the yard. Soldiers were passing in a constant stream along the street blocking it completely, so that AlpÃ¡tych could not pass out and had to wait. FerapÃ³ntov™s wife and children were also sitting in a cart waiting till it was possible to drive out. Night had come. There were stars in the sky and the new moon shone out amid the smoke that screened it. On the sloping descent to the Dnieper AlpÃ¡tych™s cart and that of the innkeeper™s wife, which were slowly moving amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, had to stop. In a side street near the crossroads where the vehicles had stopped, a house and some shops were on fire. This fire was already burning itself out. The flames now died down and were lost in the black smoke, now suddenly flared up again brightly, lighting up with strange distinctness the faces of the people crowding at the crossroads. Black figures flitted about before the fire, and through the incessant crackling of the flames talking and shouting could be heard. Seeing that his trap would not be able to move on for some time, AlpÃ¡tych got down and turned into the side street to look at the fire. Soldiers were continually rushing backwards and forwards near it, and he saw two of them and a man in a frieze coat dragging burning beams into another yard across the street, while others carried bundles of hay. AlpÃ¡tych went up to a large crowd standing before a high barn which was blazing briskly. The walls were all on fire and the back wall had fallen in, the wooden roof was collapsing, and the rafters were alight. The crowd was evidently watching for the roof to fall in, and AlpÃ¡tych watched for it too. AlpÃ¡tych! a familiar voice suddenly hailed the old man. Mercy on us! Your excellency! answered AlpÃ¡tych, immediately recognizing the voice of his young prince. Prince Andrew in his riding cloak, mounted on a black horse, was looking at AlpÃ¡tych from the back of the crowd. Why are you here? he asked. Your... your excellency, stammered AlpÃ¡tych and broke into sobs. Are we really lost? Master!... Why are you here? Prince Andrew repeated. At that moment the flames flared up and showed his young master™s pale worn face. AlpÃ¡tych told how he had been sent there and how difficult it was to get away. Are we really quite lost, your excellency? he asked again. Prince Andrew without replying took out a notebook and raising his knee began writing in pencil on a page he tore out. He wrote to his sister: SmolÃ©nsk is being abandoned. Bald Hills will be occupied by the enemy within a week. Set off immediately for Moscow. Let me know at once when you will start. Send by special messenger to UsvyÃ¡zh. Having written this and given the paper to AlpÃ¡tych, he told him how to arrange for departure of the prince, the princess, his son, and the boy™s tutor, and how and where to let him know immediately. Before he had had time to finish giving these instructions, a chief of staff followed by a suite galloped up to him. You are a colonel? shouted the chief of staff with a German accent, in a voice familiar to Prince Andrew. Houses are set on fire in your presence and you stand by! What does this mean? You will answer for it! shouted Berg, who was now assistant to the chief of staff of the commander of the left flank of the infantry of the first army, a place, as Berg said, very agreeable and well en Ã©vidence. Prince Andrew looked at him and without replying went on speaking to AlpÃ¡tych. So tell them that I shall await a reply till the tenth, and if by the tenth I don™t receive news that they have all got away I shall have to throw up everything and come myself to Bald Hills. Prince, said Berg, recognizing Prince Andrew, I only spoke because I have to obey orders, because I always do obey exactly.... You must please excuse me, he went on apologetically. Something cracked in the flames. The fire died down for a moment and wreaths of black smoke rolled from under the roof. There was another terrible crash and something huge collapsed. Ou-rou-rou! yelled the crowd, echoing the crash of the collapsing roof of the barn, the burning grain in which diffused a cakelike aroma all around. The flames flared up again, lighting the animated, delighted, exhausted faces of the spectators. The man in the frieze coat raised his arms and shouted: It™s fine, lads! Now it™s raging... It™s fine! That™s the owner himself, cried several voices. Well then, continued Prince Andrew to AlpÃ¡tych, report to them as I have told you; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute beside him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street. CHAPTER V From SmolÃ©nsk the troops continued to retreat, followed by the enemy. On the tenth of August the regiment Prince Andrew commanded was marching along the highroad past the avenue leading to Bald Hills. Heat and drought had continued for more than three weeks. Each day fleecy clouds floated across the sky and occasionally veiled the sun, but toward evening the sky cleared again and the sun set in reddish-brown mist. Heavy night dews alone refreshed the earth. The unreaped corn was scorched and shed its grain. The marshes dried up. The cattle lowed from hunger, finding no food on the sun-parched meadows. Only at night and in the forests while the dew lasted was there any freshness. But on the road, the highroad along which the troops marched, there was no such freshness even at night or when the road passed through the forest; the dew was imperceptible on the sandy dust churned up more than six inches deep. As soon as day dawned the march began. The artillery and baggage wagons moved noiselessly through the deep dust that rose to the very hubs of the wheels, and the infantry sank ankle-deep in that soft, choking, hot dust that never cooled even at night. Some of this dust was kneaded by the feet and wheels, while the rest rose and hung like a cloud over the troops, settling in eyes, ears, hair, and nostrils, and worst of all in the lungs of the men and beasts as they moved along that road. The higher the sun rose the higher rose that cloud of dust, and through the screen of its hot fine particles one could look with naked eye at the sun, which showed like a huge crimson ball in the unclouded sky. There was no wind, and the men choked in that motionless atmosphere. They marched with handkerchiefs tied over their noses and mouths. When they passed through a village they all rushed to the wells and fought for the water and drank it down to the mud. Prince Andrew was in command of a regiment, and the management of that regiment, the welfare of the men and the necessity of receiving and giving orders, engrossed him. The burning of SmolÃ©nsk and its abandonment made an epoch in his life. A novel feeling of anger against the foe made him forget his own sorrow. He was entirely devoted to the affairs of his regiment and was considerate and kind to his men and officers. In the regiment they called him our prince, were proud of him and loved him. But he was kind and gentle only to those of his regiment, to TimÃ³khin and the like”people quite new to him, belonging to a different world and who could not know and understand his past. As soon as he came across a former acquaintance or anyone from the staff, he bristled up immediately and grew spiteful, ironical, and contemptuous. Everything that reminded him of his past was repugnant to him, and so in his relations with that former circle he confined himself to trying to do his duty and not to be unfair. In truth everything presented itself in a dark and gloomy light to Prince Andrew, especially after the abandonment of SmolÃ©nsk on the sixth of August (he considered that it could and should have been defended) and after his sick father had had to flee to Moscow, abandoning to pillage his dearly beloved Bald Hills which he had built and peopled. But despite this, thanks to his regiment, Prince Andrew had something to think about entirely apart from general questions. Two days previously he had received news that his father, son, and sister had left for Moscow; and though there was nothing for him to do at Bald Hills, Prince Andrew with a characteristic desire to foment his own grief decided that he must ride there. He ordered his horse to be saddled and, leaving his regiment on the march, rode to his father™s estate where he had been born and spent his childhood. Riding past the pond where there used always to be dozens of women chattering as they rinsed their linen or beat it with wooden beetles, Prince Andrew noticed that there was not a soul about and that the little washing wharf, torn from its place and half submerged, was floating on its side in the middle of the pond. He rode to the keeper™s lodge. No one was at the stone entrance gates of the drive and the door stood open. Grass had already begun to grow on the garden paths, and horses and calves were straying in the English park. Prince Andrew rode up to the hothouse; some of the glass panes were broken, and of the trees in tubs some were overturned and others dried up. He called for TarÃ¡s the gardener, but no one replied. Having gone round the corner of the hothouse to the ornamental garden, he saw that the carved garden fence was broken and branches of the plum trees had been torn off with the fruit. An old peasant whom Prince Andrew in his childhood had often seen at the gate was sitting on a green garden seat, plaiting a bast shoe. He was deaf and did not hear Prince Andrew ride up. He was sitting on the seat the old prince used to like to sit on, and beside him strips of bast were hanging on the broken and withered branch of a magnolia. Prince Andrew rode up to the house. Several limes in the old garden had been cut down and a piebald mare and her foal were wandering in front of the house among the rosebushes. The shutters were all closed, except at one window which was open. A little serf boy, seeing Prince Andrew, ran into the house. AlpÃ¡tych, having sent his family away, was alone at Bald Hills and was sitting indoors reading the Lives of the Saints. On hearing that Prince Andrew had come, he went out with his spectacles on his nose, buttoning his coat, and, hastily stepping up, without a word began weeping and kissing Prince Andrew™s knee. Then, vexed at his own weakness, he turned away and began to report on the position of affairs. Everything precious and valuable had been removed to BoguchÃ¡rovo. Seventy quarters of grain had also been carted away. The hay and the spring corn, of which AlpÃ¡tych said there had been a remarkable crop that year, had been commandeered by the troops and mown down while still green. The peasants were ruined; some of them too had gone to BoguchÃ¡rovo, only a few remained. Without waiting to hear him out, Prince Andrew asked: When did my father and sister leave? meaning when did they leave for Moscow. AlpÃ¡tych, understanding the question to refer to their departure for BoguchÃ¡rovo, replied that they had left on the seventh and again went into details concerning the estate management, asking for instructions. Am I to let the troops have the oats, and to take a receipt for them? We have still six hundred quarters left, he inquired. What am I to say to him? thought Prince Andrew, looking down on the old man™s bald head shining in the sun and seeing by the expression on his face that the old man himself understood how untimely such questions were and only asked them to allay his grief. Yes, let them have it, replied Prince Andrew. If you noticed some disorder in the garden, said AlpÃ¡tych, it was impossible to prevent it. Three regiments have been here and spent the night, dragoons mostly. I took down the name and rank of their commanding officer, to hand in a complaint about it. Well, and what are you going to do? Will you stay here if the enemy occupies the place? asked Prince Andrew. AlpÃ¡tych turned his face to Prince Andrew, looked at him, and suddenly with a solemn gesture raised his arm. He is my refuge! His will be done! he exclaimed. A group of bareheaded peasants was approaching across the meadow toward the prince. Well, good-by! said Prince Andrew, bending over to AlpÃ¡tych. You must go away too, take away what you can and tell the serfs to go to the RyazÃ¡n estate or to the one near Moscow. AlpÃ¡tych clung to Prince Andrew™s leg and burst into sobs. Gently disengaging himself, the prince spurred his horse and rode down the avenue at a gallop. The old man was still sitting in the ornamental garden, like a fly impassive on the face of a loved one who is dead, tapping the last on which he was making the bast shoe, and two little girls, running out from the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked from the trees there, came upon Prince Andrew. On seeing the young master, the elder one with frightened look clutched her younger companion by the hand and hid with her behind a birch tree, not stopping to pick up some green plums they had dropped. Prince Andrew turned away with startled haste, unwilling to let them see that they had been observed. He was sorry for the pretty frightened little girl, was afraid of looking at her, and yet felt an irresistible desire to do so. A new sensation of comfort and relief came over him when, seeing these girls, he realized the existence of other human interests entirely aloof from his own and just as legitimate as those that occupied him. Evidently these girls passionately desired one thing”to carry away and eat those green plums without being caught”and Prince Andrew shared their wish for the success of their enterprise. He could not resist looking at them once more. Believing their danger past, they sprang from their ambush and, chirruping something in their shrill little voices and holding up their skirts, their bare little sunburned feet scampered merrily and quickly across the meadow grass. Prince Andrew was somewhat refreshed by having ridden off the dusty highroad along which the troops were moving. But not far from Bald Hills he again came out on the road and overtook his regiment at its halting place by the dam of a small pond. It was past one o™clock. The sun, a red ball through the dust, burned and scorched his back intolerably through his black coat. The dust always hung motionless above the buzz of talk that came from the resting troops. There was no wind. As he crossed the dam Prince Andrew smelled the ooze and freshness of the pond. He longed to get into that water, however dirty it might be, and he glanced round at the pool from whence came sounds of shrieks and laughter. The small, muddy, green pond had risen visibly more than a foot, flooding the dam, because it was full of the naked white bodies of soldiers with brick-red hands, necks, and faces, who were splashing about in it. All this naked white human flesh, laughing and shrieking, floundered about in that dirty pool like carp stuffed into a watering can, and the suggestion of merriment in that floundering mass rendered it specially pathetic. One fair-haired young soldier of the third company, whom Prince Andrew knew and who had a strap round the calf of one leg, crossed himself, stepped back to get a good run, and plunged into the water; another, a dark noncommissioned officer who was always shaggy, stood up to his waist in the water joyfully wriggling his muscular figure and snorted with satisfaction as he poured the water over his head with hands blackened to the wrists. There were sounds of men slapping one another, yelling, and puffing. Everywhere on the bank, on the dam, and in the pond, there was healthy, white, muscular flesh. The officer, TimÃ³khin, with his red little nose, standing on the dam wiping himself with a towel, felt confused at seeing the prince, but made up his mind to address him nevertheless. It™s very nice, your excellency! Wouldn™t you like to? said he. It™s dirty, replied Prince Andrew, making a grimace. We™ll clear it out for you in a minute, said TimÃ³khin, and, still undressed, ran off to clear the men out of the pond. The prince wants to bathe. What prince? Ours? said many voices, and the men were in such haste to clear out that the prince could hardly stop them. He decided that he would rather wash himself with water in the barn. Flesh, bodies, cannon fodder! he thought, and he looked at his own naked body and shuddered, not from cold but from a sense of disgust and horror he did not himself understand, aroused by the sight of that immense number of bodies splashing about in the dirty pond. On the seventh of August Prince BagratiÃ³n wrote as follows from his quarters at MikhÃ¡ylovna on the SmolÃ©nsk road: Dear Count AlÃ©xis AndrÃ©evich”(He was writing to ArakchÃ©ev but knew that his letter would be read by the Emperor, and therefore weighed every word in it to the best of his ability.) I expect the Minister (Barclay de Tolly) has already reported the abandonment of SmolÃ©nsk to the enemy. It is pitiable and sad, and the whole army is in despair that this most important place has been wantonly abandoned. I, for my part, begged him personally most urgently and finally wrote him, but nothing would induce him to consent. I swear to you on my honor that Napoleon was in such a fix as never before and might have lost half his army but could not have taken SmolÃ©nsk. Our troops fought, and are fighting, as never before. With fifteen thousand men I held the enemy at bay for thirty-five hours and beat him; but he would not hold out even for fourteen hours. It is disgraceful, a stain on our army, and as for him, he ought, it seems to me, not to live. If he reports that our losses were great, it is not true; perhaps about four thousand, not more, and not even that; but even were they ten thousand, that™s war! But the enemy has lost masses.... What would it have cost him to hold out for another two days? They would have had to retire of their own accord, for they had no water for men or horses. He gave me his word he would not retreat, but suddenly sent instructions that he was retiring that night. We cannot fight in this way, or we may soon bring the enemy to Moscow.... There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace. God forbid that you should make peace after all our sacrifices and such insane retreats! You would set all Russia against you and everyone of us would feel ashamed to wear the uniform. If it has come to this”we must fight as long as Russia can and as long as there are men able to stand.... One man ought to be in command, and not two. Your Minister may perhaps be good as a Minister, but as a general he is not merely bad but execrable, yet to him is entrusted the fate of our whole country.... I am really frantic with vexation; forgive my writing boldly. It is clear that the man who advocates the conclusion of a peace, and that the Minister should command the army, does not love our sovereign and desires the ruin of us all. So I write you frankly: call out the militia. For the Minister is leading these visitors after him to Moscow in a most masterly way. The whole army feels great suspicion of the Imperial aide-de-camp Wolzogen. He is said to be more Napoleon™s man than ours, and he is always advising the Minister. I am not merely civil to him but obey him like a corporal, though I am his senior. This is painful, but, loving my benefactor and sovereign, I submit. Only I am sorry for the Emperor that he entrusts our fine army to such as he. Consider that on our retreat we have lost by fatigue and left in the hospital more than fifteen thousand men, and had we attacked this would not have happened. Tell me, for God™s sake, what will Russia, our mother Russia, say to our being so frightened, and why are we abandoning our good and gallant Fatherland to such rabble and implanting feelings of hatred and shame in all our subjects? What are we scared at and of whom are we afraid? I am not to blame that the Minister is vacillating, a coward, dense, dilatory, and has all bad qualities. The whole army bewails it and calls down curses upon him.... CHAPTER VI Among the innumerable categories applicable to the phenomena of human life one may discriminate between those in which substance prevails and those in which form prevails. To the latter”as distinguished from village, country, provincial, or even Moscow life”we may allot Petersburg life, and especially the life of its salons. That life of the salons is unchanging. Since the year 1805 we had made peace and had again quarreled with Bonaparte and had made constitutions and unmade them again, but the salons of Anna PÃ¡vlovna and HÃ©lÃ¨ne remained just as they had been”the one seven and the other five years before. At Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s they talked with perplexity of Bonaparte™s successes just as before and saw in them and in the subservience shown to him by the European sovereigns a malicious conspiracy, the sole object of which was to cause unpleasantness and anxiety to the court circle of which Anna PÃ¡vlovna was the representative. And in HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s salon, which RumyÃ¡ntsev himself honored with his visits, regarding HÃ©lÃ¨ne as a remarkably intelligent woman, they talked with the same ecstasy in 1812 as in 1808 of the great nation and the great man, and regretted our rupture with France, a rupture which, according to them, ought to be promptly terminated by peace. Of late, since the Emperor™s return from the army, there had been some excitement in these conflicting salon circles and some demonstrations of hostility to one another, but each camp retained its own tendency. In Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s circle only those Frenchmen were admitted who were deep-rooted legitimists, and patriotic views were expressed to the effect that one ought not to go to the French theater and that to maintain the French troupe was costing the government as much as a whole army corps. The progress of the war was eagerly followed, and only the reports most flattering to our army were circulated. In the French circle of HÃ©lÃ¨ne and RumyÃ¡ntsev the reports of the cruelty of the enemy and of the war were contradicted and all Napoleon™s attempts at conciliation were discussed. In that circle they discountenanced those who advised hurried preparations for a removal to KazÃ¡n of the court and the girls™ educational establishments under the patronage of the Dowager Empress. In HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s circle the war in general was regarded as a series of formal demonstrations which would very soon end in peace, and the view prevailed expressed by BilÃbin”who now in Petersburg was quite at home in HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s house, which every clever man was obliged to visit”that not by gunpowder but by those who invented it would matters be settled. In that circle the Moscow enthusiasm”news of which had reached Petersburg simultaneously with the Emperor™s return”was ridiculed sarcastically and very cleverly, though with much caution. Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s circle on the contrary was enraptured by this enthusiasm and spoke of it as Plutarch speaks of the deeds of the ancients. Prince VasÃli, who still occupied his former important posts, formed a connecting link between these two circles. He visited his good friend Anna PÃ¡vlovna as well as his daughter™s diplomatic salon, and often in his constant comings and goings between the two camps became confused and said at HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s what he should have said at Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s and vice versa. Soon after the Emperor™s return Prince VasÃli in a conversation about the war at Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s severely condemned Barclay de Tolly, but was undecided as to who ought to be appointed commander in chief. One of the visitors, usually spoken of as a man of great merit, having described how he had that day seen KutÃºzov, the newly chosen chief of the Petersburg militia, presiding over the enrollment of recruits at the Treasury, cautiously ventured to suggest that KutÃºzov would be the man to satisfy all requirements. Anna PÃ¡vlovna remarked with a melancholy smile that KutÃºzov had done nothing but cause the Emperor annoyance. I have talked and talked at the Assembly of the Nobility, Prince VasÃli interrupted, but they did not listen to me. I told them his election as chief of the militia would not please the Emperor. They did not listen to me. It™s all this mania for opposition, he went on. And who for? It is all because we want to ape the foolish enthusiasm of those Muscovites, Prince VasÃli continued, forgetting for a moment that though at HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s one had to ridicule the Moscow enthusiasm, at Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s one had to be ecstatic about it. But he retrieved his mistake at once. Now, is it suitable that Count KutÃºzov, the oldest general in Russia, should preside at that tribunal? He will get nothing for his pains! How could they make a man commander in chief who cannot mount a horse, who drops asleep at a council, and has the very worst morals! A good reputation he made for himself at Bucharest! I don™t speak of his capacity as a general, but at a time like this how they appoint a decrepit, blind old man, positively blind? A fine idea to have a blind general! He can™t see anything. To play blindman™s buff? He can™t see at all! No one replied to his remarks. This was quite correct on the twenty-fourth of July. But on the twenty-ninth of July KutÃºzov received the title of Prince. This might indicate a wish to get rid of him, and therefore Prince VasÃli™s opinion continued to be correct though he was not now in any hurry to express it. But on the eighth of August a committee, consisting of Field Marshal SaltykÃ³v, ArakchÃ©ev, VyazmÃtinov, LopukhÃn, and KochubÃ©y met to consider the progress of the war. This committee came to the conclusion that our failures were due to a want of unity in the command and though the members of the committee were aware of the Emperor™s dislike of KutÃºzov, after a short deliberation they agreed to advise his appointment as commander in chief. That same day KutÃºzov was appointed commander in chief with full powers over the armies and over the whole region occupied by them. On the ninth of August Prince VasÃli at Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s again met the man of great merit. The latter was very attentive to Anna PÃ¡vlovna because he wanted to be appointed director of one of the educational establishments for young ladies. Prince VasÃli entered the room with the air of a happy conqueror who has attained the object of his desires. Well, have you heard the great news? Prince KutÃºzov is field marshal! All dissensions are at an end! I am so glad, so delighted! At last we have a man! said he, glancing sternly and significantly round at everyone in the drawing room. The man of great merit, despite his desire to obtain the post of director, could not refrain from reminding Prince VasÃli of his former opinion. Though this was impolite to Prince VasÃli in Anna PÃ¡vlovna™s drawing room, and also to Anna PÃ¡vlovna herself who had received the news with delight, he could not resist the temptation. But, Prince, they say he is blind! said he, reminding Prince VasÃli of his own words. Eh? Nonsense! He sees well enough, said Prince VasÃli rapidly, in a deep voice and with a slight cough”the voice and cough with which he was wont to dispose of all difficulties. He sees well enough, he added. And what I am so pleased about, he went on, is that our sovereign has given him full powers over all the armies and the whole region”powers no commander in chief ever had before. He is a second autocrat, he concluded with a victorious smile. God grant it! God grant it! said Anna PÃ¡vlovna. The man of great merit, who was still a novice in court circles, wishing to flatter Anna PÃ¡vlovna by defending her former position on this question, observed: It is said that the Emperor was reluctant to give KutÃºzov those powers. They say he blushed like a girl to whom Joconde is read, when he said to KutÃºzov: ˜Your Emperor and the Fatherland award you this honor.™ Perhaps the heart took no part in that speech, said Anna PÃ¡vlovna. Oh, no, no! warmly rejoined Prince VasÃli, who would not now yield KutÃºzov to anyone; in his opinion KutÃºzov was not only admirable himself, but was adored by everybody. No, that™s impossible, said he, for our sovereign appreciated him so highly before. God grant only that Prince KutÃºzov assumes real power and does not allow anyone to put a spoke in his wheel, observed Anna PÃ¡vlovna. Understanding at once to whom she alluded, Prince VasÃli said in a whisper: I know for a fact that KutÃºzov made it an absolute condition that the TsarÃ©vich should not be with the army. Do you know what he said to the Emperor? And Prince VasÃli repeated the words supposed to have been spoken by KutÃºzov to the Emperor. I can neither punish him if he does wrong nor reward him if he does right. Oh, a very wise man is Prince KutÃºzov! I have known him a long time! They even say, remarked the man of great merit who did not yet possess courtly tact, that his excellency made it an express condition that the sovereign himself should not be with the army. As soon as he said this both Prince VasÃli and Anna PÃ¡vlovna turned away from him and glanced sadly at one another with a sigh at his naÃ¯vetÃ©. CHAPTER VII While this was taking place in Petersburg the French had already passed SmolÃ©nsk and were drawing nearer and nearer to Moscow. Napoleon™s historian Thiers, like other of his historians, trying to justify his hero says that he was drawn to the walls of Moscow against his will. He is as right as other historians who look for the explanation of historic events in the will of one man; he is as right as the Russian historians who maintain that Napoleon was drawn to Moscow by the skill of the Russian commanders. Here besides the law of retrospection, which regards all the past as a preparation for events that subsequently occur, the law of reciprocity comes in, confusing the whole matter. A good chessplayer having lost a game is sincerely convinced that his loss resulted from a mistake he made and looks for that mistake in the opening, but forgets that at each stage of the game there were similar mistakes and that none of his moves were perfect. He only notices the mistake to which he pays attention, because his opponent took advantage of it. How much more complex than this is the game of war, which occurs under certain limits of time, and where it is not one will that manipulates lifeless objects, but everything results from innumerable conflicts of various wills! After SmolÃ©nsk Napoleon sought a battle beyond DorogobÃºzh at VyÃ¡zma, and then at TsÃ¡revo-ZaymÃshche, but it happened that owing to a conjunction of innumerable circumstances the Russians could not give battle till they reached BorodinÃ³, seventy miles from Moscow. From VyÃ¡zma Napoleon ordered a direct advance on Moscow. Moscou, la capitale asiatique de ce grand empire, la ville sacrÃ©e des peuples d™Alexandre, Moscou avec ses innombrables Ã©glises en forme de pagodes chinoises, * this Moscow gave Napoleon™s imagination no rest. On the march from VyÃ¡zma to TsÃ¡revo-ZaymÃshche he rode his light bay bobtailed ambler accompanied by his Guards, his bodyguard, his pages, and aides-de-camp. Berthier, his chief of staff, dropped behind to question a Russian prisoner captured by the cavalry. Followed by Lelorgne d™Ideville, an interpreter, he overtook Napoleon at a gallop and reined in his horse with an amused expression. * Moscow, the Asiatic capital of this great empire, the sacred city of Alexander™s people, Moscow with its innumerable churches shaped like Chinese pagodas. Well? asked Napoleon. One of PlÃ¡tov™s Cossacks says that PlÃ¡tov™s corps is joining up with the main army and that KutÃºzov has been appointed commander in chief. He is a very shrewd and garrulous fellow. Napoleon smiled and told them to give the Cossack a horse and bring the man to him. He wished to talk to him himself. Several adjutants galloped off, and an hour later, LavrÃºshka, the serf DenÃsov had handed over to RostÃ³v, rode up to Napoleon in an orderly™s jacket and on a French cavalry saddle, with a merry, and tipsy face. Napoleon told him to ride by his side and began questioning him. You are a Cossack? Yes, a Cossack, your Honor. The Cossack, not knowing in what company he was, for Napoleon™s plain appearance had nothing about it that would reveal to an Oriental mind the presence of a monarch, talked with extreme familiarity of the incidents of the war, says Thiers, narrating this episode. In reality LavrÃºshka, having got drunk the day before and left his master dinnerless, had been whipped and sent to the village in quest of chickens, where he engaged in looting till the French took him prisoner. LavrÃºshka was one of those coarse, bare-faced lackeys who have seen all sorts of things, consider it necessary to do everything in a mean and cunning way, are ready to render any sort of service to their master, and are keen at guessing their master™s baser impulses, especially those prompted by vanity and pettiness. Finding himself in the company of Napoleon, whose identity he had easily and surely recognized, LavrÃºshka was not in the least abashed but merely did his utmost to gain his new master™s favor. He knew very well that this was Napoleon, but Napoleon™s presence could no more intimidate him than RostÃ³v™s, or a sergeant major™s with the rods, would have done, for he had nothing that either the sergeant major or Napoleon could deprive him of. So he rattled on, telling all the gossip he had heard among the orderlies. Much of it true. But when Napoleon asked him whether the Russians thought they would beat Bonaparte or not, LavrÃºshka screwed up his eyes and considered. In this question he saw subtle cunning, as men of his type see cunning in everything, so he frowned and did not answer immediately. It™s like this, he said thoughtfully, if there™s a battle soon, yours will win. That™s right. But if three days pass, then after that, well, then that same battle will not soon be over. Lelorgne d™Ideville smilingly interpreted this speech to Napoleon thus: If a battle takes place within the next three days the French will win, but if later, God knows what will happen. Napoleon did not smile, though he was evidently in high good humor, and he ordered these words to be repeated. LavrÃºshka noticed this and to entertain him further, pretending not to know who Napoleon was, added: We know that you have Bonaparte and that he has beaten everybody in the world, but we are a different matter...”without knowing why or how this bit of boastful patriotism slipped out at the end. The interpreter translated these words without the last phrase, and Bonaparte smiled. The young Cossack made his mighty interlocutor smile, says Thiers. After riding a few paces in silence, Napoleon turned to Berthier and said he wished to see how the news that he was talking to the Emperor himself, to that very Emperor who had written his immortally victorious name on the Pyramids, would affect this enfant du Don. * * Child of the Don. The fact was accordingly conveyed to LavrÃºshka. LavrÃºshka, understanding that this was done to perplex him and that Napoleon expected him to be frightened, to gratify his new masters promptly pretended to be astonished and awe-struck, opened his eyes wide, and assumed the expression he usually put on when taken to be whipped. As soon as Napoleon™s interpreter had spoken, says Thiers, the Cossack, seized by amazement, did not utter another word, but rode on, his eyes fixed on the conqueror whose fame had reached him across the steppes of the East. All his loquacity was suddenly arrested and replaced by a naÃ¯ve and silent feeling of admiration. Napoleon, after making the Cossack a present, had him set free like a bird restored to its native fields. Napoleon rode on, dreaming of the Moscow that so appealed to his imagination, and the bird restored to its native fields galloped to our outposts, inventing on the way all that had not taken place but that he meant to relate to his comrades. What had really taken place he did not wish to relate because it seemed to him not worth telling. He found the Cossacks, inquired for the regiment operating with PlÃ¡tov™s detachment and by evening found his master, Nicholas RostÃ³v, quartered at YankÃ³vo. RostÃ³v was just mounting to go for a ride round the neighboring villages with IlyÃn; he let LavrÃºshka have another horse and took him along with him. CHAPTER VIII Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew supposed. After the return of AlpÃ¡tych from SmolÃ©nsk the old prince suddenly seemed to awake as from a dream. He ordered the militiamen to be called up from the villages and armed, and wrote a letter to the commander in chief informing him that he had resolved to remain at Bald Hills to the last extremity and to defend it, leaving to the commander in chief™s discretion to take measures or not for the defense of Bald Hills, where one of Russia™s oldest generals would be captured or killed, and he announced to his household that he would remain at Bald Hills. But while himself remaining, he gave instructions for the departure of the princess and Dessalles with the little prince to BoguchÃ¡rovo and thence to Moscow. Princess Mary, alarmed by her father™s feverish and sleepless activity after his previous apathy, could not bring herself to leave him alone and for the first time in her life ventured to disobey him. She refused to go away and her father™s fury broke over her in a terrible storm. He repeated every injustice he had ever inflicted on her. Trying to convict her, he told her she had worn him out, had caused his quarrel with his son, had harbored nasty suspicions of him, making it the object of her life to poison his existence, and he drove her from his study telling her that if she did not go away it was all the same to him. He declared that he did not wish to remember her existence and warned her not to dare to let him see her. The fact that he did not, as she had feared, order her to be carried away by force but only told her not to let him see her cheered Princess Mary. She knew it was a proof that in the depth of his soul he was glad she was remaining at home and had not gone away. The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince donned his full uniform and prepared to visit the commander in chief. His calÃ¨che was already at the door. Princess Mary saw him walk out of the house in his uniform wearing all his orders and go down the garden to review his armed peasants and domestic serfs. She sat by the window listening to his voice which reached her from the garden. Suddenly several men came running up the avenue with frightened faces. Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered path, and into the avenue. A large crowd of militiamen and domestics were moving toward her, and in their midst several men were supporting by the armpits and dragging along a little old man in a uniform and decorations. She ran up to him and, in the play of the sunlight that fell in small round spots through the shade of the lime-tree avenue, could not be sure what change there was in his face. All she could see was that his former stern and determined expression had altered to one of timidity and submission. On seeing his daughter he moved his helpless lips and made a hoarse sound. It was impossible to make out what he wanted. He was lifted up, carried to his study, and laid on the very couch he had so feared of late. The doctor, who was fetched that same night, bled him and said that the prince had had a seizure paralyzing his right side. It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and next day they moved the prince to BoguchÃ¡rovo, the doctor accompanying him. By the time they reached BoguchÃ¡rovo, Dessalles and the little prince had already left for Moscow. For three weeks the old prince lay stricken by paralysis in the new house Prince Andrew had built at BoguchÃ¡rovo, ever in the same state, getting neither better nor worse. He was unconscious and lay like a distorted corpse. He muttered unceasingly, his eyebrows and lips twitching, and it was impossible to tell whether he understood what was going on around him or not. One thing was certain”that he was suffering and wished to say something. But what it was, no one could tell: it might be some caprice of a sick and half-crazy man, or it might relate to public affairs, or possibly to family concerns. The doctor said this restlessness did not mean anything and was due to physical causes; but Princess Mary thought he wished to tell her something, and the fact that her presence always increased his restlessness confirmed her opinion. He was evidently suffering both physically and mentally. There was no hope of recovery. It was impossible for him to travel, it would not do to let him die on the road. Would it not be better if the end did come, the very end? Princess Mary sometimes thought. Night and day, hardly sleeping at all, she watched him and, terrible to say, often watched him not with hope of finding signs of improvement but wishing to find symptoms of the approach of the end. Strange as it was to her to acknowledge this feeling in herself, yet there it was. And what seemed still more terrible to her was that since her father™s illness began (perhaps even sooner, when she stayed with him expecting something to happen), all the personal desires and hopes that had been forgotten or sleeping within her had awakened. Thoughts that had not entered her mind for years”thoughts of a life free from the fear of her father, and even the possibility of love and of family happiness”floated continually in her imagination like temptations of the devil. Thrust them aside as she would, questions continually recurred to her as to how she would order her life now, after that. These were temptations of the devil and Princess Mary knew it. She knew that the sole weapon against him was prayer, and she tried to pray. She assumed an attitude of prayer, looked at the icons, repeated the words of a prayer, but she could not pray. She felt that a different world had now taken possession of her”the life of a world of strenuous and free activity, quite opposed to the spiritual world in which till now she had been confined and in which her greatest comfort had been prayer. She could not pray, could not weep, and worldly cares took possession of her. It was becoming dangerous to remain in BoguchÃ¡rovo. News of the approach of the French came from all sides, and in one village, ten miles from BoguchÃ¡rovo, a homestead had been looted by French marauders. The doctor insisted on the necessity of moving the prince; the provincial Marshal of the Nobility sent an official to Princess Mary to persuade her to get away as quickly as possible, and the head of the rural police having come to BoguchÃ¡rovo urged the same thing, saying that the French were only some twenty-five miles away, that French proclamations were circulating in the villages, and that if the princess did not take her father away before the fifteenth, he could not answer for the consequences. The princess decided to leave on the fifteenth. The cares of preparation and giving orders, for which everyone came to her, occupied her all day. She spent the night of the fourteenth as usual, without undressing, in the room next to the one where the prince lay. Several times, waking up, she heard his groans and muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps of TÃkhon and the doctor when they turned him over. Several times she listened at the door, and it seemed to her that his mutterings were louder than usual and that they turned him over oftener. She could not sleep and several times went to the door and listened, wishing to enter but not deciding to do so. Though he did not speak, Princess Mary saw and knew how unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his account was to him. She had noticed with what dissatisfaction he turned from the look she sometimes involuntarily fixed on him. She knew that her going in during the night at an unusual hour would irritate him. But never had she felt so grieved for him or so much afraid of losing him. She recalled all her life with him and in every word and act of his found an expression of his love of her. Occasionally amid these memories temptations of the devil would surge into her imagination: thoughts of how things would be after his death, and how her new, liberated life would be ordered. But she drove these thoughts away with disgust. Toward morning he became quiet and she fell asleep. She woke late. That sincerity which often comes with waking showed her clearly what chiefly concerned her about her father™s illness. On waking she listened to what was going on behind the door and, hearing him groan, said to herself with a sigh that things were still the same. But what could have happened? What did I want? I want his death! she cried with a feeling of loathing for herself. She washed, dressed, said her prayers, and went out to the porch. In front of it stood carriages without horses and things were being packed into the vehicles. It was a warm, gray morning. Princess Mary stopped at the porch, still horrified by her spiritual baseness and trying to arrange her thoughts before going to her father. The doctor came downstairs and went out to her. He is a little better today, said he. I was looking for you. One can make out something of what he is saying. His head is clearer. Come in, he is asking for you.... Princess Mary™s heart beat so violently at this news that she grew pale and leaned against the wall to keep from falling. To see him, talk to him, feel his eyes on her now that her whole soul was overflowing with those dreadful, wicked temptations, was a torment of joy and terror. Come, said the doctor. Princess Mary entered her father™s room and went up to his bed. He was lying on his back propped up high, and his small bony hands with their knotted purple veins were lying on the quilt; his left eye gazed straight before him, his right eye was awry, and his brows and lips motionless. He seemed altogether so thin, small, and pathetic. His face seemed to have shriveled or melted; his features had grown smaller. Princess Mary went up and kissed his hand. His left hand pressed hers so that she understood that he had long been waiting for her to come. He twitched her hand, and his brows and lips quivered angrily. She looked at him in dismay trying to guess what he wanted of her. When she changed her position so that his left eye could see her face he calmed down, not taking his eyes off her for some seconds. Then his lips and tongue moved, sounds came, and he began to speak, gazing timidly and imploringly at her, evidently afraid that she might not understand. Straining all her faculties Princess Mary looked at him. The comic efforts with which he moved his tongue made her drop her eyes and with difficulty repress the sobs that rose to her throat. He said something, repeating the same words several times. She could not understand them, but tried to guess what he was saying and inquiringly repeated the words he uttered. Mmm...ar...ate...ate... he repeated several times. It was quite impossible to understand these sounds. The doctor thought he had guessed them, and inquiringly repeated: Mary, are you afraid? The prince shook his head, again repeated the same sounds. My mind, my mind aches? questioned Princess Mary. He made a mumbling sound in confirmation of this, took her hand, and began pressing it to different parts of his breast as if trying to find the right place for it. Always thoughts... about you... thoughts... he then uttered much more clearly than he had done before, now that he was sure of being understood. Princess Mary pressed her head against his hand, trying to hide her sobs and tears. He moved his hand over her hair. I have been calling you all night... he brought out. If only I had known... she said through her tears. I was afraid to come in. He pressed her hand. Weren™t you asleep? No, I did not sleep, said Princess Mary, shaking her head. Unconsciously imitating her father, she now tried to express herself as he did, as much as possible by signs, and her tongue too seemed to move with difficulty. Dear one... Dearest... Princess Mary could not quite make out what he had said, but from his look it was clear that he had uttered a tender caressing word such as he had never used to her before. Why didn™t you come in? And I was wishing for his death! thought Princess Mary. He was silent awhile. Thank you... daughter dear!... for all, for all... forgive!... thank you!... forgive!... thank you!... and tears began to flow from his eyes. Call Andrew! he said suddenly, and a childish, timid expression of doubt showed itself on his face as he spoke. He himself seemed aware that his demand was meaningless. So at least it seemed to Princess Mary. I have a letter from him, she replied. He glanced at her with timid surprise. Where is he? He™s with the army, Father, at SmolÃ©nsk. He closed his eyes and remained silent a long time. Then as if in answer to his doubts and to confirm the fact that now he understood and remembered everything, he nodded his head and reopened his eyes. Yes, he said, softly and distinctly. Russia has perished. They™ve destroyed her. And he began to sob, and again tears flowed from his eyes. Princess Mary could no longer restrain herself and wept while she gazed at his face. Again he closed his eyes. His sobs ceased, he pointed to his eyes, and TÃkhon, understanding him, wiped away the tears. Then he again opened his eyes and said something none of them could understand for a long time, till at last TÃkhon understood and repeated it. Princess Mary had sought the meaning of his words in the mood in which he had just been speaking. She thought he was speaking of Russia, or Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson, or of his own death, and so she could not guess his words. Put on your white dress. I like it, was what he said. Having understood this Princess Mary sobbed still louder, and the doctor taking her arm led her out to the veranda, soothing her and trying to persuade her to prepare for her journey. When she had left the room the prince again began speaking about his son, about the war, and about the Emperor, angrily twitching his brows and raising his hoarse voice, and then he had a second and final stroke. Princess Mary stayed on the veranda. The day had cleared, it was hot and sunny. She could understand nothing, think of nothing and feel nothing, except passionate love for her father, love such as she thought she had never felt till that moment. She ran out sobbing into the garden and as far as the pond, along the avenues of young lime trees Prince Andrew had planted. Yes... I... I... I wished for his death! Yes, I wanted it to end quicker.... I wished to be at peace.... And what will become of me? What use will peace be when he is no longer here? Princess Mary murmured, pacing the garden with hurried steps and pressing her hands to her bosom which heaved with convulsive sobs. When she had completed the tour of the garden, which brought her again to the house, she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne”who had remained at BoguchÃ¡rovo and did not wish to leave it”coming toward her with a stranger. This was the Marshal of the Nobility of the district, who had come personally to point out to the princess the necessity for her prompt departure. Princess Mary listened without understanding him; she led him to the house, offered him lunch, and sat down with him. Then, excusing herself, she went to the door of the old prince™s room. The doctor came out with an agitated face and said she could not enter. Go away, Princess! Go away... go away! She returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the foot of the slope by the pond, where no one could see her. She did not know how long she had been there when she was aroused by the sound of a woman™s footsteps running along the path. She rose and saw DunyÃ¡sha her maid, who was evidently looking for her, and who stopped suddenly as if in alarm on seeing her mistress. Please come, Princess... The Prince, said DunyÃ¡sha in a breaking voice. Immediately, I™m coming, I™m coming! replied the princess hurriedly, not giving DunyÃ¡sha time to finish what she was saying, and trying to avoid seeing the girl she ran toward the house. Princess, it™s God™s will! You must be prepared for everything, said the Marshal, meeting her at the house door. Let me alone; it™s not true! she cried angrily to him. The doctor tried to stop her. She pushed him aside and ran to her father™s door. Why are these people with frightened faces stopping me? I don™t want any of them! And what are they doing here? she thought. She opened the door and the bright daylight in that previously darkened room startled her. In the room were her nurse and other women. They all drew back from the bed, making way for her. He was still lying on the bed as before, but the stern expression of his quiet face made Princess Mary stop short on the threshold. No, he™s not dead”it™s impossible! she told herself and approached him, and repressing the terror that seized her, she pressed her lips to his cheek. But she stepped back immediately. All the force of the tenderness she had been feeling for him vanished instantly and was replaced by a feeling of horror at what lay there before her. No, he is no more! He is not, but here where he was is something unfamiliar and hostile, some dreadful, terrifying, and repellent mystery! And hiding her face in her hands, Princess Mary sank into the arms of the doctor, who held her up. In the presence of TÃkhon and the doctor the women washed what had been the prince, tied his head up with a handkerchief that the mouth should not stiffen while open, and with another handkerchief tied together the legs that were already spreading apart. Then they dressed him in uniform with his decorations and placed his shriveled little body on a table. Heaven only knows who arranged all this and when, but it all got done as if of its own accord. Toward night candles were burning round his coffin, a pall was spread over it, the floor was strewn with sprays of juniper, a printed band was tucked in under his shriveled head, and in a corner of the room sat a chanter reading the psalms. Just as horses shy and snort and gather about a dead horse, so the inmates of the house and strangers crowded into the drawing room round the coffin”the Marshal, the village Elder, peasant women”and all with fixed and frightened eyes, crossing themselves, bowed and kissed the old prince™s cold and stiffened hand. CHAPTER IX Until Prince Andrew settled in BoguchÃ¡rovo its owners had always been absentees, and its peasants were of quite a different character from those of Bald Hills. They differed from them in speech, dress, and disposition. They were called steppe peasants. The old prince used to approve of them for their endurance at work when they came to Bald Hills to help with the harvest. or to dig ponds and ditches, but he disliked them for their boorishness. Prince Andrew™s last stay at BoguchÃ¡rovo, when he introduced hospitals and schools and reduced the quitrent the peasants had to pay, had not softened their disposition but had on the contrary strengthened in them the traits of character the old prince called boorishness. Various obscure rumors were always current among them: at one time a rumor that they would all be enrolled as Cossacks; at another of a new religion to which they were all to be converted; then of some proclamation of the Tsar™s and of an oath to the Tsar Paul in 1797 (in connection with which it was rumored that freedom had been granted them but the landowners had stopped it), then of Peter FÃ«dorovich™s return to the throne in seven years™ time, when everything would be made free and so simple that there would be no restrictions. Rumors of the war with Bonaparte and his invasion were connected in their minds with the same sort of vague notions of Antichrist, the end of the world, and pure freedom. In the vicinity of BoguchÃ¡rovo were large villages belonging to the crown or to owners whose serfs paid quitrent and could work where they pleased. There were very few resident landlords in the neighborhood and also very few domestic or literate serfs, and in the lives of the peasantry of those parts the mysterious undercurrents in the life of the Russian people, the causes and meaning of which are so baffling to contemporaries, were more clearly and strongly noticeable than among others. One instance, which had occurred some twenty years before, was a movement among the peasants to emigrate to some unknown warm rivers. Hundreds of peasants, among them the BoguchÃ¡rovo folk, suddenly began selling their cattle and moving in whole families toward the southeast. As birds migrate to somewhere beyond the sea, so these men with their wives and children streamed to the southeast, to parts where none of them had ever been. They set off in caravans, bought their freedom one by one or ran away, and drove or walked toward the warm rivers. Many of them were punished, some sent to Siberia, many died of cold and hunger on the road, many returned of their own accord, and the movement died down of itself just as it had sprung up, without apparent reason. But such undercurrents still existed among the people and gathered new forces ready to manifest themselves just as strangely, unexpectedly, and at the same time simply, naturally, and forcibly. Now in 1812, to anyone living in close touch with these people it was apparent that these undercurrents were acting strongly and nearing an eruption. AlpÃ¡tych, who had reached BoguchÃ¡rovo shortly before the old prince™s death, noticed an agitation among the peasants, and that contrary to what was happening in the Bald Hills district, where over a radius of forty miles all the peasants were moving away and leaving their villages to be devastated by the Cossacks, the peasants in the steppe region round BoguchÃ¡rovo were, it was rumored, in touch with the French, received leaflets from them that passed from hand to hand, and did not migrate. He learned from domestic serfs loyal to him that the peasant Karp, who possessed great influence in the village commune and had recently been away driving a government transport, had returned with news that the Cossacks were destroying deserted villages, but that the French did not harm them. AlpÃ¡tych also knew that on the previous day another peasant had even brought from the village of VisloÃºkhovo, which was occupied by the French, a proclamation by a French general that no harm would be done to the inhabitants, and if they remained they would be paid for anything taken from them. As proof of this the peasant had brought from VisloÃºkhovo a hundred rubles in notes (he did not know that they were false) paid to him in advance for hay. More important still, AlpÃ¡tych learned that on the morning of the very day he gave the village Elder orders to collect carts to move the princess™ luggage from BoguchÃ¡rovo, there had been a village meeting at which it had been decided not to move but to wait. Yet there was no time to waste. On the fifteenth, the day of the old prince™s death, the Marshal had insisted on Princess Mary™s leaving at once, as it was becoming dangerous. He had told her that after the sixteenth he could not be responsible for what might happen. On the evening of the day the old prince died the Marshal went away, promising to return next day for the funeral. But this he was unable to do, for he received tidings that the French had unexpectedly advanced, and had barely time to remove his own family and valuables from his estate. For some thirty years BoguchÃ¡rovo had been managed by the village Elder, Dron, whom the old prince called by the diminutive DrÃ³nushka. Dron was one of those physically and mentally vigorous peasants who grow big beards as soon as they are of age and go on unchanged till they are sixty or seventy, without a gray hair or the loss of a tooth, as straight and strong at sixty as at thirty. Soon after the migration to the warm rivers, in which he had taken part like the rest, Dron was made village Elder and overseer of BoguchÃ¡rovo, and had since filled that post irreproachably for twenty-three years. The peasants feared him more than they did their master. The masters, both the old prince and the young, and the steward respected him and jestingly called him the Minister. During the whole time of his service Dron had never been drunk or ill, never after sleepless nights or the hardest tasks had he shown the least fatigue, and though he could not read he had never forgotten a single money account or the number of quarters of flour in any of the endless cartloads he sold for the prince, nor a single shock of the whole corn crop on any single acre of the BoguchÃ¡rovo fields. AlpÃ¡tych, arriving from the devastated Bald Hills estate, sent for his Dron on the day of the prince™s funeral and told him to have twelve horses got ready for the princess™ carriages and eighteen carts for the things to be removed from BoguchÃ¡rovo. Though the peasants paid quitrent, AlpÃ¡tych thought no difficulty would be made about complying with this order, for there were two hundred and thirty households at work in BoguchÃ¡rovo and the peasants were well to do. But on hearing the order Dron lowered his eyes and remained silent. AlpÃ¡tych named certain peasants he knew, from whom he told him to take the carts. Dron replied that the horses of these peasants were away carting. AlpÃ¡tych named others, but they too, according to Dron, had no horses available: some horses were carting for the government, others were too weak, and others had died for want of fodder. It seemed that no horses could be had even for the carriages, much less for the carting. AlpÃ¡tych looked intently at Dron and frowned. Just as Dron was a model village Elder, so AlpÃ¡tych had not managed the prince™s estates for twenty years in vain. He was a model steward, possessing in the highest degree the faculty of divining the needs and instincts of those he dealt with. Having glanced at Dron he at once understood that his answers did not express his personal views but the general mood of the BoguchÃ¡rovo commune, by which the Elder had already been carried away. But he also knew that Dron, who had acquired property and was hated by the commune, must be hesitating between the two camps: the masters™ and the serfs™. He noticed this hesitation in Dron™s look and therefore frowned and moved closer up to him. Now just listen, DrÃ³nushka, said he. Don™t talk nonsense to me. His excellency Prince Andrew himself gave me orders to move all the people away and not leave them with the enemy, and there is an order from the Tsar about it too. Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar. Do you hear? I hear, Dron answered without lifting his eyes. AlpÃ¡tych was not satisfied with this reply. Eh, Dron, it will turn out badly! he said, shaking his head. The power is in your hands, Dron rejoined sadly. Eh, Dron, drop it! AlpÃ¡tych repeated, withdrawing his hand from his bosom and solemnly pointing to the floor at Dron™s feet. I can see through you and three yards into the ground under you, he continued, gazing at the floor in front of Dron. Dron was disconcerted, glanced furtively at AlpÃ¡tych and again lowered his eyes. You drop this nonsense and tell the people to get ready to leave their homes and go to Moscow and to get carts ready for tomorrow morning for the princess™ things. And don™t go to any meeting yourself, do you hear? Dron suddenly fell on his knees. YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych, discharge me! Take the keys from me and discharge me, for Christ™s sake! Stop that! cried AlpÃ¡tych sternly. I see through you and three yards under you, he repeated, knowing that his skill in beekeeping, his knowledge of the right time to sow the oats, and the fact that he had been able to retain the old prince™s favor for twenty years had long since gained him the reputation of being a wizard, and that the power of seeing three yards under a man is considered an attribute of wizards. Dron got up and was about to say something, but AlpÃ¡tych interrupted him. What is it you have got into your heads, eh?... What are you thinking of, eh? What am I to do with the people? said Dron. They™re quite beside themselves; I have already told them... ˜Told them,™ I dare say! said AlpÃ¡tych. Are they drinking? he asked abruptly. Quite beside themselves, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych; they™ve fetched another barrel. Well, then, listen! I™ll go to the police officer, and you tell them so, and that they must stop this and the carts must be got ready. I understand. AlpÃ¡tych did not insist further. He had managed people for a long time and knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no suspicion that they can possibly disobey. Having wrung a submissive I understand from Dron, AlpÃ¡tych contented himself with that, though he not only doubted but felt almost certain that without the help of troops the carts would not be forthcoming. And so it was, for when evening came no carts had been provided. In the village, outside the drink shop, another meeting was being held, which decided that the horses should be driven out into the woods and the carts should not be provided. Without saying anything of this to the princess, AlpÃ¡tych had his own belongings taken out of the carts which had arrived from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready for the princess™ carriages. Meanwhile he went himself to the police authorities. CHAPTER X After her father™s funeral Princess Mary shut herself up in her room and did not admit anyone. A maid came to the door to say that AlpÃ¡tych was asking for orders about their departure. (This was before his talk with Dron.) Princess Mary raised herself on the sofa on which she had been lying and replied through the closed door that she did not mean to go away and begged to be left in peace. The windows of the room in which she was lying looked westward. She lay on the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons of the leather cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion, and her confused thoughts were centered on one subject”the irrevocability of death and her own spiritual baseness, which she had not suspected, but which had shown itself during her father™s illness. She wished to pray but did not dare to, dared not in her present state of mind address herself to God. She lay for a long time in that position. The sun had reached the other side of the house, and its slanting rays shone into the open window, lighting up the room and part of the morocco cushion at which Princess Mary was looking. The flow of her thoughts suddenly stopped. Unconsciously she sat up, smoothed her hair, got up, and went to the window, involuntarily inhaling the freshness of the clear but windy evening. Yes, you can well enjoy the evening now! He is gone and no one will hinder you, she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her head fall on the window sill. Someone spoke her name in a soft and tender voice from the garden and kissed her head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a black dress and weepers. She softly approached Princess Mary, sighed, kissed her, and immediately began to cry. The princess looked up at her. All their former disharmony and her own jealousy recurred to her mind. But she remembered too how he had changed of late toward Mademoiselle Bourienne and could not bear to see her, thereby showing how unjust were the reproaches Princess Mary had mentally addressed to her. Besides, is it for me, for me who desired his death, to condemn anyone? she thought. Princess Mary vividly pictured to herself the position of Mademoiselle Bourienne, whom she had of late kept at a distance, but who yet was dependent on her and living in her house. She felt sorry for her and held out her hand with a glance of gentle inquiry. Mademoiselle Bourienne at once began crying again and kissed that hand, speaking of the princess™ sorrow and making herself a partner in it. She said her only consolation was the fact that the princess allowed her to share her sorrow, that all the old misunderstandings should sink into nothing but this great grief; that she felt herself blameless in regard to everyone, and that he, from above, saw her affection and gratitude. The princess heard her, not heeding her words but occasionally looking up at her and listening to the sound of her voice. Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess, said Mademoiselle Bourienne after a pause. I understand that you could not, and cannot, think of yourself, but with my love for you I must do so.... Has AlpÃ¡tych been to you? Has he spoken to you of going away? she asked. Princess Mary did not answer. She did not understand who was to go or where to. Is it possible to plan or think of anything now? Is it not all the same? she thought, and did not reply. You know, chÃ¨re Marie, said Mademoiselle Bourienne, that we are in danger”are surrounded by the French. It would be dangerous to move now. If we go we are almost sure to be taken prisoners, and God knows... Princess Mary looked at her companion without understanding what she was talking about. Oh, if anyone knew how little anything matters to me now, she said. Of course I would on no account wish to go away from him.... AlpÃ¡tych did say something about going.... Speak to him; I can do nothing, nothing, and don™t want to.... I™ve spoken to him. He hopes we should be in time to get away tomorrow, but I think it would now be better to stay here, said Mademoiselle Bourienne. Because, you will agree, chÃ¨re Marie, to fall into the hands of the soldiers or of riotous peasants would be terrible. Mademoiselle Bourienne took from her reticule a proclamation (not printed on ordinary Russian paper) of General Rameau™s, telling people not to leave their homes and that the French authorities would afford them proper protection. She handed this to the princess. I think it would be best to appeal to that general, she continued, and I am sure that all due respect would be shown you. Princess Mary read the paper, and her face began to quiver with stifled sobs. From whom did you get this? she asked. They probably recognized that I am French, by my name, replied Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing. Princess Mary, with the paper in her hand, rose from the window and with a pale face went out of the room and into what had been Prince Andrew™s study. DunyÃ¡sha, send AlpÃ¡tych, or DrÃ³nushka, or somebody to me! she said, and tell Mademoiselle Bourienne not to come to me, she added, hearing Mademoiselle Bourienne™s voice. We must go at once, at once! she said, appalled at the thought of being left in the hands of the French. If Prince Andrew heard that I was in the power of the French! That I, the daughter of Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski, asked General Rameau for protection and accepted his favor! This idea horrified her, made her shudder, blush, and feel such a rush of anger and pride as she had never experienced before. All that was distressing, and especially all that was humiliating, in her position rose vividly to her mind. They, the French, would settle in this house: M. le GÃ©nÃ©ral Rameau would occupy Prince Andrew™s study and amuse himself by looking through and reading his letters and papers. Mademoiselle Bourienne would do the honors of BoguchÃ¡rovo for him. I should be given a small room as a favor, the soldiers would violate my father™s newly dug grave to steal his crosses and stars, they would tell me of their victories over the Russians, and would pretend to sympathize with my sorrow... thought Princess Mary, not thinking her own thoughts but feeling bound to think like her father and her brother. For herself she did not care where she remained or what happened to her, but she felt herself the representative of her dead father and of Prince Andrew. Involuntarily she thought their thoughts and felt their feelings. What they would have said and what they would have done she felt bound to say and do. She went into Prince Andrew™s study, trying to enter completely into his ideas, and considered her position. The demands of life, which had seemed to her annihilated by her father™s death, all at once rose before her with a new, previously unknown force and took possession of her. Agitated and flushed she paced the room, sending now for Michael IvÃ¡novich and now for TÃkhon or Dron. DunyÃ¡sha, the nurse, and the other maids could not say in how far Mademoiselle Bourienne™s statement was correct. AlpÃ¡tych was not at home, he had gone to the police. Neither could the architect Michael IvÃ¡novich, who on being sent for came in with sleepy eyes, tell Princess Mary anything. With just the same smile of agreement with which for fifteen years he had been accustomed to answer the old prince without expressing views of his own, he now replied to Princess Mary, so that nothing definite could be got from his answers. The old valet TÃkhon, with sunken, emaciated face that bore the stamp of inconsolable grief, replied: Yes, Princess to all Princess Mary™s questions and hardly refrained from sobbing as he looked at her. At length Dron, the village Elder, entered the room and with a deep bow to Princess Mary came to a halt by the doorpost. Princess Mary walked up and down the room and stopped in front of him. DrÃ³nushka, she said, regarding as a sure friend this DrÃ³nushka who always used to bring a special kind of gingerbread from his visit to the fair at VyÃ¡zma every year and smilingly offer it to her, DrÃ³nushka, now since our misfortune... she began, but could not go on. We are all in God™s hands, said he, with a sigh. They were silent for a while. DrÃ³nushka, AlpÃ¡tych has gone off somewhere and I have no one to turn to. Is it true, as they tell me, that I can™t even go away? Why shouldn™t you go away, your excellency? You can go, said Dron. I was told it would be dangerous because of the enemy. Dear friend, I can do nothing. I understand nothing. I have nobody! I want to go away tonight or early tomorrow morning. Dron paused. He looked askance at Princess Mary and said: There are no horses; I told YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych so. Why are there none? asked the princess. It™s all God™s scourge, said Dron. What horses we had have been taken for the army or have died”this is such a year! It™s not a case of feeding horses”we may die of hunger ourselves! As it is, some go three days without eating. We™ve nothing, we™ve been ruined. Princess Mary listened attentively to what he told her. The peasants are ruined? They have no bread? she asked. They™re dying of hunger, said Dron. It™s not a case of carting. But why didn™t you tell me, DrÃ³nushka? Isn™t it possible to help them? I™ll do all I can.... To Princess Mary it was strange that now, at a moment when such sorrow was filling her soul, there could be rich people and poor, and the rich could refrain from helping the poor. She had heard vaguely that there was such a thing as landlord™s corn which was sometimes given to the peasants. She also knew that neither her father nor her brother would refuse to help the peasants in need, she only feared to make some mistake in speaking about the distribution of the grain she wished to give. She was glad such cares presented themselves, enabling her without scruple to forget her own grief. She began asking Dron about the peasants™ needs and what there was in BoguchÃ¡rovo that belonged to the landlord. But we have grain belonging to my brother? she said. The landlord™s grain is all safe, replied Dron proudly. Our prince did not order it to be sold. Give it to the peasants, let them have all they need; I give you leave in my brother™s name, said she. Dron made no answer but sighed deeply. Give them that corn if there is enough of it. Distribute it all. I give this order in my brother™s name; and tell them that what is ours is theirs. We do not grudge them anything. Tell them so. Dron looked intently at the princess while she was speaking. Discharge me, little mother, for God™s sake! Order the keys to be taken from me, said he. I have served twenty-three years and have done no wrong. Discharge me, for God™s sake! Princess Mary did not understand what he wanted of her or why he was asking to be discharged. She replied that she had never doubted his devotion and that she was ready to do anything for him and for the peasants. CHAPTER XI An hour later DunyÃ¡sha came to tell the princess that Dron had come, and all the peasants had assembled at the barn by the princess™ order and wished to have word with their mistress. But I never told them to come, said Princess Mary. I only told Dron to let them have the grain. Only, for God™s sake, Princess dear, have them sent away and don™t go out to them. It™s all a trick, said DunyÃ¡sha, and when YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych returns let us get away... and please don™t... What is a trick? asked Princess Mary in surprise. I know it is, only listen to me for God™s sake! Ask nurse too. They say they don™t agree to leave BoguchÃ¡rovo as you ordered. You™re making some mistake. I never ordered them to go away, said Princess Mary. Call DrÃ³nushka. Dron came and confirmed DunyÃ¡sha™s words; the peasants had come by the princess™ order. But I never sent for them, declared the princess. You must have given my message wrong. I only said that you were to give them the grain. Dron only sighed in reply. If you order it they will go away, said he. No, no. I™ll go out to them, said Princess Mary, and in spite of the nurse™s and DunyÃ¡sha™s protests she went out into the porch; Dron, DunyÃ¡sha, the nurse, and Michael IvÃ¡novich following her. They probably think I am offering them the grain to bribe them to remain here, while I myself go away leaving them to the mercy of the French, thought Princess Mary. I will offer them monthly rations and housing at our Moscow estate. I am sure Andrew would do even more in my place, she thought as she went out in the twilight toward the crowd standing on the pasture by the barn. The men crowded closer together, stirred, and rapidly took off their hats. Princess Mary lowered her eyes and, tripping over her skirt, came close up to them. So many different eyes, old and young, were fixed on her, and there were so many different faces, that she could not distinguish any of them and, feeling that she must speak to them all at once, did not know how to do it. But again the sense that she represented her father and her brother gave her courage, and she boldly began her speech. I am very glad you have come, she said without raising her eyes, and feeling her heart beating quickly and violently. DrÃ³nushka tells me that the war has ruined you. That is our common misfortune, and I shall grudge nothing to help you. I am myself going away because it is dangerous here... the enemy is near... because... I am giving you everything, my friends, and I beg you to take everything, all our grain, so that you may not suffer want! And if you have been told that I am giving you the grain to keep you here”that is not true. On the contrary, I ask you to go with all your belongings to our estate near Moscow, and I promise you I will see to it that there you shall want for nothing. You shall be given food and lodging. The princess stopped. Sighs were the only sound heard in the crowd. I am not doing this on my own account, she continued, I do it in the name of my dead father, who was a good master to you, and of my brother and his son. Again she paused. No one broke the silence. Ours is a common misfortune and we will share it together. All that is mine is yours, she concluded, scanning the faces before her. All eyes were gazing at her with one and the same expression. She could not fathom whether it was curiosity, devotion, gratitude, or apprehension and distrust”but the expression on all the faces was identical. We are all very thankful for your bounty, but it won™t do for us to take the landlord™s grain, said a voice at the back of the crowd. But why not? asked the princess. No one replied and Princess Mary, looking round at the crowd, found that every eye she met now was immediately dropped. But why don™t you want to take it? she asked again. No one answered. The silence began to oppress the princess and she tried to catch someone™s eye. Why don™t you speak? she inquired of a very old man who stood just in front of her leaning on his stick. If you think something more is wanted, tell me! I will do anything, said she, catching his eye. But as if this angered him, he bent his head quite low and muttered: Why should we agree? We don™t want the grain. Why should we give up everything? We don™t agree. Don™t agree.... We are sorry for you, but we™re not willing. Go away yourself, alone... came from various sides of the crowd. And again all the faces in that crowd bore an identical expression, though now it was certainly not an expression of curiosity or gratitude, but of angry resolve. But you can™t have understood me, said Princess Mary with a sad smile. Why don™t you want to go? I promise to house and feed you, while here the enemy would ruin you.... But her voice was drowned by the voices of the crowd. We™re not willing. Let them ruin us! We won™t take your grain. We don™t agree. Again Princess Mary tried to catch someone™s eye, but not a single eye in the crowd was turned to her; evidently they were all trying to avoid her look. She felt strange and awkward. Oh yes, an artful tale! Follow her into slavery! Pull down your houses and go into bondage! I dare say! ˜I™ll give you grain, indeed!™ she says, voices in the crowd were heard saying. With drooping head Princess Mary left the crowd and went back to the house. Having repeated her order to Dron to have horses ready for her departure next morning, she went to her room and remained alone with her own thoughts. CHAPTER XII For a long time that night Princess Mary sat by the open window of her room hearing the sound of the peasants™ voices that reached her from the village, but it was not of them she was thinking. She felt that she could not understand them however much she might think about them. She thought only of one thing, her sorrow, which, after the break caused by cares for the present, seemed already to belong to the past. Now she could remember it and weep or pray. After sunset the wind had dropped. The night was calm and fresh. Toward midnight the voices began to subside, a cock crowed, the full moon began to show from behind the lime trees, a fresh white dewy mist began to rise, and stillness reigned over the village and the house. Pictures of the near past”her father™s illness and last moments”rose one after another to her memory. With mournful pleasure she now lingered over these images, repelling with horror only the last one, the picture of his death, which she felt she could not contemplate even in imagination at this still and mystic hour of night. And these pictures presented themselves to her so clearly and in such detail that they seemed now present, now past, and now future. She vividly recalled the moment when he had his first stroke and was being dragged along by his armpits through the garden at Bald Hills, muttering something with his helpless tongue, twitching his gray eyebrows and looking uneasily and timidly at her. Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me the day he died, she thought. He had always thought what he said then. And she recalled in all its detail the night at Bald Hills before he had the last stroke, when with a foreboding of disaster she had remained at home against his will. She had not slept and had stolen downstairs on tiptoe, and going to the door of the conservatory where he slept that night had listened at the door. In a suffering and weary voice he was saying something to TÃkhon, speaking of the Crimea and its warm nights and of the Empress. Evidently he had wanted to talk. And why didn™t he call me? Why didn™t he let me be there instead of TÃkhon? Princess Mary had thought and thought again now. Now he will never tell anyone what he had in his soul. Never will that moment return for him or for me when he might have said all he longed to say, and not TÃkhon but I might have heard and understood him. Why didn™t I enter the room? she thought. Perhaps he would then have said to me what he said the day he died. While talking to TÃkhon he asked about me twice. He wanted to see me, and I was standing close by, outside the door. It was sad and painful for him to talk to TÃkhon who did not understand him. I remember how he began speaking to him about Lise as if she were alive”he had forgotten she was dead”and TÃkhon reminded him that she was no more, and he shouted, ˜Fool!™ He was greatly depressed. From behind the door I heard how he lay down on his bed groaning and loudly exclaimed, ˜My God!™ Why didn™t I go in then? What could he have done to me? What could I have lost? And perhaps he would then have been comforted and would have said that word to me. And Princess Mary uttered aloud the caressing word he had said to her on the day of his death. Dear-est! she repeated, and began sobbing, with tears that relieved her soul. She now saw his face before her. And not the face she had known ever since she could remember and had always seen at a distance, but the timid, feeble face she had seen for the first time quite closely, with all its wrinkles and details, when she stooped near to his mouth to catch what he said. Dear-est! she repeated again. What was he thinking when he uttered that word? What is he thinking now? This question suddenly presented itself to her, and in answer she saw him before her with the expression that was on his face as he lay in his coffin with his chin bound up with a white handkerchief. And the horror that had seized her when she touched him and convinced herself that that was not he, but something mysterious and horrible, seized her again. She tried to think of something else and to pray, but could do neither. With wide-open eyes she gazed at the moonlight and the shadows, expecting every moment to see his dead face, and she felt that the silence brooding over the house and within it held her fast. DunyÃ¡sha, she whispered. DunyÃ¡sha! she screamed wildly, and tearing herself out of this silence she ran to the servants™ quarters to meet her old nurse and the maidservants who came running toward her. CHAPTER XIII On the seventeenth of August RostÃ³v and IlyÃn, accompanied by LavrÃºshka who had just returned from captivity and by an hussar orderly, left their quarters at YankÃ³vo, ten miles from BoguchÃ¡rovo, and went for a ride”to try a new horse IlyÃn had bought and to find out whether there was any hay to be had in the villages. For the last three days BoguchÃ¡rovo had lain between the two hostile armies, so that it was as easy for the Russian rearguard to get to it as for the French vanguard; RostÃ³v, as a careful squadron commander, wished to take such provisions as remained at BoguchÃ¡rovo before the French could get them. RostÃ³v and IlyÃn were in the merriest of moods. On the way to BoguchÃ¡rovo, a princely estate with a dwelling house and farm where they hoped to find many domestic serfs and pretty girls, they questioned LavrÃºshka about Napoleon and laughed at his stories, and raced one another to try IlyÃn™s horse. RostÃ³v had no idea that the village he was entering was the property of that very BolkÃ³nski who had been engaged to his sister. RostÃ³v and IlyÃn gave rein to their horses for a last race along the incline before reaching BoguchÃ¡rovo, and RostÃ³v, outstripping IlyÃn, was the first to gallop into the village street. You™re first! cried IlyÃn, flushed. Yes, always first both on the grassland and here, answered RostÃ³v, stroking his heated DonÃ©ts horse. And I™d have won on my Frenchy, your excellency, said LavrÃºshka from behind, alluding to his shabby cart horse, only I didn™t wish to mortify you. They rode at a footpace to the barn, where a large crowd of peasants was standing. Some of the men bared their heads, others stared at the new arrivals without doffing their caps. Two tall old peasants with wrinkled faces and scanty beards emerged from the tavern, smiling, staggering, and singing some incoherent song, and approached the officers. Fine fellows! said RostÃ³v laughing. Is there any hay here? And how like one another, said IlyÃn. A mo-o-st me-r-r-y co-o-m-pa...! sang one of the peasants with a blissful smile. One of the men came out of the crowd and went up to RostÃ³v. Who do you belong to? he asked. The French, replied IlyÃn jestingly, and here is Napoleon himself”and he pointed to LavrÃºshka. Then you are Russians? the peasant asked again. And is there a large force of you here? said another, a short man, coming up. Very large, answered RostÃ³v. But why have you collected here? he added. Is it a holiday? The old men have met to talk over the business of the commune, replied the peasant, moving away. At that moment, on the road leading from the big house, two women and a man in a white hat were seen coming toward the officers. The one in pink is mine, so keep off! said IlyÃn on seeing DunyÃ¡sha running resolutely toward him. She™ll be ours! said LavrÃºshka to IlyÃn, winking. What do you want, my pretty? said IlyÃn with a smile. The princess ordered me to ask your regiment and your name. This is Count RostÃ³v, squadron commander, and I am your humble servant. Co-o-om-pa-ny! roared the tipsy peasant with a beatific smile as he looked at IlyÃn talking to the girl. Following DunyÃ¡sha, AlpÃ¡tych advanced to RostÃ³v, having bared his head while still at a distance. May I make bold to trouble your honor? said he respectfully, but with a shade of contempt for the youthfulness of this officer and with a hand thrust into his bosom. My mistress, daughter of General in Chief Prince Nicholas BolkÃ³nski who died on the fifteenth of this month, finding herself in difficulties owing to the boorishness of these people”he pointed to the peasants”asks you to come up to the house.... Won™t you, please, ride on a little farther, said AlpÃ¡tych with a melancholy smile, as it is not convenient in the presence of...? He pointed to the two peasants who kept as close to him as horseflies to a horse. Ah!... AlpÃ¡tych... Ah, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych... Grand! Forgive us for Christ™s sake, eh? said the peasants, smiling joyfully at him. RostÃ³v looked at the tipsy peasants and smiled. Or perhaps they amuse your honor? remarked AlpÃ¡tych with a staid air, as he pointed at the old men with his free hand. No, there™s not much to be amused at here, said RostÃ³v, and rode on a little way. What™s the matter? he asked. I make bold to inform your honor that the rude peasants here don™t wish to let the mistress leave the estate, and threaten to unharness her horses, so that though everything has been packed up since morning, her excellency cannot get away. Impossible! exclaimed RostÃ³v. I have the honor to report to you the actual truth, said AlpÃ¡tych. RostÃ³v dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly, and followed AlpÃ¡tych to the house, questioning him as to the state of affairs. It appeared that the princess™ offer of corn to the peasants the previous day, and her talk with Dron and at the meeting, had actually had so bad an effect that Dron had finally given up the keys and joined the peasants and had not appeared when AlpÃ¡tych sent for him; and that in the morning when the princess gave orders to harness for her journey, the peasants had come in a large crowd to the barn and sent word that they would not let her leave the village: that there was an order not to move, and that they would unharness the horses. AlpÃ¡tych had gone out to admonish them, but was told (it was chiefly Karp who did the talking, Dron not showing himself in the crowd) that they could not let the princess go, that there was an order to the contrary, but that if she stayed they would serve her as before and obey her in everything. At the moment when RostÃ³v and IlyÃn were galloping along the road, Princess Mary, despite the dissuasions of AlpÃ¡tych, her nurse, and the maids, had given orders to harness and intended to start, but when the cavalrymen were espied they were taken for Frenchmen, the coachman ran away, and the women in the house began to wail. Father! Benefactor! God has sent you! exclaimed deeply moved voices as RostÃ³v passed through the anteroom. Princess Mary was sitting helpless and bewildered in the large sitting room, when RostÃ³v was shown in. She could not grasp who he was and why he had come, or what was happening to her. When she saw his Russian face, and by his walk and the first words he uttered recognized him as a man of her own class, she glanced at him with her deep radiant look and began speaking in a voice that faltered and trembled with emotion. This meeting immediately struck RostÃ³v as a romantic event. A helpless girl overwhelmed with grief, left to the mercy of coarse, rioting peasants! And what a strange fate sent me here! What gentleness and nobility there are in her features and expression! thought he as he looked at her and listened to her timid story. When she began to tell him that all this had happened the day after her father™s funeral, her voice trembled. She turned away, and then, as if fearing he might take her words as meant to move him to pity, looked at him with an apprehensive glance of inquiry. There were tears in RostÃ³v™s eyes. Princess Mary noticed this and glanced gratefully at him with that radiant look which caused the plainness of her face to be forgotten. I cannot express, Princess, how glad I am that I happened to ride here and am able to show my readiness to serve you, said RostÃ³v, rising. Go when you please, and I give you my word of honor that no one shall dare to cause you annoyance if only you will allow me to act as your escort. And bowing respectfully, as if to a lady of royal blood, he moved toward the door. RostÃ³v™s deferential tone seemed to indicate that though he would consider himself happy to be acquainted with her, he did not wish to take advantage of her misfortunes to intrude upon her. Princess Mary understood this and appreciated his delicacy. I am very, very grateful to you, she said in French, but I hope it was all a misunderstanding and that no one is to blame for it. She suddenly began to cry. Excuse me! she said. RostÃ³v, knitting his brows, left the room with another low bow. CHAPTER XIV Well, is she pretty? Ah, friend”my pink one is delicious; her name is DunyÃ¡sha.... But on glancing at RostÃ³v™s face IlyÃn stopped short. He saw that his hero and commander was following quite a different train of thought. RostÃ³v glanced angrily at IlyÃn and without replying strode off with rapid steps to the village. I™ll show them; I™ll give it to them, the brigands! said he to himself. AlpÃ¡tych at a gliding trot, only just managing not to run, kept up with him with difficulty. What decision have you been pleased to come to? said he. RostÃ³v stopped and, clenching his fists, suddenly and sternly turned on AlpÃ¡tych. Decision? What decision? Old dotard!... cried he. What have you been about? Eh? The peasants are rioting, and you can™t manage them? You™re a traitor yourself! I know you. I™ll flay you all alive!... And as if afraid of wasting his store of anger, he left AlpÃ¡tych and went rapidly forward. AlpÃ¡tych, mastering his offended feelings, kept pace with RostÃ³v at a gliding gait and continued to impart his views. He said the peasants were obdurate and that at the present moment it would be imprudent to overresist them without an armed force, and would it not be better first to send for the military? I™ll give them armed force... I™ll ˜overresist™ them! uttered RostÃ³v meaninglessly, breathless with irrational animal fury and the need to vent it. Without considering what he would do he moved unconciously with quick, resolute steps toward the crowd. And the nearer he drew to it the more AlpÃ¡tych felt that this unreasonable action might produce good results. The peasants in the crowd were similarly impressed when they saw RostÃ³v™s rapid, firm steps and resolute, frowning face. After the hussars had come to the village and RostÃ³v had gone to see the princess, a certain confusion and dissension had arisen among the crowd. Some of the peasants said that these new arrivals were Russians and might take it amiss that the mistress was being detained. Dron was of this opinion, but as soon as he expressed it Karp and others attacked their ex-Elder. How many years have you been fattening on the commune? Karp shouted at him. It™s all one to you! You™ll dig up your pot of money and take it away with you.... What does it matter to you whether our homes are ruined or not? We™ve been told to keep order, and that no one is to leave their homes or take away a single grain, and that™s all about it! cried another. It was your son™s turn to be conscripted, but no fear! You begrudged your lump of a son, a little old man suddenly began attacking Dron”and so they took my VÃ¡nka to be shaved for a soldier! But we all have to die. To be sure, we all have to die. I™m not against the commune, said Dron. That™s it”not against it! You™ve filled your belly.... The two tall peasants had their say. As soon as RostÃ³v, followed by IlyÃn, LavrÃºshka, and AlpÃ¡tych, came up to the crowd, Karp, thrusting his fingers into his belt and smiling a little, walked to the front. Dron on the contrary retired to the rear and the crowd drew closer together. Who is your Elder here? Hey? shouted RostÃ³v, coming up to the crowd with quick steps. The Elder? What do you want with him?... asked Karp. But before the words were well out of his mouth, his cap flew off and a fierce blow jerked his head to one side. Caps off, traitors! shouted RostÃ³v in a wrathful voice. Where™s the Elder? he cried furiously. The Elder.... He wants the Elder!... Dron ZakhÃ¡rych, you! meek and flustered voices here and there were heard calling and caps began to come off their heads. We don™t riot, we™re following the orders, declared Karp, and at that moment several voices began speaking together. It™s as the old men have decided”there™s too many of you giving orders. Arguing? Mutiny!... Brigands! Traitors! cried RostÃ³v unmeaningly in a voice not his own, gripping Karp by the collar. Bind him, bind him! he shouted, though there was no one to bind him but LavrÃºshka and AlpÃ¡tych. LavrÃºshka, however, ran up to Karp and seized him by the arms from behind. Shall I call up our men from beyond the hill? he called out. AlpÃ¡tych turned to the peasants and ordered two of them by name to come and bind Karp. The men obediently came out of the crowd and began taking off their belts. Where™s the Elder? demanded RostÃ³v in a loud voice. With a pale and frowning face Dron stepped out of the crowd. Are you the Elder? Bind him, LavrÃºshka! shouted RostÃ³v, as if that order, too, could not possibly meet with any opposition. And in fact two more peasants began binding Dron, who took off his own belt and handed it to them, as if to aid them. And you all listen to me! said RostÃ³v to the peasants. Be off to your houses at once, and don™t let one of your voices be heard! Why, we™ve not done any harm! We did it just out of foolishness. It™s all nonsense.... I said then that it was not in order, voices were heard bickering with one another. There! What did I say? said AlpÃ¡tych, coming into his own again. It™s wrong, lads! All our stupidity, YÃ¡kov AlpÃ¡tych, came the answers, and the crowd began at once to disperse through the village. The two bound men were led off to the master™s house. The two drunken peasants followed them. Aye, when I look at you!... said one of them to Karp. How can one talk to the masters like that? What were you thinking of, you fool? added the other”A real fool! Two hours later the carts were standing in the courtyard of the BoguchÃ¡rovo house. The peasants were briskly carrying out the proprietor™s goods and packing them on the carts, and Dron, liberated at Princess Mary™s wish from the cupboard where he had been confined, was standing in the yard directing the men. Don™t put it in so carelessly, said one of the peasants, a man with a round smiling face, taking a casket from a housemaid. You know it has cost money! How can you chuck it in like that or shove it under the cord where it™ll get rubbed? I don™t like that way of doing things. Let it all be done properly, according to rule. Look here, put it under the bast matting and cover it with hay”that™s the way! Eh, books, books! said another peasant, bringing out Prince Andrew™s library cupboards. Don™t catch up against it! It™s heavy, lads”solid books. Yes, they worked all day and didn™t play! remarked the tall, round-faced peasant gravely, pointing with a significant wink at the dictionaries that were on the top. Unwilling to obtrude himself on the princess, RostÃ³v did not go back to the house but remained in the village awaiting her departure. When her carriage drove out of the house, he mounted and accompanied her eight miles from BoguchÃ¡rovo to where the road was occupied by our troops. At the inn at YankÃ³vo he respectfully took leave of her, for the first time permitting himself to kiss her hand. How can you speak so! he blushingly replied to Princess Mary™s expressions of gratitude for her deliverance, as she termed what had occurred. Any police officer would have done as much! If we had had only peasants to fight, we should not have let the enemy come so far, said he with a sense of shame and wishing to change the subject. I am only happy to have had the opportunity of making your acquaintance. Good-by, Princess. I wish you happiness and consolation and hope to meet you again in happier circumstances. If you don™t want to make me blush, please don™t thank me! But the princess, if she did not again thank him in words, thanked him with the whole expression of her face, radiant with gratitude and tenderness. She could not believe that there was nothing to thank him for. On the contrary, it seemed to her certain that had he not been there she would have perished at the hands of the mutineers and of the French, and that he had exposed himself to terrible and obvious danger to save her, and even more certain was it that he was a man of lofty and noble soul, able to understand her position and her sorrow. His kind, honest eyes, with the tears rising in them when she herself had begun to cry as she spoke of her loss, did not leave her memory. When she had taken leave of him and remained alone she suddenly felt her eyes filling with tears, and then not for the first time the strange question presented itself to her: did she love him? On the rest of the way to Moscow, though the princess™ position was not a cheerful one, DunyÃ¡sha, who went with her in the carriage, more than once noticed that her mistress leaned out of the window and smiled at something with an expression of mingled joy and sorrow. Well, supposing I do love him? thought Princess Mary. Ashamed as she was of acknowledging to herself that she had fallen in love with a man who would perhaps never love her, she comforted herself with the thought that no one would ever know it and that she would not be to blame if, without ever speaking of it to anyone, she continued to the end of her life to love the man with whom she had fallen in love for the first and last time in her life. Sometimes when she recalled his looks, his sympathy, and his words, happiness did not appear impossible to her. It was at those moments that DunyÃ¡sha noticed her smiling as she looked out of the carriage window. Was it not fate that brought him to BoguchÃ¡rovo, and at that very moment? thought Princess Mary. And that caused his sister to refuse my brother? And in all this Princess Mary saw the hand of Providence. The impression the princess made on RostÃ³v was a very agreeable one. To remember her gave him pleasure, and when his comrades, hearing of his adventure at BoguchÃ¡rovo, rallied him on having gone to look for hay and having picked up one of the wealthiest heiresses in Russia, he grew angry. It made him angry just because the idea of marrying the gentle Princess Mary, who was attractive to him and had an enormous fortune, had against his will more than once entered his head. For himself personally Nicholas could not wish for a better wife: by marrying her he would make the countess his mother happy, would be able to put his father™s affairs in order, and would even”he felt it”ensure Princess Mary™s happiness. But SÃ³nya? And his plighted word? That was why RostÃ³v grew angry when he was rallied about Princess BolkÃ³nskaya. CHAPTER XV On receiving command of the armies KutÃºzov remembered Prince Andrew and sent an order for him to report at headquarters. Prince Andrew arrived at TsÃ¡revo-ZaymÃshche on the very day and at the very hour that KutÃºzov was reviewing the troops for the first time. He stopped in the village at the priest™s house in front of which stood the commander in chief™s carriage, and he sat down on the bench at the gate awaiting his Serene Highness, as everyone now called KutÃºzov. From the field beyond the village came now sounds of regimental music and now the roar of many voices shouting Hurrah! to the new commander in chief. Two orderlies, a courier and a major-domo, stood near by, some ten paces from Prince Andrew, availing themselves of KutÃºzov™s absence and of the fine weather. A short, swarthy lieutenant colonel of hussars with thick mustaches and whiskers rode up to the gate and, glancing at Prince Andrew, inquired whether his Serene Highness was putting up there and whether he would soon be back. Prince Andrew replied that he was not on his Serene Highness™ staff but was himself a new arrival. The lieutenant colonel turned to a smart orderly, who, with the peculiar contempt with which a commander in chief™s orderly speaks to officers, replied: What? His Serene Highness? I expect he™ll be here soon. What do you want? The lieutenant colonel of hussars smiled beneath his mustache at the orderly™s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a dispatch runner, and approached BolkÃ³nski with a slight bow. BolkÃ³nski made room for him on the bench and the lieutenant colonel sat down beside him. You™re also waiting for the commander in chief? said he. They say he weceives evewyone, thank God!... It™s awful with those sausage eaters! ErmÃ³lov had weason to ask to be pwomoted to be a German! Now p™waps Wussians will get a look in. As it was, devil only knows what was happening. We kept wetweating and wetweating. Did you take part in the campaign? he asked. I had the pleasure, replied Prince Andrew, not only of taking part in the retreat but of losing in that retreat all I held dear”not to mention the estate and home of my birth”my father, who died of grief. I belong to the province of SmolÃ©nsk. Ah? You™re Pwince BolkÃ³nski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I™m Lieutenant Colonel DenÃsov, better known as ˜VÃ¡ska,™ said DenÃsov, pressing Prince Andrew™s hand and looking into his face with a particularly kindly attention. Yes, I heard, said he sympathetically, and after a short pause added: Yes, it™s Scythian warfare. It™s all vewy well”only not for those who get it in the neck. So you are Pwince Andwew BolkÃ³nski? He swayed his head. Vewy pleased, Pwince, to make your acquaintance! he repeated again, smiling sadly, and he again pressed Prince Andrew™s hand. Prince Andrew knew DenÃsov from what NatÃ¡sha had told him of her first suitor. This memory carried him sadly and sweetly back to those painful feelings of which he had not thought lately, but which still found place in his soul. Of late he had received so many new and very serious impressions”such as the retreat from SmolÃ©nsk, his visit to Bald Hills, and the recent news of his father™s death”and had experienced so many emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered his mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their former strength. For DenÃsov, too, the memories awakened by the name of BolkÃ³nski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and after NatÃ¡sha™s singing he had proposed to a little girl of fifteen without realizing what he was doing. He smiled at the recollection of that time and of his love for NatÃ¡sha, and passed at once to what now interested him passionately and exclusively. This was a plan of campaign he had devised while serving at the outposts during the retreat. He had proposed that plan to Barclay de Tolly and now wished to propose it to KutÃºzov. The plan was based on the fact that the French line of operation was too extended, and it proposed that instead of, or concurrently with, action on the front to bar the advance of the French, we should attack their line of communication. He began explaining his plan to Prince Andrew. They can™t hold all that line. It™s impossible. I will undertake to bweak thwough. Give me five hundwed men and I will bweak the line, that™s certain! There™s only one way”guewilla warfare! DenÃsov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to BolkÃ³nski. In the midst of his explanation shouts were heard from the army, growing more incoherent and more diffused, mingling with music and songs and coming from the field where the review was held. Sounds of hoofs and shouts were nearing the village. He™s coming! He™s coming! shouted a Cossack standing at the gate. BolkÃ³nski and DenÃsov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers (a guard of honor) was standing, and they saw KutÃºzov coming down the street mounted on a rather small sorrel horse. A huge suite of generals rode behind him. Barclay was riding almost beside him, and a crowd of officers ran after and around them shouting, Hurrah! His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. KutÃºzov was impatiently urging on his horse, which ambled smoothly under his weight, and he raised his hand to his white Horse Guard™s cap with a red band and no peak, nodding his head continually. When he came up to the guard of honor, a fine set of Grenadiers mostly wearing decorations, who were giving him the salute, he looked at them silently and attentively for nearly a minute with the steady gaze of a commander and then turned to the crowd of generals and officers surrounding him. Suddenly his face assumed a subtle expression, he shrugged his shoulders with an air of perplexity. And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, good-by, General, he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andrew and DenÃsov. Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! shouted those behind him. Since Prince Andrew had last seen him KutÃºzov had grown still more corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing the white Horse Guard™s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on his brisk little horse. Whew... whew... whew! he whistled just audibly as he rode into the yard. His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who means to rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee, groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants who stood ready to assist him. He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced at Prince Andrew, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his waddling gait to the porch. Whew... whew... whew! he whistled, and again glanced at Prince Andrew. As often occurs with old men, it was only after some seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andrew™s face linked itself up with KutÃºzov™s remembrance of his personality. Ah, how do you do, my dear prince? How do you do, my dear boy? Come along... said he, glancing wearily round, and he stepped onto the porch which creaked under his weight. He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch. And how™s your father? I received news of his death, yesterday, replied Prince Andrew abruptly. KutÃºzov looked at him with eyes wide open with dismay and then took off his cap and crossed himself: May the kingdom of Heaven be his! God™s will be done to us all! He sighed deeply, his whole chest heaving, and was silent for a while. I loved him and respected him, and sympathize with you with all my heart. He embraced Prince Andrew, pressing him to his fat breast, and for some time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrew saw that KutÃºzov™s flabby lips were trembling and that tears were in his eyes. He sighed and pressed on the bench with both hands to raise himself. Come! Come with me, we™ll have a talk, said he. But at that moment DenÃsov, no more intimidated by his superiors than by the enemy, came with jingling spurs up the steps of the porch, despite the angry whispers of the adjutants who tried to stop him. KutÃºzov, his hands still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. DenÃsov, having given his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene Highness a matter of great importance for their country™s welfare. KutÃºzov looked wearily at him and, lifting his hands with a gesture of annoyance, folded them across his stomach, repeating the words: For our country™s welfare? Well, what is it? Speak! DenÃsov blushed like a girl (it was strange to see the color rise in that shaggy, bibulous, time-worn face) and boldly began to expound his plan of cutting the enemy™s lines of communication between SmolÃ©nsk and VyÃ¡zma. DenÃsov came from those parts and knew the country well. His plan seemed decidedly a good one, especially from the strength of conviction with which he spoke. KutÃºzov looked down at his own legs, occasionally glancing at the door of the adjoining hut as if expecting something unpleasant to emerge from it. And from that hut, while DenÃsov was speaking, a general with a portfolio under his arm really did appear. What? said KutÃºzov, in the midst of DenÃsov™s explanations, are you ready so soon? Ready, your Serene Highness, replied the general. KutÃºzov swayed his head, as much as to say: How is one man to deal with it all? and again listened to DenÃsov. I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer, said DenÃsov, that I can bweak Napoleon™s line of communication! What relation are you to Intendant General KirÃl AndrÃ©evich DenÃsov? asked KutÃºzov, interrupting him. He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness. Ah, we were friends, said KutÃºzov cheerfully. All right, all right, friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we™ll have a talk. With a nod to DenÃsov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers KonovnÃtsyn had brought him. Would not your Serene Highness like to come inside? said the general on duty in a discontented voice, the plans must be examined and several papers have to be signed. An adjutant came out and announced that everything was in readiness within. But KutÃºzov evidently did not wish to enter that room till he was disengaged. He made a grimace.... No, tell them to bring a small table out here, my dear boy. I™ll look at them here, said he. Don™t go away, he added, turning to Prince Andrew, who remained in the porch and listened to the general™s report. While this was being given, Prince Andrew heard the whisper of a woman™s voice and the rustle of a silk dress behind the door. Several times on glancing that way he noticed behind that door a plump, rosy, handsome woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head, holding a dish and evidently awaiting the entrance of the commander in chief. KutÃºzov™s adjutant whispered to Prince Andrew that this was the wife of the priest whose home it was, and that she intended to offer his Serene Highness bread and salt. Her husband has welcomed his Serene Highness with the cross at the church, and she intends to welcome him in the house.... She™s very pretty, added the adjutant with a smile. At those words KutÃºzov looked round. He was listening to the general™s report”which consisted chiefly of a criticism of the position at TsÃ¡revo-ZaymÃshche”as he had listened to DenÃsov, and seven years previously had listened to the discussion at the Austerlitz council of war. He evidently listened only because he had ears which, though there was a piece of tow in one of them, could not help hearing; but it was evident that nothing the general could say would surprise or even interest him, that he knew all that would be said beforehand, and heard it all only because he had to, as one has to listen to the chanting of a service of prayer. All that DenÃsov had said was clever and to the point. What the general was saying was even more clever and to the point, but it was evident that KutÃºzov despised knowledge and cleverness, and knew of something else that would decide the matter”something independent of cleverness and knowledge. Prince Andrew watched the commander in chief™s face attentively, and the only expression he could see there was one of boredom, curiosity as to the meaning of the feminine whispering behind the door, and a desire to observe propriety. It was evident that KutÃºzov despised cleverness and learning and even the patriotic feeling shown by DenÃsov, but despised them not because of his own intellect, feelings, or knowledge”he did not try to display any of these”but because of something else. He despised them because of his old age and experience of life. The only instruction KutÃºzov gave of his own accord during that report referred to looting by the Russian troops. At the end of the report the general put before him for signature a paper relating to the recovery of payment from army commanders for green oats mown down by the soldiers, when landowners lodged petitions for compensation. After hearing the matter, KutÃºzov smacked his lips together and shook his head. Into the stove... into the fire with it! I tell you once for all, my dear fellow, said he, into the fire with all such things! Let them cut the crops and burn wood to their hearts™ content. I don™t order it or allow it, but I don™t exact compensation either. One can™t get on without it. ˜When wood is chopped the chips will fly.™ He looked at the paper again. Oh, this German precision! he muttered, shaking his head. CHAPTER XVI Well, that™s all! said KutÃºzov as he signed the last of the documents, and rising heavily and smoothing out the folds in his fat white neck he moved toward the door with a more cheerful expression. The priest™s wife, flushing rosy red, caught up the dish she had after all not managed to present at the right moment, though she had so long been preparing for it, and with a low bow offered it to KutÃºzov. He screwed up his eyes, smiled, lifted her chin with his hand, and said: Ah, what a beauty! Thank you, sweetheart! He took some gold pieces from his trouser pocket and put them on the dish for her. Well, my dear, and how are we getting on? he asked, moving to the door of the room assigned to him. The priest™s wife smiled, and with dimples in her rosy cheeks followed him into the room. The adjutant came out to the porch and asked Prince Andrew to lunch with him. Half an hour later Prince Andrew was again called to KutÃºzov. He found him reclining in an armchair, still in the same unbuttoned overcoat. He had in his hand a French book which he closed as Prince Andrew entered, marking the place with a knife. Prince Andrew saw by the cover that it was Les Chevaliers du Cygne by Madame de Genlis. Well, sit down, sit down here. Let™s have a talk, said KutÃºzov. It™s sad, very sad. But remember, my dear fellow, that I am a father to you, a second father.... Prince Andrew told KutÃºzov all he knew of his father™s death, and what he had seen at Bald Hills when he passed through it. What... what they have brought us to! KutÃºzov suddenly cried in an agitated voice, evidently picturing vividly to himself from Prince Andrew™s story the condition Russia was in. But give me time, give me time! he said with a grim look, evidently not wishing to continue this agitating conversation, and added: I sent for you to keep you with me. I thank your Serene Highness, but I fear I am no longer fit for the staff, replied Prince Andrew with a smile which KutÃºzov noticed. KutÃºzov glanced inquiringly at him. But above all, added Prince Andrew, I have grown used to my regiment, am fond of the officers, and I fancy the men also like me. I should be sorry to leave the regiment. If I decline the honor of being with you, believe me... A shrewd, kindly, yet subtly derisive expression lit up KutÃºzov™s podgy face. He cut BolkÃ³nski short. I am sorry, for I need you. But you™re right, you™re right! It™s not here that men are needed. Advisers are always plentiful, but men are not. The regiments would not be what they are if the would-be advisers served there as you do. I remember you at Austerlitz.... I remember, yes, I remember you with the standard! said KutÃºzov, and a flush of pleasure suffused Prince Andrew™s face at this recollection. Taking his hand and drawing him downwards, KutÃºzov offered his cheek to be kissed, and again Prince Andrew noticed tears in the old man™s eyes. Though Prince Andrew knew that KutÃºzov™s tears came easily, and that he was particularly tender to and considerate of him from a wish to show sympathy with his loss, yet this reminder of Austerlitz was both pleasant and flattering to him. Go your way and God be with you. I know your path is the path of honor! He paused. I missed you at Bucharest, but I needed someone to send. And changing the subject, KutÃºzov began to speak of the Turkish war and the peace that had been concluded. Yes, I have been much blamed, he said, both for that war and the peace... but everything came at the right time. Tout vient Ã point Ã celui qui sait attendre. * And there were as many advisers there as here... he went on, returning to the subject of advisers which evidently occupied him. Ah, those advisers! said he. If we had listened to them all we should not have made peace with Turkey and should not have been through with that war. Everything in haste, but more haste, less speed. KÃ¡menski would have been lost if he had not died. He stormed fortresses with thirty thousand men. It is not difficult to capture a fortress but it is difficult to win a campaign. For that, not storming and attacking but patience and time are wanted. KÃ¡menski sent soldiers to Rustchuk, but I only employed these two things and took more fortresses than KÃ¡menski and made them Turks eat horseflesh! He swayed his head. And the French shall too, believe me, he went on, growing warmer and beating his chest, I™ll make them eat horseflesh! And tears again dimmed his eyes. * Everything comes in time to him who knows how to wait. But shan™t we have to accept battle? remarked Prince Andrew. We shall if everybody wants it; it can™t be helped.... But believe me, my dear boy, there is nothing stronger than those two: patience and time, they will do it all. But the advisers n™entendent pas de cette oreille, voilÃ le mal. * Some want a thing”others don™t. What™s one to do? he asked, evidently expecting an answer. Well, what do you want us to do? he repeated and his eye shone with a deep, shrewd look. I™ll tell you what to do, he continued, as Prince Andrew still did not reply: I will tell you what to do, and what I do. Dans le doute, mon cher, he paused, abstiens-toi *(2)”he articulated the French proverb deliberately. * Don™t see it that way, that™s the trouble. * (2) When in doubt, my dear fellow, do nothing. Well, good-by, my dear fellow; remember that with all my heart I share your sorrow, and that for you I am not a Serene Highness, nor a prince, nor a commander in chief, but a father! If you want anything come straight to me. Good-by, my dear boy. Again he embraced and kissed Prince Andrew, but before the latter had left the room KutÃºzov gave a sigh of relief and went on with his unfinished novel, Les Chevaliers du Cygne by Madame de Genlis. Prince Andrew could not have explained how or why it was, but after that interview with KutÃºzov he went back to his regiment reassured as to the general course of affairs and as to the man to whom it had been entrusted. The more he realized the absence of all personal motive in that old man”in whom there seemed to remain only the habit of passions, and in place of an intellect (grouping events and drawing conclusions) only the capacity calmly to contemplate the course of events”the more reassured he was that everything would be as it should. He will not bring in any plan of his own. He will not devise or undertake anything, thought Prince Andrew, but he will hear everything, remember everything, and put everything in its place. He will not hinder anything useful nor allow anything harmful. He understands that there is something stronger and more important than his own will”the inevitable course of events, and he can see them and grasp their significance, and seeing that significance can refrain from meddling and renounce his personal wish directed to something else. And above all, thought Prince Andrew, one believes in him because he™s Russian, despite the novel by Genlis and the French proverbs, and because his voice shook when he said: ˜What they have brought us to!™ and had a sob in it when he said he would ˜make them eat horseflesh!™ On such feelings, more or less dimly shared by all, the unanimity and general approval were founded with which, despite court influences, the popular choice of KutÃºzov as commander in chief was received. CHAPTER XVII After the Emperor had left Moscow, life flowed on there in its usual course, and its course was so very usual that it was difficult to remember the recent days of patriotic elation and ardor, hard to believe that Russia was really in danger and that the members of the English Club were also sons of the Fatherland ready to sacrifice everything for it. The one thing that recalled the patriotic fervor everyone had displayed during the Emperor™s stay was the call for contributions of men and money, a necessity that as soon as the promises had been made assumed a legal, official form and became unavoidable. With the enemy™s approach to Moscow, the Moscovites™ view of their situation did not grow more serious but on the contrary became even more frivolous, as always happens with people who see a great danger approaching. At the approach of danger there are always two voices that speak with equal power in the human soul: one very reasonably tells a man to consider the nature of the danger and the means of escaping it; the other, still more reasonably, says that it is too depressing and painful to think of the danger, since it is not in man™s power to foresee everything and avert the general course of events, and it is therefore better to disregard what is painful till it comes, and to think about what is pleasant. In solitude a man generally listens to the first voice, but in society to the second. So it was now with the inhabitants of Moscow. It was long since people had been as gay in Moscow as that year. RostopchÃn™s broadsheets, headed by woodcuts of a drink shop, a potman, and a Moscow burgher called KarpÃºshka ChigÃrin, who”having been a militiaman and having had rather too much at the pub”heard that Napoleon wished to come to Moscow, grew angry, abused the French in very bad language, came out of the drink shop, and, under the sign of the eagle, began to address the assembled people, were read and discussed, together with the latest of VasÃli LvÃ³vich PÃºshkin™s bouts rimÃ©s. In the corner room at the Club, members gathered to read these broadsheets, and some liked the way KarpÃºshka jeered at the French, saying: They will swell up with Russian cabbage, burst with our buckwheat porridge, and choke themselves with cabbage soup. They are all dwarfs and one peasant woman will toss three of them with a hayfork. Others did not like that tone and said it was stupid and vulgar. It was said that RostopchÃn had expelled all Frenchmen and even all foreigners from Moscow, and that there had been some spies and agents of Napoleon among them; but this was told chiefly to introduce RostopchÃn™s witty remark on that occasion. The foreigners were deported to NÃzhni by boat, and RostopchÃn had said to them in French: Rentrez en vous-mÃªmes; entrez dans la barque, et n™en faites pas une barque de Charon. * There was talk of all the government offices having been already removed from Moscow, and to this ShinshÃn™s witticism was added”that for that alone Moscow ought to be grateful to Napoleon. It was said that MamÃ³nov™s regiment would cost him eight hundred thousand rubles, and that BezÃºkhov had spent even more on his, but that the best thing about BezÃºkhov™s action was that he himself was going to don a uniform and ride at the head of his regiment without charging anything for the show. * Think it over; get into the barque, and take care not to make it a barque of Charon. You don™t spare anyone, said Julie DrubetskÃ¡ya as she collected and pressed together a bunch of raveled lint with her thin, beringed fingers. Julie was preparing to leave Moscow next day and was giving a farewell soiree. BezÃºkhov est ridicule, but he is so kind and good-natured. What pleasure is there to be so caustique? A forfeit! cried a young man in militia uniform whom Julie called mon chevalier, and who was going with her to NÃzhni. In Julie™s set, as in many other circles in Moscow, it had been agreed that they would speak nothing but Russian and that those who made a slip and spoke French should pay fines to the Committee of Voluntary Contributions. Another forfeit for a Gallicism, said a Russian writer who was present. ˜What pleasure is there to be™ is not Russian! You spare no one, continued Julie to the young man without heeding the author™s remark. For caustique”I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again for the pleasure of telling you the truth. For Gallicisms I won™t be responsible, she remarked, turning to the author: I have neither the money nor the time, like Prince GalÃtsyn, to engage a master to teach me Russian! Ah, here he is! she added. Quand on... No, no, she said to the militia officer, you won™t catch me. Speak of the sun and you see its rays! and she smiled amiably at Pierre. We were just talking of you, she said with the facility in lying natural to a society woman. We were saying that your regiment would be sure to be better than MamÃ³nov™s. Oh, don™t talk to me of my regiment, replied Pierre, kissing his hostess™ hand and taking a seat beside her. I am so sick of it. You will, of course, command it yourself? said Julie, directing a sly, sarcastic glance toward the militia officer. The latter in Pierre™s presence had ceased to be caustic, and his face expressed perplexity as to what Julie™s smile might mean. In spite of his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre™s personality immediately checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face. No, said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. I should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I should hardly be able to climb onto a horse. Among those whom Julie™s guests happened to choose to gossip about were the RostÃ³vs. I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way, said Julie. And he is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The RazumÃ³vskis wanted to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He asks too much. No, I think the sale will come off in a few days, said someone. Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now. Why? asked Julie. You don™t think Moscow is in danger? Then why are you leaving? I? What a question! I am going because... well, because everyone is going: and besides”I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon. Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen. If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his debts, said the militia officer, speaking of RostÃ³v. A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite well again now, isn™t she? Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile. They are waiting for their younger son, Pierre replied. He joined ObolÃ©nski™s Cossacks and went to BÃ©laya TsÃ©rkov where the regiment is being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the countess won™t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns. I met them the day before yesterday at the ArkhÃ¡rovs™. Natalie has recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some people get over everything! Get over what? inquired Pierre, looking displeased. Julie smiled. You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de Souza™s novels. What knights? What do you mean? demanded Pierre, blushing. Oh, come, my dear count! C™est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire, ma parole d™honneur! * * It is the talk of all Moscow. My word, I admire you! Forfeit, forfeit! cried the militia officer. All right, one can™t talk”how tiresome! What is ˜the talk of all Moscow™? Pierre asked angrily, rising to his feet. Come now, Count, you know! I don™t know anything about it, said Pierre. I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so... but I was always more friendly with VÃ©ra”that dear VÃ©ra. No, madame! Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, I have not taken on myself the role of Natalie RostÃ³va™s knight at all, and have not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the cruelty... Qui s™excuse s™accuse, * said Julie, smiling and waving the lint triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the subject. Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary BolkÃ³nskaya arrived in Moscow yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father? * Who excuses himself, accuses himself. Really? Where is she? I should like very much to see her, said Pierre. I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going to their estate near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew. Well, and how is she? asked Pierre. She is well, but sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a romance. Nicholas RostÃ³v! She was surrounded, and they wanted to kill her and had wounded some of her people. He rushed in and saved her.... Another romance, said the militia officer. Really, this general flight has been arranged to get all the old maids married off. Catiche is one and Princess BolkÃ³nskaya another. Do you know, I really believe she is un petit peu amoureuse du jeune homme. * * A little bit in love with the young man. Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit! But how could one say that in Russian? CHAPTER XVIII When Pierre returned home he was handed two of RostopchÃn™s broadsheets that had been brought that day. The first declared that the report that Count RostopchÃn had forbidden people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that ladies and tradesmen™s wives were leaving the city. There will be less panic and less gossip, ran the broadsheet but I will stake my life on it that that scoundrel will not enter Moscow. These words showed Pierre clearly for the first time that the French would enter Moscow. The second broadsheet stated that our headquarters were at VyÃ¡zma, that Count Wittgenstein had defeated the French, but that as many of the inhabitants of Moscow wished to be armed, weapons were ready for them at the arsenal: sabers, pistols, and muskets which could be had at a low price. The tone of the proclamation was not as jocose as in the former ChigÃrin talks. Pierre pondered over these broadsheets. Evidently the terrible stormcloud he had desired with the whole strength of his soul but which yet aroused involuntary horror in him was drawing near. Shall I join the army and enter the service, or wait? he asked himself for the hundredth time. He took a pack of cards that lay on the table and began to lay them out for a game of patience. If this patience comes out, he said to himself after shuffling the cards, holding them in his hand, and lifting his head, if it comes out, it means... what does it mean? He had not decided what it should mean when he heard the voice of the eldest princess at the door asking whether she might come in. Then it will mean that I must go to the army, said Pierre to himself. Come in, come in! he added to the princess. Only the eldest princess, the one with the stony face and long waist, was still living in Pierre™s house. The two younger ones had both married. Excuse my coming to you, cousin, she said in a reproachful and agitated voice. You know some decision must be come to. What is going to happen? Everyone has left Moscow and the people are rioting. How is it that we are staying on? On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ma cousine, said Pierre in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor. Satisfactory, indeed! Very satisfactory! Barbara IvÃ¡novna told me today how our troops are distinguishing themselves. It certainly does them credit! And the people too are quite mutinous”they no longer obey, even my maid has taken to being rude. At this rate they will soon begin beating us. One can™t walk in the streets. But, above all, the French will be here any day now, so what are we waiting for? I ask just one thing of you, cousin, she went on, arrange for me to be taken to Petersburg. Whatever I may be, I can™t live under Bonaparte™s rule. Oh, come, ma cousine! Where do you get your information from? On the contrary... I won™t submit to your Napoleon! Others may if they please.... If you don™t want to do this... But I will, I™ll give the order at once. The princess was apparently vexed at not having anyone to be angry with. Muttering to herself, she sat down on a chair. But you have been misinformed, said Pierre. Everything is quiet in the city and there is not the slightest danger. See! I™ve just been reading... He showed her the broadsheet. Count RostopchÃn writes that he will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow. Oh, that count of yours! said the princess malevolently. He is a hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot. Didn™t he write in those idiotic broadsheets that anyone, ˜whoever it might be, should be dragged to the lockup by his hair™? (How silly!) ˜And honor and glory to whoever captures him,™ he says. This is what his cajolery has brought us to! Barbara IvÃ¡novna told me the mob near killed her because she said something in French. Oh, but it™s so... You take everything so to heart, said Pierre, and began laying out his cards for patience. Although that patience did come out, Pierre did not join the army, but remained in deserted Moscow ever in the same state of agitation, irresolution, and alarm, yet at the same time joyfully expecting something terrible. Next day toward evening the princess set off, and Pierre™s head steward came to inform him that the money needed for the equipment of his regiment could not be found without selling one of the estates. In general the head steward made out to Pierre that his project of raising a regiment would ruin him. Pierre listened to him, scarcely able to repress a smile. Well then, sell it, said he. What™s to be done? I can™t draw back now! The worse everything became, especially his own affairs, the better was Pierre pleased and the more evident was it that the catastrophe he expected was approaching. Hardly anyone he knew was left in town. Julie had gone, and so had Princess Mary. Of his intimate friends only the RostÃ³vs remained, but he did not go to see them. To distract his thoughts he drove that day to the village of VorontsÃ³vo to see the great balloon Leppich was constructing to destroy the foe, and a trial balloon that was to go up next day. The balloon was not yet ready, but Pierre learned that it was being constructed by the Emperor™s desire. The Emperor had written to Count RostopchÃn as follows: As soon as Leppich is ready, get together a crew of reliable and intelligent men for his car and send a courier to General KutÃºzov to let him know. I have informed him of the matter. Please impress upon Leppich to be very careful where he descends for the first time, that he may not make a mistake and fall into the enemy™s hands. It is essential for him to combine his movements with those of the commander in chief. On his way home from VorontsÃ³vo, as he was passing the BolÃ³tnoe Place Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the LÃ³bnoe Place, stopped and got out of his trap. A French cook accused of being a spy was being flogged. The flogging was only just over, and the executioner was releasing from the flogging bench a stout man with red whiskers, in blue stockings and a green jacket, who was moaning piteously. Another criminal, thin and pale, stood near. Judging by their faces they were both Frenchmen. With a frightened and suffering look resembling that on the thin Frenchman™s face, Pierre pushed his way in through the crowd. What is it? Who is it? What is it for? he kept asking. But the attention of the crowd”officials, burghers, shopkeepers, peasants, and women in cloaks and in pelisses”was so eagerly centered on what was passing in LÃ³bnoe Place that no one answered him. The stout man rose, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and evidently trying to appear firm began to pull on his jacket without looking about him, but suddenly his lips trembled and he began to cry, in the way full-blooded grown-up men cry, though angry with himself for doing so. In the crowd people began talking loudly, to stifle their feelings of pity as it seemed to Pierre. He™s cook to some prince. Eh, mounseer, Russian sauce seems to be sour to a Frenchman... sets his teeth on edge! said a wrinkled clerk who was standing behind Pierre, when the Frenchman began to cry. The clerk glanced round, evidently hoping that his joke would be appreciated. Some people began to laugh, others continued to watch in dismay the executioner who was undressing the other man. Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, went back to his trap muttering something to himself as he went, and took his seat. As they drove along he shuddered and exclaimed several times so audibly that the coachman asked him: What is your pleasure? Where are you going? shouted Pierre to the man, who was driving to LubyÃ¡nka Street. To the Governor™s, as you ordered, answered the coachman. Fool! Idiot! shouted Pierre, abusing his coachman”a thing he rarely did. Home, I told you! And drive faster, blockhead! I must get away this very day, he murmured to himself. At the sight of the tortured Frenchman and the crowd surrounding the LÃ³bnoe Place, Pierre had so definitely made up his mind that he could no longer remain in Moscow and would leave for the army that very day that it seemed to him that either he had told the coachman this or that the man ought to have known it for himself. On reaching home Pierre gave orders to EvstÃ¡fey”his head coachman who knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow”that he would leave that night for the army at MozhÃ¡ysk, and that his saddle horses should be sent there. This could not all be arranged that day, so on EvstÃ¡fey™s representation Pierre had to put off his departure till next day to allow time for the relay horses to be sent on in advance. On the twenty-fourth the weather cleared up after a spell of rain, and after dinner Pierre left Moscow. When changing horses that night in PerkhÃºshkovo, he learned that there had been a great battle that evening. (This was the battle of ShevÃ¡rdino.) He was told that there in PerkhÃºshkovo the earth trembled from the firing, but nobody could answer his questions as to who had won. At dawn next day Pierre was approaching MozhÃ¡ysk. Every house in MozhÃ¡ysk had soldiers quartered in it, and at the hostel where Pierre was met by his groom and coachman there was no room to be had. It was full of officers. Everywhere in MozhÃ¡ysk and beyond it, troops were stationed or on the march. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, caissons, and cannon were everywhere. Pierre pushed forward as fast as he could, and the farther he left Moscow behind and the deeper he plunged into that sea of troops the more was he overcome by restless agitation and a new and joyful feeling he had not experienced before. It was a feeling akin to what he had felt at the SlobÃ³da Palace during the Emperor™s visit”a sense of the necessity of undertaking something and sacrificing something. He now experienced a glad consciousness that everything that constitutes men™s happiness”the comforts of life, wealth, even life itself”is rubbish it is pleasant to throw away, compared with something... With what? Pierre could not say, and he did not try to determine for whom and for what he felt such particular delight in sacrificing everything. He was not occupied with the question of what to sacrifice for; the fact of sacrificing in itself afforded him a new and joyous sensation. CHAPTER XIX On the twenty-fourth of August the battle of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt was fought, on the twenty-fifth not a shot was fired by either side, and on the twenty-sixth the battle of BorodinÃ³ itself took place. Why and how were the battles of ShevÃ¡rdino and BorodinÃ³ given and accepted? Why was the battle of BorodinÃ³ fought? There was not the least sense in it for either the French or the Russians. Its immediate result for the Russians was, and was bound to be, that we were brought nearer to the destruction of Moscow”which we feared more than anything in the world; and for the French its immediate result was that they were brought nearer to the destruction of their whole army”which they feared more than anything in the world. What the result must be was quite obvious, and yet Napoleon offered and KutÃºzov accepted that battle. If the commanders had been guided by reason, it would seem that it must have been obvious to Napoleon that by advancing thirteen hundred miles and giving battle with a probability of losing a quarter of his army, he was advancing to certain destruction, and it must have been equally clear to KutÃºzov that by accepting battle and risking the loss of a quarter of his army he would certainly lose Moscow. For KutÃºzov this was mathematically clear, as it is that if when playing draughts I have one man less and go on exchanging, I shall certainly lose, and therefore should not exchange. When my opponent has sixteen men and I have fourteen, I am only one eighth weaker than he, but when I have exchanged thirteen more men he will be three times as strong as I am. Before the battle of BorodinÃ³ our strength in proportion to the French was about as five to six, but after that battle it was little more than one to two: previously we had a hundred thousand against a hundred and twenty thousand; afterwards little more than fifty thousand against a hundred thousand. Yet the shrewd and experienced KutÃºzov accepted the battle, while Napoleon, who was said to be a commander of genius, gave it, losing a quarter of his army and lengthening his lines of communication still more. If it is said that he expected to end the campaign by occupying Moscow as he had ended a previous campaign by occupying Vienna, there is much evidence to the contrary. Napoleon™s historians themselves tell us that from SmolÃ©nsk onwards he wished to stop, knew the danger of his extended position, and knew that the occupation of Moscow would not be the end of the campaign, for he had seen at SmolÃ©nsk the state in which Russian towns were left to him, and had not received a single reply to his repeated announcements of his wish to negotiate. In giving and accepting battle at BorodinÃ³, KutÃºzov acted involuntarily and irrationally. But later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the generals who, of all the blind tools of history were the most enslaved and involuntary. The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are meaningless. On the other question, how the battle of BorodinÃ³ and the preceding battle of ShevÃ¡rdino were fought, there also exists a definite and well-known, but quite false, conception. All the historians describe the affair as follows: The Russian army, they say, in its retreat from SmolÃ©nsk sought out for itself the best position for a general engagement and found such a position at BorodinÃ³. The Russians, they say, fortified this position in advance on the left of the highroad (from Moscow to SmolÃ©nsk) and almost at a right angle to it, from BorodinÃ³ to UtÃtsa, at the very place where the battle was fought. In front of this position, they say, a fortified outpost was set up on the ShevÃ¡rdino mound to observe the enemy. On the twenty-fourth, we are told, Napoleon attacked this advanced post and took it, and, on the twenty-sixth, attacked the whole Russian army, which was in position on the field of BorodinÃ³. So the histories say, and it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to look into the matter can easily convince himself. The Russians did not seek out the best position but, on the contrary, during the retreat passed many positions better than BorodinÃ³. They did not stop at any one of these positions because KutÃºzov did not wish to occupy a position he had not himself chosen, because the popular demand for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and because MilorÃ¡dovich had not yet arrived with the militia, and for many other reasons. The fact is that other positions they had passed were stronger, and that the position at BorodinÃ³ (the one where the battle was fought), far from being strong, was no more a position than any other spot one might find in the Russian Empire by sticking a pin into the map at hazard. Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of BorodinÃ³ to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that is, the position on which the battle took place), but never till the twenty-fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be fought there. This was shown first by the fact that there were no entrenchments there by the twenty fifth and that those begun on the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth were not completed, and secondly, by the position of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt. That redoubt was quite senseless in front of the position where the battle was accepted. Why was it more strongly fortified than any other post? And why were all efforts exhausted and six thousand men sacrificed to defend it till late at night on the twenty-fourth? A Cossack patrol would have sufficed to observe the enemy. Thirdly, as proof that the position on which the battle was fought had not been foreseen and that the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt was not an advanced post of that position, we have the fact that up to the twenty-fifth, Barclay de Tolly and BagratiÃ³n were convinced that the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt was the left flank of the position, and that KutÃºzov himself in his report, written in hot haste after the battle, speaks of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt as the left flank of the position. It was much later, when reports on the battle of BorodinÃ³ were written at leisure, that the incorrect and extraordinary statement was invented (probably to justify the mistakes of a commander in chief who had to be represented as infallible) that the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt was an advanced post”whereas in reality it was simply a fortified point on the left flank”and that the battle of BorodinÃ³ was fought by us on an entrenched position previously selected, whereas it was fought on a quite unexpected spot which was almost unentrenched. The case was evidently this: a position was selected along the river KolochÃ¡”which crosses the highroad not at a right angle but at an acute angle”so that the left flank was at ShevÃ¡rdino, the right flank near the village of NÃ³voe, and the center at BorodinÃ³ at the confluence of the rivers KolochÃ¡ and VÃ³yna. To anyone who looks at the field of BorodinÃ³ without thinking of how the battle was actually fought, this position, protected by the river KolochÃ¡, presents itself as obvious for an army whose object was to prevent an enemy from advancing along the SmolÃ©nsk road to Moscow. Napoleon, riding to ValÃºevo on the twenty-fourth, did not see (as the history books say he did) the position of the Russians from UtÃtsa to BorodinÃ³ (he could not have seen that position because it did not exist), nor did he see an advanced post of the Russian army, but while pursuing the Russian rearguard he came upon the left flank of the Russian position”at the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt”and unexpectedly for the Russians moved his army across the KolochÃ¡. And the Russians, not having time to begin a general engagement, withdrew their left wing from the position they had intended to occupy and took up a new position which had not been foreseen and was not fortified. By crossing to the other side of the KolochÃ¡ to the left of the highroad, Napoleon shifted the whole forthcoming battle from right to left (looking from the Russian side) and transferred it to the plain between UtÃtsa, SemÃ«novsk, and BorodinÃ³”a plain no more advantageous as a position than any other plain in Russia”and there the whole battle of the twenty-sixth of August took place. Had Napoleon not ridden out on the evening of the twenty-fourth to the KolochÃ¡, and had he not then ordered an immediate attack on the redoubt but had begun the attack next morning, no one would have doubted that the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt was the left flank of our position, and the battle would have taken place where we expected it. In that case we should probably have defended the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt”our left flank”still more obstinately. We should have attacked Napoleon in the center or on the right, and the engagement would have taken place on the twenty-fifth, in the position we intended and had fortified. But as the attack on our left flank took place in the evening after the retreat of our rear guard (that is, immediately after the fight at GridnÃ«va), and as the Russian commanders did not wish, or were not in time, to begin a general engagement then on the evening of the twenty-fourth, the first and chief action of the battle of BorodinÃ³ was already lost on the twenty-fourth, and obviously led to the loss of the one fought on the twenty-sixth. After the loss of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt, we found ourselves on the morning of the twenty-fifth without a position for our left flank, and were forced to bend it back and hastily entrench it where it chanced to be. Not only was the Russian army on the twenty-sixth defended by weak, unfinished entrenchments, but the disadvantage of that position was increased by the fact that the Russian commanders”not having fully realized what had happened, namely the loss of our position on the left flank and the shifting of the whole field of the forthcoming battle from right to left”maintained their extended position from the village of NÃ³voe to UtÃtsa, and consequently had to move their forces from right to left during the battle. So it happened that throughout the whole battle the Russians opposed the entire French army launched against our left flank with but half as many men. (Poniatowski™s action against UtÃtsa, and UvÃ¡rov™s on the right flank against the French, were actions distinct from the main course of the battle.) So the battle of BorodinÃ³ did not take place at all as (in an effort to conceal our commanders™ mistakes even at the cost of diminishing the glory due to the Russian army and people) it has been described. The battle of BorodinÃ³ was not fought on a chosen and entrenched position with forces only slightly weaker than those of the enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt, the Russians fought the battle of BorodinÃ³ on an open and almost unentrenched position, with forces only half as numerous as the French; that is to say, under conditions in which it was not merely unthinkable to fight for ten hours and secure an indecisive result, but unthinkable to keep an army even from complete disintegration and flight. CHAPTER XX On the morning of the twenty-fifth Pierre was leaving MozhÃ¡ysk. At the descent of the high steep hill, down which a winding road led out of the town past the cathedral on the right, where a service was being held and the bells were ringing, Pierre got out of his vehicle and proceeded on foot. Behind him a cavalry regiment was coming down the hill preceded by its singers. Coming up toward him was a train of carts carrying men who had been wounded in the engagement the day before. The peasant drivers, shouting and lashing their horses, kept crossing from side to side. The carts, in each of which three or four wounded soldiers were lying or sitting, jolted over the stones that had been thrown on the steep incline to make it something like a road. The wounded, bandaged with rags, with pale cheeks, compressed lips, and knitted brows, held on to the sides of the carts as they were jolted against one another. Almost all of them stared with naÃ¯ve, childlike curiosity at Pierre™s white hat and green swallow-tail coat. Pierre™s coachman shouted angrily at the convoy of wounded to keep to one side of the road. The cavalry regiment, as it descended the hill with its singers, surrounded Pierre™s carriage and blocked the road. Pierre stopped, being pressed against the side of the cutting in which the road ran. The sunshine from behind the hill did not penetrate into the cutting and there it was cold and damp, but above Pierre™s head was the bright August sunshine and the bells sounded merrily. One of the carts with wounded stopped by the side of the road close to Pierre. The driver in his bast shoes ran panting up to it, placed a stone under one of its tireless hind wheels, and began arranging the breech-band on his little horse. One of the wounded, an old soldier with a bandaged arm who was following the cart on foot, caught hold of it with his sound hand and turned to look at Pierre. I say, fellow countryman! Will they set us down here or take us on to Moscow? he asked. Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question. He was looking now at the cavalry regiment that had met the convoy of wounded, now at the cart by which he was standing, in which two wounded men were sitting and one was lying. One of those sitting up in the cart had probably been wounded in the cheek. His whole head was wrapped in rags and one cheek was swollen to the size of a baby™s head. His nose and mouth were twisted to one side. This soldier was looking at the cathedral and crossing himself. Another, a young lad, a fair-haired recruit as white as though there was no blood in his thin face, looked at Pierre kindly, with a fixed smile. The third lay prone so that his face was not visible. The cavalry singers were passing close by: Ah lost, quite lost... is my head so keen, Living in a foreign land... they sang their soldiers™ dance song. As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad. The soldier with the swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalry singers. Oh, the coxcombs! he muttered reproachfully. It™s not the soldiers only, but I™ve seen peasants today, too.... The peasants”even they have to go, said the soldier behind the cart, addressing Pierre with a sad smile. No distinctions made nowadays.... They want the whole nation to fall on them”in a word, it™s Moscow! They want to make an end of it. In spite of the obscurity of the soldier™s words Pierre understood what he wanted to say and nodded approval. The road was clear again; Pierre descended the hill and drove on. He kept looking to either side of the road for familiar faces, but only saw everywhere the unfamiliar faces of various military men of different branches of the service, who all looked with astonishment at his white hat and green tail coat. Having gone nearly three miles he at last met an acquaintance and eagerly addressed him. This was one of the head army doctors. He was driving toward Pierre in a covered gig, sitting beside a young surgeon, and on recognizing Pierre he told the Cossack who occupied the driver™s seat to pull up. Count! Your excellency, how come you to be here? asked the doctor. Well, you know, I wanted to see... Yes, yes, there will be something to see.... Pierre got out and talked to the doctor, explaining his intention of taking part in a battle. The doctor advised him to apply direct to KutÃºzov. Why should you be God knows where out of sight, during the battle? he said, exchanging glances with his young companion. Anyhow his Serene Highness knows you and will receive you graciously. That™s what you must do. The doctor seemed tired and in a hurry. You think so?... Ah, I also wanted to ask you where our position is exactly? said Pierre. The position? repeated the doctor. Well, that™s not my line. Drive past TatÃ¡rinova, a lot of digging is going on there. Go up the hillock and you™ll see. Can one see from there?... If you would... But the doctor interrupted him and moved toward his gig. I would go with you but on my honor I™m up to here”and he pointed to his throat. I™m galloping to the commander of the corps. How do matters stand?... You know, Count, there™ll be a battle tomorrow. Out of an army of a hundred thousand we must expect at least twenty thousand wounded, and we haven™t stretchers, or bunks, or dressers, or doctors enough for six thousand. We have ten thousand carts, but we need other things as well”we must manage as best we can! The strange thought that of the thousands of men, young and old, who had stared with merry surprise at his hat (perhaps the very men he had noticed), twenty thousand were inevitably doomed to wounds and death amazed Pierre. They may die tomorrow; why are they thinking of anything but death? And by some latent sequence of thought the descent of the MozhÃ¡ysk hill, the carts with the wounded, the ringing bells, the slanting rays of the sun, and the songs of the cavalrymen vividly recurred to his mind. The cavalry ride to battle and meet the wounded and do not for a moment think of what awaits them, but pass by, winking at the wounded. Yet from among these men twenty thousand are doomed to die, and they wonder at my hat! Strange! thought Pierre, continuing his way to TatÃ¡rinova. In front of a landowner™s house to the left of the road stood carriages, wagons, and crowds of orderlies and sentinels. The commander in chief was putting up there, but just when Pierre arrived he was not in and hardly any of the staff were there”they had gone to the church service. Pierre drove on toward GÃ³rki. When he had ascended the hill and reached the little village street, he saw for the first time peasant militiamen in their white shirts and with crosses on their caps, who, talking and laughing loudly, animated and perspiring, were at work on a huge knoll overgrown with grass to the right of the road. Some of them were digging, others were wheeling barrowloads of earth along planks, while others stood about doing nothing. Two officers were standing on the knoll, directing the men. On seeing these peasants, who were evidently still amused by the novelty of their position as soldiers, Pierre once more thought of the wounded men at MozhÃ¡ysk and understood what the soldier had meant when he said: They want the whole nation to fall on them. The sight of these bearded peasants at work on the battlefield, with their queer, clumsy boots and perspiring necks, and their shirts opening from the left toward the middle, unfastened, exposing their sunburned collarbones, impressed Pierre more strongly with the solemnity and importance of the moment than anything he had yet seen or heard. CHAPTER XXI Pierre stepped out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen, ascended the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield could be seen. It was about eleven o™clock. The sun shone somewhat to the left and behind him and brightly lit up the enormous panorama which, rising like an amphitheater, extended before him in the clear rarefied atmosphere. From above on the left, bisecting that amphitheater, wound the SmolÃ©nsk highroad, passing through a village with a white church some five hundred paces in front of the knoll and below it. This was BorodinÃ³. Below the village the road crossed the river by a bridge and, winding down and up, rose higher and higher to the village of ValÃºevo visible about four miles away, where Napoleon was then stationed. Beyond ValÃºevo the road disappeared into a yellowing forest on the horizon. Far in the distance in that birch and fir forest to the right of the road, the cross and belfry of the KolochÃ¡ Monastery gleamed in the sun. Here and there over the whole of that blue expanse, to right and left of the forest and the road, smoking campfires could be seen and indefinite masses of troops”ours and the enemy™s. The ground to the right”along the course of the KolochÃ¡ and MoskvÃ¡ rivers”was broken and hilly. Between the hollows the villages of BezÃºbova and ZakhÃ¡rino showed in the distance. On the left the ground was more level; there were fields of grain, and the smoking ruins of SemÃ«novsk, which had been burned down, could be seen. All that Pierre saw was so indefinite that neither the left nor the right side of the field fully satisfied his expectations. Nowhere could he see the battlefield he had expected to find, but only fields, meadows, troops, woods, the smoke of campfires, villages, mounds, and streams; and try as he would he could descry no military position in this place which teemed with life, nor could he even distinguish our troops from the enemy™s. I must ask someone who knows, he thought, and addressed an officer who was looking with curiosity at his huge unmilitary figure. May I ask you, said Pierre, what village that is in front? BÃºrdino, isn™t it? said the officer, turning to his companion. BorodinÃ³, the other corrected him. The officer, evidently glad of an opportunity for a talk, moved up to Pierre. Are those our men there? Pierre inquired. Yes, and there, further on, are the French, said the officer. There they are, there... you can see them. Where? Where? asked Pierre. One can see them with the naked eye... Why, there! The officer pointed with his hand to the smoke visible on the left beyond the river, and the same stern and serious expression that Pierre had noticed on many of the faces he had met came into his face. Ah, those are the French! And over there?... Pierre pointed to a knoll on the left, near which some troops could be seen. Those are ours. Ah, ours! And there?... Pierre pointed to another knoll in the distance with a big tree on it, near a village that lay in a hollow where also some campfires were smoking and something black was visible. That™s his again, said the officer. (It was the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt.) It was ours yesterday, but now it is his. Then how about our position? Our position? replied the officer with a smile of satisfaction. I can tell you quite clearly, because I constructed nearly all our entrenchments. There, you see? There™s our center, at BorodinÃ³, just there, and he pointed to the village in front of them with the white church. That™s where one crosses the KolochÃ¡. You see down there where the rows of hay are lying in the hollow, there™s the bridge. That™s our center. Our right flank is over there”he pointed sharply to the right, far away in the broken ground”That™s where the MoskvÃ¡ River is, and we have thrown up three redoubts there, very strong ones. The left flank... here the officer paused. Well, you see, that™s difficult to explain.... Yesterday our left flank was there at ShevÃ¡rdino, you see, where the oak is, but now we have withdrawn our left wing”now it is over there, do you see that village and the smoke? That™s SemÃ«novsk, yes, there, he pointed to RaÃ©vski™s knoll. But the battle will hardly be there. His having moved his troops there is only a ruse; he will probably pass round to the right of the MoskvÃ¡. But wherever it may be, many a man will be missing tomorrow! he remarked. An elderly sergeant who had approached the officer while he was giving these explanations had waited in silence for him to finish speaking, but at this point, evidently not liking the officer™s remark, interrupted him. Gabions must be sent for, said he sternly. The officer appeared abashed, as though he understood that one might think of how many men would be missing tomorrow but ought not to speak of it. Well, send number three company again, the officer replied hurriedly. And you, are you one of the doctors? No, I™ve come on my own, answered Pierre, and he went down the hill again, passing the militiamen. Oh, those damned fellows! muttered the officer who followed him, holding his nose as he ran past the men at work. There they are... bringing her, coming... There they are... They™ll be here in a minute... voices were suddenly heard saying; and officers, soldiers, and militiamen began running forward along the road. A church procession was coming up the hill from BorodinÃ³. First along the dusty road came the infantry in ranks, bareheaded and with arms reversed. From behind them came the sound of church singing. Soldiers and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the procession. They are bringing her, our Protectress!... The Iberian Mother of God! someone cried. The SmolÃ©nsk Mother of God, another corrected him. The militiamen, both those who had been in the village and those who had been at work on the battery, threw down their spades and ran to meet the church procession. Following the battalion that marched along the dusty road came priests in their vestments”one little old man in a hood with attendants and singers. Behind them soldiers and officers bore a large, dark-faced icon with an embossed metal cover. This was the icon that had been brought from SmolÃ©nsk and had since accompanied the army. Behind, before, and on both sides, crowds of militiamen with bared heads walked, ran, and bowed to the ground. At the summit of the hill they stopped with the icon; the men who had been holding it up by the linen bands attached to it were relieved by others, the chanters relit their censers, and service began. The hot rays of the sun beat down vertically and a fresh soft wind played with the hair of the bared heads and with the ribbons decorating the icon. The singing did not sound loud under the open sky. An immense crowd of bareheaded officers, soldiers, and militiamen surrounded the icon. Behind the priest and a chanter stood the notabilities on a spot reserved for them. A bald general with a St. George™s Cross on his neck stood just behind the priest™s back, and without crossing himself (he was evidently a German) patiently awaited the end of the service, which he considered it necessary to hear to the end, probably to arouse the patriotism of the Russian people. Another general stood in a martial pose, crossing himself by shaking his hand in front of his chest while looking about him. Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre recognized several acquaintances among these notables, but did not look at them”his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were all gazing eagerly at the icon. As soon as the tired chanters, who were singing the service for the twentieth time that day, began lazily and mechanically to sing: Save from calamity Thy servants, O Mother of God, and the priest and deacon chimed in: For to Thee under God we all flee as to an inviolable bulwark and protection, there again kindled in all those faces the same expression of consciousness of the solemnity of the impending moment that Pierre had seen on the faces at the foot of the hill at MozhÃ¡ysk and momentarily on many and many faces he had met that morning; and heads were bowed more frequently and hair tossed back, and sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves were heard. The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and pressed against Pierre. Someone, a very important personage judging by the haste with which way was made for him, was approaching the icon. It was KutÃºzov, who had been riding round the position and on his way back to TatÃ¡rinova had stopped where the service was being held. Pierre recognized him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him from everybody else. With a long overcoat on his exceedingly stout, round-shouldered body, with uncovered white head and puffy face showing the white ball of the eye he had lost, KutÃºzov walked with plunging, swaying gait into the crowd and stopped behind the priest. He crossed himself with an accustomed movement, bent till he touched the ground with his hand, and bowed his white head with a deep sigh. Behind KutÃºzov was Bennigsen and the suite. Despite the presence of the commander in chief, who attracted the attention of all the superior officers, the militiamen and soldiers continued their prayers without looking at him. When the service was over, KutÃºzov stepped up to the icon, sank heavily to his knees, bowed to the ground, and for a long time tried vainly to rise, but could not do so on account of his weakness and weight. His white head twitched with the effort. At last he rose, kissed the icon as a child does with naÃ¯vely pouting lips, and again bowed till he touched the ground with his hand. The other generals followed his example, then the officers, and after them with excited faces, pressing on one another, crowding, panting, and pushing, scrambled the soldiers and militiamen. CHAPTER XXII Staggering amid the crush, Pierre looked about him. Count Peter KirÃlovich! How did you get here? said a voice. Pierre looked round. BorÃs DrubetskÃ³y, brushing his knees with his hand (he had probably soiled them when he, too, had knelt before the icon), came up to him smiling. BorÃs was elegantly dressed, with a slightly martial touch appropriate to a campaign. He wore a long coat and like KutÃºzov had a whip slung across his shoulder. Meanwhile KutÃºzov had reached the village and seated himself in the shade of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack had run to fetch and another had hastily covered with a rug. An immense and brilliant suite surrounded him. The icon was carried further, accompanied by the throng. Pierre stopped some thirty paces from KutÃºzov, talking to BorÃs. He explained his wish to be present at the battle and to see the position. This is what you must do, said BorÃs. I will do the honors of the camp to you. You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen will be. I am in attendance on him, you know; I™ll mention it to him. But if you want to ride round the position, come along with us. We are just going to the left flank. Then when we get back, do spend the night with me and we™ll arrange a game of cards. Of course you know DmÃtri SergÃ©evich? Those are his quarters, and he pointed to the third house in the village of GÃ³rki. But I should like to see the right flank. They say it™s very strong, said Pierre. I should like to start from the MoskvÃ¡ River and ride round the whole position. Well, you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank. Yes, yes. But where is Prince BolkÃ³nski™s regiment? Can you point it out to me? Prince Andrew™s? We shall pass it and I™ll take you to him. What about the left flank? asked Pierre To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our left flank is in, said BorÃs confidentially lowering his voice. It is not at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that knoll quite differently, but... BorÃs shrugged his shoulders, his Serene Highness would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see... but BorÃs did not finish, for at that moment KaysÃ¡rov, KutÃºzov™s adjutant, came up to Pierre. Ah, KaysÃ¡rov! said BorÃs, addressing him with an unembarrassed smile, I was just trying to explain our position to the count. It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the intentions of the French! You mean the left flank? asked KaysÃ¡rov. Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong. Though KutÃºzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, BorÃs had contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had established himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom BorÃs had been in attendance, considered young Prince DrubetskÃ³y an invaluable man. In the higher command there were two sharply defined parties: KutÃºzov™s party and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. BorÃs belonged to the latter and no one else, while showing servile respect to KutÃºzov, could so create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and that Bennigsen managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come when KutÃºzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or even if KutÃºzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done by Bennigsen. In any case many great rewards would have to be given for tomorrow™s action, and new men would come to the front. So BorÃs was full of nervous vivacity all day. After KaysÃ¡rov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of the excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions of personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different expression he saw on other faces”an expression that spoke not of personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death. KutÃºzov noticed Pierre™s figure and the group gathered round him. Call him to me, said KutÃºzov. An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness™ wish, and Pierre went toward KutÃºzov™s bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was DÃ³lokhov. How did that fellow get here? asked Pierre. He™s a creature that wriggles in anywhere! was the answer. He has been degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He™s been proposing some scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy™s picket line at night.... He™s a brave fellow. Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to KutÃºzov. I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send me away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn™t lose anything... DÃ³lokhov was saying. Yes, yes. But if I were right, I should be rendering a service to my Fatherland for which I am ready to die. Yes, yes. And should your Serene Highness require a man who will not spare his skin, please think of me.... Perhaps I may prove useful to your Serene Highness. Yes... Yes... KutÃºzov repeated, his laughing eye narrowing more and more as he looked at Pierre. Just then BorÃs, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to Pierre™s side near KutÃºzov and in a most natural manner, without raising his voice, said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted conversation: The militia have put on clean white shirts to be ready to die. What heroism, Count! BorÃs evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his Serene Highness. He knew KutÃºzov™s attention would be caught by those words, and so it was. What are you saying about the militia? he asked BorÃs. Preparing for tomorrow, your Serene Highness”for death”they have put on clean shirts. Ah... a wonderful, a matchless people! said KutÃºzov; and he closed his eyes and swayed his head. A matchless people! he repeated with a sigh. So you want to smell gunpowder? he said to Pierre. Yes, it™s a pleasant smell. I have the honor to be one of your wife™s adorers. Is she well? My quarters are at your service. And as often happens with old people, KutÃºzov began looking about absent-mindedly as if forgetting all he wanted to say or do. Then, evidently remembering what he wanted, he beckoned to Andrew KaysÃ¡rov, his adjutant™s brother. Those verses... those verses of MÃ¡rin™s... how do they go, eh? Those he wrote about GerÃ¡kov: ˜Lectures for the corps inditing™... Recite them, recite them! said he, evidently preparing to laugh. KaysÃ¡rov recited.... KutÃºzov smilingly nodded his head to the rhythm of the verses. When Pierre had left KutÃºzov, DÃ³lokhov came up to him and took his hand. I am very glad to meet you here, Count, he said aloud, regardless of the presence of strangers and in a particularly resolute and solemn tone. On the eve of a day when God alone knows who of us is fated to survive, I am glad of this opportunity to tell you that I regret the misunderstandings that occurred between us and should wish you not to have any ill feeling for me. I beg you to forgive me. Pierre looked at DÃ³lokhov with a smile, not knowing what to say to him. With tears in his eyes DÃ³lokhov embraced Pierre and kissed him. BorÃs said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line. It will interest you, said he. Yes, very much, replied Pierre. Half an hour later KutÃºzov left for TatÃ¡rinova, and Bennigsen and his suite, with Pierre among them, set out on their ride along the line. CHAPTER XXIII From GÃ³rki, Bennigsen descended the highroad to the bridge which, when they had looked at it from the hill, the officer had pointed out as being the center of our position and where rows of fragrant new-mown hay lay by the riverside. They rode across that bridge into the village of BorodinÃ³ and thence turned to the left, passing an enormous number of troops and guns, and came to a high knoll where militiamen were digging. This was the redoubt, as yet unnamed, which afterwards became known as the RaÃ©vski Redoubt, or the Knoll Battery, but Pierre paid no special attention to it. He did not know that it would become more memorable to him than any other spot on the plain of BorodinÃ³. They then crossed the hollow to SemÃ«novsk, where the soldiers were dragging away the last logs from the huts and barns. Then they rode downhill and uphill, across a ryefield trodden and beaten down as if by hail, following a track freshly made by the artillery over the furrows of the plowed land, and reached some flÃ¨ches * which were still being dug. * A kind of entrenchment. At the flÃ¨ches Bennigsen stopped and began looking at the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt opposite, which had been ours the day before and where several horsemen could be descried. The officers said that either Napoleon or Murat was there, and they all gazed eagerly at this little group of horsemen. Pierre also looked at them, trying to guess which of the scarcely discernible figures was Napoleon. At last those mounted men rode away from the mound and disappeared. Bennigsen spoke to a general who approached him, and began explaining the whole position of our troops. Pierre listened to him, straining each faculty to understand the essential points of the impending battle, but was mortified to feel that his mental capacity was inadequate for the task. He could make nothing of it. Bennigsen stopped speaking and, noticing that Pierre was listening, suddenly said to him: I don™t think this interests you? On the contrary it™s very interesting! replied Pierre not quite truthfully. From the flÃ¨ches they rode still farther to the left, along a road winding through a thick, low-growing birch wood. In the middle of the wood a brown hare with white feet sprang out and, scared by the tramp of the many horses, grew so confused that it leaped along the road in front of them for some time, arousing general attention and laughter, and only when several voices shouted at it did it dart to one side and disappear in the thicket. After going through the wood for about a mile and a half they came out on a glade where troops of TÃºchkov™s corps were stationed to defend the left flank. Here, at the extreme left flank, Bennigsen talked a great deal and with much heat, and, as it seemed to Pierre, gave orders of great military importance. In front of TÃºchkov™s troops was some high ground not occupied by troops. Bennigsen loudly criticized this mistake, saying that it was madness to leave a height which commanded the country around unoccupied and to place troops below it. Some of the generals expressed the same opinion. One in particular declared with martial heat that they were put there to be slaughtered. Bennigsen on his own authority ordered the troops to occupy the high ground. This disposition on the left flank increased Pierre™s doubt of his own capacity to understand military matters. Listening to Bennigsen and the generals criticizing the position of the troops behind the hill, he quite understood them and shared their opinion, but for that very reason he could not understand how the man who put them there behind the hill could have made so gross and palpable a blunder. Pierre did not know that these troops were not, as Bennigsen supposed, put there to defend the position, but were in a concealed position as an ambush, that they should not be seen and might be able to strike an approaching enemy unexpectedly. Bennigsen did not know this and moved the troops forward according to his own ideas without mentioning the matter to the commander in chief. CHAPTER XXIV On that bright evening of August 25, Prince Andrew lay leaning on his elbow in a broken-down shed in the village of KnyazkÃ³vo at the further end of his regiment™s encampment. Through a gap in the broken wall he could see, beside the wooden fence, a row of thirty-year-old birches with their lower branches lopped off, a field on which shocks of oats were standing, and some bushes near which rose the smoke of campfires”the soldiers™ kitchens. Narrow and burdensome and useless to anyone as his life now seemed to him, Prince Andrew on the eve of battle felt agitated and irritable as he had done seven years before at Austerlitz. He had received and given the orders for next day™s battle and had nothing more to do. But his thoughts”the simplest, clearest, and therefore most terrible thoughts”would give him no peace. He knew that tomorrow™s battle would be the most terrible of all he had taken part in, and for the first time in his life the possibility of death presented itself to him”not in relation to any worldly matter or with reference to its effect on others, but simply in relation to himself, to his own soul”vividly, plainly, terribly, and almost as a certainty. And from the height of this perception all that had previously tormented and preoccupied him suddenly became illumined by a cold white light without shadows, without perspective, without distinction of outline. All life appeared to him like magic-lantern pictures at which he had long been gazing by artificial light through a glass. Now he suddenly saw those badly daubed pictures in clear daylight and without a glass. Yes, yes! There they are, those false images that agitated, enraptured, and tormented me, said he to himself, passing in review the principal pictures of the magic lantern of life and regarding them now in the cold white daylight of his clear perception of death. There they are, those rudely painted figures that once seemed splendid and mysterious. Glory, the good of society, love of a woman, the Fatherland itself”how important these pictures appeared to me, with what profound meaning they seemed to be filled! And it is all so simple, pale, and crude in the cold white light of this morning which I feel is dawning for me. The three great sorrows of his life held his attention in particular: his love for a woman, his father™s death, and the French invasion which had overrun half Russia. Love... that little girl who seemed to me brimming over with mystic forces! Yes, indeed, I loved her. I made romantic plans of love and happiness with her! Oh, what a boy I was! he said aloud bitterly. Ah me! I believed in some ideal love which was to keep her faithful to me for the whole year of my absence! Like the gentle dove in the fable she was to pine apart from me.... But it was much simpler really.... It was all very simple and horrible. When my father built Bald Hills he thought the place was his: his land, his air, his peasants. But Napoleon came and swept him aside, unconscious of his existence, as he might brush a chip from his path, and his Bald Hills and his whole life fell to pieces. Princess Mary says it is a trial sent from above. What is the trial for, when he is not here and will never return? He is not here! For whom then is the trial intended? The Fatherland, the destruction of Moscow! And tomorrow I shall be killed, perhaps not even by a Frenchman but by one of our own men, by a soldier discharging a musket close to my ear as one of them did yesterday, and the French will come and take me by head and heels and fling me into a hole that I may not stink under their noses, and new conditions of life will arise, which will seem quite ordinary to others and about which I shall know nothing. I shall not exist.... He looked at the row of birches shining in the sunshine, with their motionless green and yellow foliage and white bark. To die... to be killed tomorrow... That I should not exist... That all this should still be, but no me.... And the birches with their light and shade, the curly clouds, the smoke of the campfires, and all that was around him changed and seemed terrible and menacing. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He rose quickly, went out of the shed, and began to walk about. After he had returned, voices were heard outside the shed. Who™s that? he cried. The red-nosed Captain TimÃ³khin, formerly DÃ³lokhov™s squadron commander, but now from lack of officers a battalion commander, shyly entered the shed followed by an adjutant and the regimental paymaster. Prince Andrew rose hastily, listened to the business they had come about, gave them some further instructions, and was about to dismiss them when he heard a familiar, lisping, voice behind the shed. Devil take it! said the voice of a man stumbling over something. Prince Andrew looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped over a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way. It was unpleasant to Prince Andrew to meet people of his own set in general, and Pierre especially, for he reminded him of all the painful moments of his last visit to Moscow. You? What a surprise! said he. What brings you here? This is unexpected! As he said this his eyes and face expressed more than coldness”they expressed hostility, which Pierre noticed at once. He had approached the shed full of animation, but on seeing Prince Andrew™s face he felt constrained and ill at ease. I have come... simply... you know... come... it interests me, said Pierre, who had so often that day senselessly repeated that word interesting. I wish to see the battle. Oh yes, and what do the Masonic brothers say about war? How would they stop it? said Prince Andrew sarcastically. Well, and how™s Moscow? And my people? Have they reached Moscow at last? he asked seriously. Yes, they have. Julie DrubetskÃ¡ya told me so. I went to see them, but missed them. They have gone to your estate near Moscow. CHAPTER XXV The officers were about to take leave, but Prince Andrew, apparently reluctant to be left alone with his friend, asked them to stay and have tea. Seats were brought in and so was the tea. The officers gazed with surprise at Pierre™s huge stout figure and listened to his talk of Moscow and the position of our army, round which he had ridden. Prince Andrew remained silent, and his expression was so forbidding that Pierre addressed his remarks chiefly to the good-natured battalion commander. So you understand the whole position of our troops? Prince Andrew interrupted him. Yes”that is, how do you mean? said Pierre. Not being a military man I can™t say I have understood it fully, but I understand the general position. Well, then, you know more than anyone else, be it who it may, said Prince Andrew. Oh! said Pierre, looking over his spectacles in perplexity at Prince Andrew. Well, and what do you think of KutÃºzov™s appointment? he asked. I was very glad of his appointment, that™s all I know, replied Prince Andrew. And tell me your opinion of Barclay de Tolly. In Moscow they are saying heaven knows what about him.... What do you think of him? Ask them, replied Prince Andrew, indicating the officers. Pierre looked at TimÃ³khin with the condescendingly interrogative smile with which everybody involuntarily addressed that officer. We see light again, since his Serenity has been appointed, your excellency, said TimÃ³khin timidly, and continually turning to glance at his colonel. Why so? asked Pierre. Well, to mention only firewood and fodder, let me inform you. Why, when we were retreating from SventsyÃ¡ni we dare not touch a stick or a wisp of hay or anything. You see, we were going away, so he would get it all; wasn™t it so, your excellency? and again TimÃ³khin turned to the prince. But we daren™t. In our regiment two officers were court-martialed for that kind of thing. But when his Serenity took command everything became straightforward. Now we see light.... Then why was it forbidden? TimÃ³khin looked about in confusion, not knowing what or how to answer such a question. Pierre put the same question to Prince Andrew. Why, so as not to lay waste the country we were abandoning to the enemy, said Prince Andrew with venomous irony. It is very sound: one can™t permit the land to be pillaged and accustom the troops to marauding. At SmolÃ©nsk too he judged correctly that the French might outflank us, as they had larger forces. But he could not understand this, cried Prince Andrew in a shrill voice that seemed to escape him involuntarily: he could not understand that there, for the first time, we were fighting for Russian soil, and that there was a spirit in the men such as I had never seen before, that we had held the French for two days, and that that success had increased our strength tenfold. He ordered us to retreat, and all our efforts and losses went for nothing. He had no thought of betraying us, he tried to do the best he could, he thought out everything, and that is why he is unsuitable. He is unsuitable now, just because he plans out everything very thoroughly and accurately as every German has to. How can I explain?... Well, say your father has a German valet, and he is a splendid valet and satisfies your father™s requirements better than you could, then it™s all right to let him serve. But if your father is mortally sick you™ll send the valet away and attend to your father with your own unpracticed, awkward hands, and will soothe him better than a skilled man who is a stranger could. So it has been with Barclay. While Russia was well, a foreigner could serve her and be a splendid minister; but as soon as she is in danger she needs one of her own kin. But in your Club they have been making him out a traitor! They slander him as a traitor, and the only result will be that afterwards, ashamed of their false accusations, they will make him out a hero or a genius instead of a traitor, and that will be still more unjust. He is an honest and very punctilious German. And they say he™s a skillful commander, rejoined Pierre. I don™t understand what is meant by ˜a skillful commander,™ replied Prince Andrew ironically. A skillful commander? replied Pierre. Why, one who foresees all contingencies... and foresees the adversary™s intentions. But that™s impossible, said Prince Andrew as if it were a matter settled long ago. Pierre looked at him in surprise. And yet they say that war is like a game of chess? he remarked. Yes, replied Prince Andrew, but with this little difference, that in chess you may think over each move as long as you please and are not limited for time, and with this difference too, that a knight is always stronger than a pawn, and two pawns are always stronger than one, while in war a battalion is sometimes stronger than a division and sometimes weaker than a company. The relative strength of bodies of troops can never be known to anyone. Believe me, he went on, if things depended on arrangements made by the staff, I should be there making arrangements, but instead of that I have the honor to serve here in the regiment with these gentlemen, and I consider that on us tomorrow™s battle will depend and not on those others.... Success never depends, and never will depend, on position, or equipment, or even on numbers, and least of all on position. But on what then? On the feeling that is in me and in him, he pointed to TimÃ³khin, and in each soldier. Prince Andrew glanced at TimÃ³khin, who looked at his commander in alarm and bewilderment. In contrast to his former reticent taciturnity Prince Andrew now seemed excited. He could apparently not refrain from expressing the thoughts that had suddenly occurred to him. A battle is won by those who firmly resolve to win it! Why did we lose the battle at Austerlitz? The French losses were almost equal to ours, but very early we said to ourselves that we were losing the battle, and we did lose it. And we said so because we had nothing to fight for there, we wanted to get away from the battlefield as soon as we could. ˜We™ve lost, so let us run,™ and we ran. If we had not said that till the evening, heaven knows what might not have happened. But tomorrow we shan™t say it! You talk about our position, the left flank weak and the right flank too extended, he went on. That™s all nonsense, there™s nothing of the kind. But what awaits us tomorrow? A hundred million most diverse chances which will be decided on the instant by the fact that our men or theirs run or do not run, and that this man or that man is killed, but all that is being done at present is only play. The fact is that those men with whom you have ridden round the position not only do not help matters, but hinder. They are only concerned with their own petty interests. At such a moment? said Pierre reproachfully. At such a moment! Prince Andrew repeated. To them it is only a moment affording opportunities to undermine a rival and obtain an extra cross or ribbon. For me tomorrow means this: a Russian army of a hundred thousand and a French army of a hundred thousand have met to fight, and the thing is that these two hundred thousand men will fight and the side that fights more fiercely and spares itself least will win. And if you like I will tell you that whatever happens and whatever muddles those at the top may make, we shall win tomorrow™s battle. Tomorrow, happen what may, we shall win! There now, your excellency! That™s the truth, the real truth, said TimÃ³khin. Who would spare himself now? The soldiers in my battalion, believe me, wouldn™t drink their vodka! ˜It™s not the day for that!™ they say. All were silent. The officers rose. Prince Andrew went out of the shed with them, giving final orders to the adjutant. After they had gone Pierre approached Prince Andrew and was about to start a conversation when they heard the clatter of three horses™ hoofs on the road not far from the shed, and looking in that direction Prince Andrew recognized Wolzogen and Clausewitz accompanied by a Cossack. They rode close by continuing to converse, and Prince Andrew involuntarily heard these words: Der Krieg muss in Raum verlegt werden. Der Ansicht kann ich nicht genug Preis geben, * said one of them. * The war must be extended widely. I cannot sufficiently commend that view. Oh, ja, said the other, der Zweck ist nur den Feind zu schwÃ¤chen, so kann man gewiss nicht den Verlust der Privat-Personen in Achtung nehmen.* * Oh, yes, the only aim is to weaken the enemy, so of course one cannot take into account the loss of private individuals. Oh, no, agreed the other. Extend widely! said Prince Andrew with an angry snort, when they had ridden past. In that ˜extend™ were my father, son, and sister, at Bald Hills. That™s all the same to him! That™s what I was saying to you”those German gentlemen won™t win the battle tomorrow but will only make all the mess they can, because they have nothing in their German heads but theories not worth an empty eggshell and haven™t in their hearts the one thing needed tomorrow”that which TimÃ³khin has. They have yielded up all Europe to him, and have now come to teach us. Fine teachers! and again his voice grew shrill. So you think we shall win tomorrow™s battle? asked Pierre. Yes, yes, answered Prince Andrew absently. One thing I would do if I had the power, he began again, I would not take prisoners. Why take prisoners? It™s chivalry! The French have destroyed my home and are on their way to destroy Moscow, they have outraged and are outraging me every moment. They are my enemies. In my opinion they are all criminals. And so thinks TimÃ³khin and the whole army. They should be executed! Since they are my foes they cannot be my friends, whatever may have been said at Tilsit. Yes, yes, muttered Pierre, looking with shining eyes at Prince Andrew. I quite agree with you! The question that had perturbed Pierre on the MozhÃ¡ysk hill and all that day now seemed to him quite clear and completely solved. He now understood the whole meaning and importance of this war and of the impending battle. All he had seen that day, all the significant and stern expressions on the faces he had seen in passing, were lit up for him by a new light. He understood that latent heat (as they say in physics) of patriotism which was present in all these men he had seen, and this explained to him why they all prepared for death calmly, and as it were lightheartedly. Not take prisoners, Prince Andrew continued: That by itself would quite change the whole war and make it less cruel. As it is we have played at war”that™s what™s vile! We play at magnanimity and all that stuff. Such magnanimity and sensibility are like the magnanimity and sensibility of a lady who faints when she sees a calf being killed: she is so kindhearted that she can™t look at blood, but enjoys eating the calf served up with sauce. They talk to us of the rules of war, of chivalry, of flags of truce, of mercy to the unfortunate and so on. It™s all rubbish! I saw chivalry and flags of truce in 1805; they humbugged us and we humbugged them. They plunder other people™s houses, issue false paper money, and worst of all they kill my children and my father, and then talk of rules of war and magnanimity to foes! Take no prisoners, but kill and be killed! He who has come to this as I have through the same sufferings... Prince Andrew, who had thought it was all the same to him whether or not Moscow was taken as SmolÃ©nsk had been, was suddenly checked in his speech by an unexpected cramp in his throat. He paced up and down a few times in silence, but his eyes glittered feverishly and his lips quivered as he began speaking. If there was none of this magnanimity in war, we should go to war only when it was worth while going to certain death, as now. Then there would not be war because Paul IvÃ¡novich had offended Michael IvÃ¡novich. And when there was a war, like this one, it would be war! And then the determination of the troops would be quite different. Then all these Westphalians and Hessians whom Napoleon is leading would not follow him into Russia, and we should not go to fight in Austria and Prussia without knowing why. War is not courtesy but the most horrible thing in life; and we ought to understand that and not play at war. We ought to accept this terrible necessity sternly and seriously. It all lies in that: get rid of falsehood and let war be war and not a game. As it is now, war is the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous. The military calling is the most highly honored. But what is war? What is needed for success in warfare? What are the habits of the military? The aim of war is murder; the methods of war are spying, treachery, and their encouragement, the ruin of a country™s inhabitants, robbing them or stealing to provision the army, and fraud and falsehood termed military craft. The habits of the military class are the absence of freedom, that is, discipline, idleness, ignorance, cruelty, debauchery, and drunkenness. And in spite of all this it is the highest class, respected by everyone. All the kings, except the Chinese, wear military uniforms, and he who kills most people receives the highest rewards. They meet, as we shall meet tomorrow, to murder one another; they kill and maim tens of thousands, and then have thanksgiving services for having killed so many people (they even exaggerate the number), and they announce a victory, supposing that the more people they have killed the greater their achievement. How does God above look at them and hear them? exclaimed Prince Andrew in a shrill, piercing voice. Ah, my friend, it has of late become hard for me to live. I see that I have begun to understand too much. And it doesn™t do for man to taste of the tree of knowledge of good and evil.... Ah, well, it™s not for long! he added. However, you™re sleepy, and it™s time for me to sleep. Go back to GÃ³rki! said Prince Andrew suddenly. Oh no! Pierre replied, looking at Prince Andrew with frightened, compassionate eyes. Go, go! Before a battle one must have one™s sleep out, repeated Prince Andrew. He came quickly up to Pierre and embraced and kissed him. Good-by, be off! he shouted. Whether we meet again or not... and turning away hurriedly he entered the shed. It was already dark, and Pierre could not make out whether the expression of Prince Andrew™s face was angry or tender. For some time he stood in silence considering whether he should follow him or go away. No, he does not want it! Pierre concluded. And I know that this is our last meeting! He sighed deeply and rode back to GÃ³rki. On re-entering the shed Prince Andrew lay down on a rug, but he could not sleep. He closed his eyes. One picture succeeded another in his imagination. On one of them he dwelt long and joyfully. He vividly recalled an evening in Petersburg. NatÃ¡sha with animated and excited face was telling him how she had gone to look for mushrooms the previous summer and had lost her way in the big forest. She incoherently described the depths of the forest, her feelings, and a talk with a beekeeper she met, and constantly interrupted her story to say: No, I can™t! I™m not telling it right; no, you don™t understand, though he encouraged her by saying that he did understand, and he really had understood all she wanted to say. But NatÃ¡sha was not satisfied with her own words: she felt that they did not convey the passionately poetic feeling she had experienced that day and wished to convey. He was such a delightful old man, and it was so dark in the forest... and he had such kind... No, I can™t describe it, she had said, flushed and excited. Prince Andrew smiled now the same happy smile as then when he had looked into her eyes. I understood her, he thought. I not only understood her, but it was just that inner, spiritual force, that sincerity, that frankness of soul”that very soul of hers which seemed to be fettered by her body”it was that soul I loved in her... loved so strongly and happily... and suddenly he remembered how his love had ended. He did not need anything of that kind. He neither saw nor understood anything of the sort. He only saw in her a pretty and fresh young girl, with whom he did not deign to unite his fate. And I?... and he is still alive and gay! Prince Andrew jumped up as if someone had burned him, and again began pacing up and down in front of the shed. CHAPTER XXVI On August 25, the eve of the battle of BorodinÃ³, M. de Beausset, prefect of the French Emperor™s palace, arrived at Napoleon™s quarters at ValÃºevo with Colonel Fabvier, the former from Paris and the latter from Madrid. Donning his court uniform, M. de Beausset ordered a box he had brought for the Emperor to be carried before him and entered the first compartment of Napoleon™s tent, where he began opening the box while conversing with Napoleon™s aides-de-camp who surrounded him. Fabvier, not entering the tent, remained at the entrance talking to some generals of his acquaintance. The Emperor Napoleon had not yet left his bedroom and was finishing his toilet. Slightly snorting and grunting, he presented now his back and now his plump hairy chest to the brush with which his valet was rubbing him down. Another valet, with his finger over the mouth of a bottle, was sprinkling Eau de Cologne on the Emperor™s pampered body with an expression which seemed to say that he alone knew where and how much Eau de Cologne should be sprinkled. Napoleon™s short hair was wet and matted on the forehead, but his face, though puffy and yellow, expressed physical satisfaction. Go on, harder, go on! he muttered to the valet who was rubbing him, slightly twitching and grunting. An aide-de-camp, who had entered the bedroom to report to the Emperor the number of prisoners taken in yesterday™s action, was standing by the door after delivering his message, awaiting permission to withdraw. Napoleon, frowning, looked at him from under his brows. No prisoners! said he, repeating the aide-de-camp™s words. They are forcing us to exterminate them. So much the worse for the Russian army.... Go on... harder, harder! he muttered, hunching his back and presenting his fat shoulders. All right. Let Monsieur de Beausset enter, and Fabvier too, he said, nodding to the aide-de-camp. Yes, sire, and the aide-de-camp disappeared through the door of the tent. Two valets rapidly dressed His Majesty, and wearing the blue uniform of the Guards he went with firm quick steps to the reception room. De Beausset™s hands meanwhile were busily engaged arranging the present he had brought from the Empress, on two chairs directly in front of the entrance. But Napoleon had dressed and come out with such unexpected rapidity that he had not time to finish arranging the surprise. Napoleon noticed at once what they were about and guessed that they were not ready. He did not wish to deprive them of the pleasure of giving him a surprise, so he pretended not to see de Beausset and called Fabvier to him, listening silently and with a stern frown to what Fabvier told him of the heroism and devotion of his troops fighting at Salamanca, at the other end of Europe, with but one thought”to be worthy of their Emperor”and but one fear”to fail to please him. The result of that battle had been deplorable. Napoleon made ironic remarks during Fabvier™s account, as if he had not expected that matters could go otherwise in his absence. I must make up for that in Moscow, said Napoleon. I™ll see you later, he added, and summoned de Beausset, who by that time had prepared the surprise, having placed something on the chairs and covered it with a cloth. De Beausset bowed low, with that courtly French bow which only the old retainers of the Bourbons knew how to make, and approached him, presenting an envelope. Napoleon turned to him gaily and pulled his ear. You have hurried here. I am very glad. Well, what is Paris saying? he asked, suddenly changing his former stern expression for a most cordial tone. Sire, all Paris regrets your absence, replied de Beausset as was proper. But though Napoleon knew that de Beausset had to say something of this kind, and though in his lucid moments he knew it was untrue, he was pleased to hear it from him. Again he honored him by touching his ear. I am very sorry to have made you travel so far, said he. Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow, replied de Beausset. Napoleon smiled and, lifting his head absent-mindedly, glanced to the right. An aide-de-camp approached with gliding steps and offered him a gold snuffbox, which he took. Yes, it has happened luckily for you, he said, raising the open snuffbox to his nose. You are fond of travel, and in three days you will see Moscow. You surely did not expect to see that Asiatic capital. You will have a pleasant journey. De Beausset bowed gratefully at this regard for his taste for travel (of which he had not till then been aware). Ha, what™s this? asked Napoleon, noticing that all the courtiers were looking at something concealed under a cloth. With courtly adroitness de Beausset half turned and without turning his back to the Emperor retired two steps, twitching off the cloth at the same time, and said: A present to Your Majesty from the Empress. It was a portrait, painted in bright colors by GÃ©rard, of the son borne to Napoleon by the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the boy whom for some reason everyone called The King of Rome. A very pretty curly-headed boy with a look of the Christ in the Sistine Madonna was depicted playing at stick and ball. The ball represented the terrestrial globe and the stick in his other hand a scepter. Though it was not clear what the artist meant to express by depicting the so-called King of Rome spiking the earth with a stick, the allegory apparently seemed to Napoleon, as it had done to all who had seen it in Paris, quite clear and very pleasing. The King of Rome! he said, pointing to the portrait with a graceful gesture. Admirable! With the natural capacity of an Italian for changing the expression of his face at will, he drew nearer to the portrait and assumed a look of pensive tenderness. He felt that what he now said and did would be historical, and it seemed to him that it would now be best for him”whose grandeur enabled his son to play stick and ball with the terrestrial globe”to show, in contrast to that grandeur, the simplest paternal tenderness. His eyes grew dim, he moved forward, glanced round at a chair (which seemed to place itself under him), and sat down on it before the portrait. At a single gesture from him everyone went out on tiptoe, leaving the great man to himself and his emotion. Having sat still for a while he touched”himself not knowing why”the thick spot of paint representing the highest light in the portrait, rose, and recalled de Beausset and the officer on duty. He ordered the portrait to be carried outside his tent, that the Old Guard, stationed round it, might not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing the King of Rome, the son and heir of their adored monarch. And while he was doing M. de Beausset the honor of breakfasting with him, they heard, as Napoleon had anticipated, the rapturous cries of the officers and men of the Old Guard who had run up to see the portrait. Vive l™Empereur! Vive le roi de Rome! Vive l™Empereur! came those ecstatic cries. After breakfast Napoleon in de Beausset™s presence dictated his order of the day to the army. Short and energetic! he remarked when he had read over the proclamation which he had dictated straight off without corrections. It ran: Soldiers! This is the battle you have so longed for. Victory depends on you. It is essential for us; it will give us all we need: comfortable quarters and a speedy return to our country. Behave as you did at Austerlitz, Friedland, VÃtebsk, and SmolÃ©nsk. Let our remotest posterity recall your achievements this day with pride. Let it be said of each of you: He was in the great battle before Moscow! Before Moscow! repeated Napoleon, and inviting M. de Beausset, who was so fond of travel, to accompany him on his ride, he went out of the tent to where the horses stood saddled. Your Majesty is too kind! replied de Beausset to the invitation to accompany the Emperor; he wanted to sleep, did not know how to ride and was afraid of doing so. But Napoleon nodded to the traveler, and de Beausset had to mount. When Napoleon came out of the tent the shouting of the Guards before his son™s portrait grew still louder. Napoleon frowned. Take him away! he said, pointing with a gracefully majestic gesture to the portrait. It is too soon for him to see a field of battle. De Beausset closed his eyes, bowed his head, and sighed deeply, to indicate how profoundly he valued and comprehended the Emperor™s words. CHAPTER XXVII On the twenty-fifth of August, so his historians tell us, Napoleon spent the whole day on horseback inspecting the locality, considering plans submitted to him by his marshals, and personally giving commands to his generals. The original line of the Russian forces along the river KolochÃ¡ had been dislocated by the capture of the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt on the twenty-fourth, and part of the line”the left flank”had been drawn back. That part of the line was not entrenched and in front of it the ground was more open and level than elsewhere. It was evident to anyone, military or not, that it was here the French should attack. It would seem that not much consideration was needed to reach this conclusion, nor any particular care or trouble on the part of the Emperor and his marshals, nor was there any need of that special and supreme quality called genius that people are so apt to ascribe to Napoleon; yet the historians who described the event later and the men who then surrounded Napoleon, and he himself, thought otherwise. Napoleon rode over the plain and surveyed the locality with a profound air and in silence, nodded with approval or shook his head dubiously, and without communicating to the generals around him the profound course of ideas which guided his decisions merely gave them his final conclusions in the form of commands. Having listened to a suggestion from Davout, who was now called Prince d™EckmÃ¼hl, to turn the Russian left wing, Napoleon said it should not be done, without explaining why not. To a proposal made by General Campan (who was to attack the flÃ¨ches) to lead his division through the woods, Napoleon agreed, though the so-called Duke of Elchingen (Ney) ventured to remark that a movement through the woods was dangerous and might disorder the division. Having inspected the country opposite the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt, Napoleon pondered a little in silence and then indicated the spots where two batteries should be set up by the morrow to act against the Russian entrenchments, and the places where, in line with them, the field artillery should be placed. After giving these and other commands he returned to his tent, and the dispositions for the battle were written down from his dictation. These dispositions, of which the French historians write with enthusiasm and other historians with profound respect, were as follows: At dawn the two new batteries established during the night on the plain occupied by the Prince d™EckmÃ¼hl will open fire on the opposing batteries of the enemy. At the same time the commander of the artillery of the 1st Corps, General Pernetti, with thirty cannon of Campan™s division and all the howitzers of Dessaix™s and Friant™s divisions, will move forward, open fire, and overwhelm with shellfire the enemy™s battery, against which will operate: 24 guns of the artillery of the Guards 30 guns of Campan™s division and 8 guns of Friant™s and Dessaix™s divisions ” in all 62 guns. The commander of the artillery of the 3rd Corps, General FouchÃ©, will place the howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps, sixteen in all, on the flanks of the battery that is to bombard the entrenchment on the left, which will have forty guns in all directed against it. General Sorbier must be ready at the first order to advance with all the howitzers of the Guard™s artillery against either one or other of the entrenchments. During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood on the village and turn the enemy™s position. General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first fortification. After the advance has begun in this manner, orders will be given in accordance with the enemy™s movements. The cannonade on the left flank will begin as soon as the guns of the right wing are heard. The sharpshooters of Morand™s division and of the vice-King™s division will open a heavy fire on seeing the attack commence on the right wing. The vice-King will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges, advancing to the same heights as Morand™s and Gibrard™s divisions, which under his leadership will be directed against the redoubt and come into line with the rest of the forces. All this must be done in good order (le tout se fera avec ordre et mÃ©thode) as far as possible retaining troops in reserve. The Imperial Camp near MozhÃ¡ysk, September, 6, 1812. These dispositions, which are very obscure and confused if one allows oneself to regard the arrangements without religious awe of his genius, related to Napoleon™s orders to deal with four points”four different orders. Not one of these was, or could be, carried out. In the disposition it is said first that the batteries placed on the spot chosen by Napoleon, with the guns of Pernetti and FouchÃ©; which were to come in line with them, 102 guns in all, were to open fire and shower shells on the Russian flÃ¨ches and redoubts. This could not be done, as from the spots selected by Napoleon the projectiles did not carry to the Russian works, and those 102 guns shot into the air until the nearest commander, contrary to Napoleon™s instructions, moved them forward. The second order was that Poniatowski, moving to the village through the wood, should turn the Russian left flank. This could not be done and was not done, because Poniatowski, advancing on the village through the wood, met TÃºchkov there barring his way, and could not and did not turn the Russian position. The third order was: General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first fortification. General Campan™s division did not seize the first fortification but was driven back, for on emerging from the wood it had to reform under grapeshot, of which Napoleon was unaware. The fourth order was: The vice-King will occupy the village (BorodinÃ³) and cross by its three bridges, advancing to the same heights as Morand™s and GÃ©rard™s divisions (for whose movements no directions are given), which under his leadership will be directed against the redoubt and come into line with the rest of the forces. As far as one can make out, not so much from this unintelligible sentence as from the attempts the vice-King made to execute the orders given him, he was to advance from the left through BorodinÃ³ to the redoubt while the divisions of Morand and GÃ©rard were to advance simultaneously from the front. All this, like the other parts of the disposition, was not and could not be executed. After passing through BorodinÃ³ the vice-King was driven back to the KolochÃ¡ and could get no farther; while the divisions of Morand and GÃ©rard did not take the redoubt but were driven back, and the redoubt was only taken at the end of the battle by the cavalry (a thing probably unforeseen and not heard of by Napoleon). So not one of the orders in the disposition was, or could be, executed. But in the disposition it is said that, after the fight has commenced in this manner, orders will be given in accordance with the enemy™s movements, and so it might be supposed that all necessary arrangements would be made by Napoleon during the battle. But this was not and could not be done, for during the whole battle Napoleon was so far away that, as appeared later, he could not know the course of the battle and not one of his orders during the fight could be executed. CHAPTER XXVIII Many historians say that the French did not win the battle of BorodinÃ³ because Napoleon had a cold, and that if he had not had a cold the orders he gave before and during the battle would have been still more full of genius and Russia would have been lost and the face of the world have been changed. To historians who believe that Russia was shaped by the will of one man”Peter the Great”and that France from a republic became an empire and French armies went to Russia at the will of one man”Napoleon”to say that Russia remained a power because Napoleon had a bad cold on the twenty-fourth of August may seem logical and convincing. If it had depended on Napoleon™s will to fight or not to fight the battle of BorodinÃ³, and if this or that other arrangement depended on his will, then evidently a cold affecting the manifestation of his will might have saved Russia, and consequently the valet who omitted to bring Napoleon his waterproof boots on the twenty-fourth would have been the savior of Russia. Along that line of thought such a deduction is indubitable, as indubitable as the deduction Voltaire made in jest (without knowing what he was jesting at) when he saw that the Massacre of St. Bartholomew was due to Charles IX™s stomach being deranged. But to men who do not admit that Russia was formed by the will of one man, Peter I, or that the French Empire was formed and the war with Russia begun by the will of one man, Napoleon, that argument seems not merely untrue and irrational, but contrary to all human reality. To the question of what causes historic events another answer presents itself, namely, that the course of human events is predetermined from on high”depends on the coincidence of the wills of all who take part in the events, and that a Napoleon™s influence on the course of these events is purely external and fictitious. Strange as at first glance it may seem to suppose that the Massacre of St. Bartholomew was not due to Charles IX™s will, though he gave the order for it and thought it was done as a result of that order; and strange as it may seem to suppose that the slaughter of eighty thousand men at BorodinÃ³ was not due to Napoleon™s will, though he ordered the commencement and conduct of the battle and thought it was done because he ordered it; strange as these suppositions appear, yet human dignity”which tells me that each of us is, if not more at least not less a man than the great Napoleon”demands the acceptance of that solution of the question, and historic investigation abundantly confirms it. At the battle of BorodinÃ³ Napoleon shot at no one and killed no one. That was all done by the soldiers. Therefore it was not he who killed people. The French soldiers went to kill and be killed at the battle of BorodinÃ³ not because of Napoleon™s orders but by their own volition. The whole army”French, Italian, German, Polish, and Dutch”hungry, ragged, and weary of the campaign, felt at the sight of an army blocking their road to Moscow that the wine was drawn and must be drunk. Had Napoleon then forbidden them to fight the Russians, they would have killed him and have proceeded to fight the Russians because it was inevitable. When they heard Napoleon™s proclamation offering them, as compensation for mutilation and death, the words of posterity about their having been in the battle before Moscow, they cried Vive l™Empereur! just as they had cried Vive l™Empereur! at the sight of the portrait of the boy piercing the terrestrial globe with a toy stick, and just as they would have cried Vive l™Empereur! at any nonsense that might be told them. There was nothing left for them to do but cry Vive l™Empereur! and go to fight, in order to get food and rest as conquerors in Moscow. So it was not because of Napoleon™s commands that they killed their fellow men. And it was not Napoleon who directed the course of the battle, for none of his orders were executed and during the battle he did not know what was going on before him. So the way in which these people killed one another was not decided by Napoleon™s will but occurred independently of him, in accord with the will of hundreds of thousands of people who took part in the common action. It only seemed to Napoleon that it all took place by his will. And so the question whether he had or had not a cold has no more historic interest than the cold of the least of the transport soldiers. Moreover, the assertion made by various writers that his cold was the cause of his dispositions not being as well-planned as on former occasions, and of his orders during the battle not being as good as previously, is quite baseless, which again shows that Napoleon™s cold on the twenty-sixth of August was unimportant. The dispositions cited above are not at all worse, but are even better, than previous dispositions by which he had won victories. His pseudo-orders during the battle were also no worse than formerly, but much the same as usual. These dispositions and orders only seem worse than previous ones because the battle of BorodinÃ³ was the first Napoleon did not win. The profoundest and most excellent dispositions and orders seem very bad, and every learned militarist criticizes them with looks of importance, when they relate to a battle that has been lost, and the very worst dispositions and orders seem very good, and serious people fill whole volumes to demonstrate their merits, when they relate to a battle that has been won. The dispositions drawn up by Weyrother for the battle of Austerlitz were a model of perfection for that kind of composition, but still they were criticized”criticized for their very perfection, for their excessive minuteness. Napoleon at the battle of BorodinÃ³ fulfilled his office as representative of authority as well as, and even better than, at other battles. He did nothing harmful to the progress of the battle; he inclined to the most reasonable opinions, he made no confusion, did not contradict himself, did not get frightened or run away from the field of battle, but with his great tact and military experience carried out his role of appearing to command, calmly and with dignity. CHAPTER XXIX On returning from a second inspection of the lines, Napoleon remarked: The chessmen are set up, the game will begin tomorrow! Having ordered punch and summoned de Beausset, he began to talk to him about Paris and about some changes he meant to make in the Empress™ household, surprising the prefect by his memory of minute details relating to the court. He showed an interest in trifles, joked about de Beausset™s love of travel, and chatted carelessly, as a famous, self-confident surgeon who knows his job does when turning up his sleeves and putting on his apron while a patient is being strapped to the operating table. The matter is in my hands and is clear and definite in my head. When the time comes to set to work I shall do it as no one else could, but now I can jest, and the more I jest and the calmer I am the more tranquil and confident you ought to be, and the more amazed at my genius. Having finished his second glass of punch, Napoleon went to rest before the serious business which, he considered, awaited him next day. He was so much interested in that task that he was unable to sleep, and in spite of his cold which had grown worse from the dampness of the evening, he went into the large division of the tent at three o™clock in the morning, loudly blowing his nose. He asked whether the Russians had not withdrawn, and was told that the enemy™s fires were still in the same places. He nodded approval. The adjutant in attendance came into the tent. Well, Rapp, do you think we shall do good business today? Napoleon asked him. Without doubt, sire, replied Rapp. Napoleon looked at him. Do you remember, sire, what you did me the honor to say at SmolÃ©nsk? continued Rapp. The wine is drawn and must be drunk. Napoleon frowned and sat silent for a long time leaning his head on his hand. This poor army! he suddenly remarked. It has diminished greatly since SmolÃ©nsk. Fortune is frankly a courtesan, Rapp. I have always said so and I am beginning to experience it. But the Guards, Rapp, the Guards are intact? he remarked interrogatively. Yes, sire, replied Rapp. Napoleon took a lozenge, put it in his mouth, and glanced at his watch. He was not sleepy and it was still not nearly morning. It was impossible to give further orders for the sake of killing time, for the orders had all been given and were now being executed. Have the biscuits and rice been served out to the regiments of the Guards? asked Napoleon sternly. Yes, sire. The rice too? Rapp replied that he had given the Emperor™s order about the rice, but Napoleon shook his head in dissatisfaction as if not believing that his order had been executed. An attendant came in with punch. Napoleon ordered another glass to be brought for Rapp, and silently sipped his own. I have neither taste nor smell, he remarked, sniffing at his glass. This cold is tiresome. They talk about medicine”what is the good of medicine when it can™t cure a cold! Corvisart gave me these lozenges but they don™t help at all. What can doctors cure? One can™t cure anything. Our body is a machine for living. It is organized for that, it is its nature. Let life go on in it unhindered and let it defend itself, it will do more than if you paralyze it by encumbering it with remedies. Our body is like a perfect watch that should go for a certain time; the watchmaker cannot open it, he can only adjust it by fumbling, and that blindfold.... Yes, our body is just a machine for living, that is all. And having entered on the path of definition, of which he was fond, Napoleon suddenly and unexpectedly gave a new one. Do you know, Rapp, what military art is? asked he. It is the art of being stronger than the enemy at a given moment. That™s all. Rapp made no reply. Tomorrow we shall have to deal with KutÃºzov! said Napoleon. We shall see! Do you remember at Braunau he commanded an army for three weeks and did not once mount a horse to inspect his entrenchments.... We shall see! He looked at his watch. It was still only four o™clock. He did not feel sleepy. The punch was finished and there was still nothing to do. He rose, walked to and fro, put on a warm overcoat and a hat, and went out of the tent. The night was dark and damp, a scarcely perceptible moisture was descending from above. Near by, the campfires were dimly burning among the French Guards, and in the distance those of the Russian line shone through the smoke. The weather was calm, and the rustle and tramp of the French troops already beginning to move to take up their positions were clearly audible. Napoleon walked about in front of his tent, looked at the fires and listened to these sounds, and as he was passing a tall guardsman in a shaggy cap, who was standing sentinel before his tent and had drawn himself up like a black pillar at sight of the Emperor, Napoleon stopped in front of him. What year did you enter the service? he asked with that affectation of military bluntness and geniality with which he always addressed the soldiers. The man answered the question. Ah! One of the old ones! Has your regiment had its rice? It has, Your Majesty. Napoleon nodded and walked away. At half-past five Napoleon rode to the village of ShevÃ¡rdino. It was growing light, the sky was clearing, only a single cloud lay in the east. The abandoned campfires were burning themselves out in the faint morning light. On the right a single deep report of a cannon resounded and died away in the prevailing silence. Some minutes passed. A second and a third report shook the air, then a fourth and a fifth boomed solemnly near by on the right. The first shots had not yet ceased to reverberate before others rang out and yet more were heard mingling with and overtaking one another. Napoleon with his suite rode up to the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt where he dismounted. The game had begun. CHAPTER XXX On returning to GÃ³rki after having seen Prince Andrew, Pierre ordered his groom to get the horses ready and to call him early in the Before he was thoroughly awake next morning everybody had already left the hut. The panes were rattling in the little windows and his groom was shaking him. Your excellency! Your excellency! Your excellency! he kept repeating pertinaciously while he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at him, having apparently lost hope of getting him to wake up. What? Has it begun? Is it time? Pierre asked, waking up. Hear the firing, said the groom, a discharged soldier. All the gentlemen have gone out, and his Serene Highness himself rode past long ago. Pierre dressed hastily and ran out to the porch. Outside all was bright, fresh, dewy, and cheerful. The sun, just bursting forth from behind a cloud that had concealed it, was shining, with rays still half broken by the clouds, over the roofs of the street opposite, on the dew-besprinkled dust of the road, on the walls of the houses, on the windows, the fence, and on Pierre™s horses standing before the hut. The roar of guns sounded more distinct outside. An adjutant accompanied by a Cossack passed by at a sharp trot. It™s time, Count; it™s time! cried the adjutant. Telling the groom to follow him with the horses, Pierre went down the street to the knoll from which he had looked at the field of battle the day before. A crowd of military men was assembled there, members of the staff could be heard conversing in French, and KutÃºzov™s gray head in a white cap with a red band was visible, his gray nape sunk between his shoulders. He was looking through a field glass down the highroad before him. Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him, spellbound by beauty. It was the same panorama he had admired from that spot the day before, but now the whole place was full of troops and covered by smoke clouds from the guns, and the slanting rays of the bright sun, rising slightly to the left behind Pierre, cast upon it through the clear morning air penetrating streaks of rosy, golden-tinted light and long dark shadows. The forest at the farthest extremity of the panorama seemed carved in some precious stone of a yellowish-green color; its undulating outline was silhouetted against the horizon and was pierced beyond ValÃºevo by the SmolÃ©nsk highroad crowded with troops. Nearer at hand glittered golden cornfields interspersed with copses. There were troops to be seen everywhere, in front and to the right and left. All this was vivid, majestic, and unexpected; but what impressed Pierre most of all was the view of the battlefield itself, of BorodinÃ³ and the hollows on both sides of the KolochÃ¡. Above the KolochÃ¡, in BorodinÃ³ and on both sides of it, especially to the left where the VÃ³yna flowing between its marshy banks falls into the KolochÃ¡, a mist had spread which seemed to melt, to dissolve, and to become translucent when the brilliant sun appeared and magically colored and outlined everything. The smoke of the guns mingled with this mist, and over the whole expanse and through that mist the rays of the morning sun were reflected, flashing back like lightning from the water, from the dew, and from the bayonets of the troops crowded together by the riverbanks and in BorodinÃ³. A white church could be seen through the mist, and here and there the roofs of huts in BorodinÃ³ as well as dense masses of soldiers, or green ammunition chests and ordnance. And all this moved, or seemed to move, as the smoke and mist spread out over the whole space. Just as in the mist-enveloped hollow near BorodinÃ³, so along the entire line outside and above it and especially in the woods and fields to the left, in the valleys and on the summits of the high ground, clouds of powder smoke seemed continually to spring up out of nothing, now singly, now several at a time, some translucent, others dense, which, swelling, growing, rolling, and blending, extended over the whole expanse. These puffs of smoke and (strange to say) the sound of the firing produced the chief beauty of the spectacle. Puff!”suddenly a round compact cloud of smoke was seen merging from violet into gray and milky white, and boom! came the report a second later. Puff! puff!”and two clouds arose pushing one another and blending together; and boom, boom! came the sounds confirming what the eye had seen. Pierre glanced round at the first cloud, which he had seen as a round compact ball, and in its place already were balloons of smoke floating to one side, and”puff (with a pause)”puff, puff! three and then four more appeared and then from each, with the same interval”boom”boom, boom! came the fine, firm, precise sounds in reply. It seemed as if those smoke clouds sometimes ran and sometimes stood still while woods, fields, and glittering bayonets ran past them. From the left, over fields and bushes, those large balls of smoke were continually appearing followed by their solemn reports, while nearer still, in the hollows and woods, there burst from the muskets small cloudlets that had no time to become balls, but had their little echoes in just the same way. Trakh-ta-ta-takh! came the frequent crackle of musketry, but it was irregular and feeble in comparison with the reports of the cannon. Pierre wished to be there with that smoke, those shining bayonets, that movement, and those sounds. He turned to look at KutÃºzov and his suite, to compare his impressions with those of others. They were all looking at the field of battle as he was, and, as it seemed to him, with the same feelings. All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth of feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood after his talk with Prince Andrew. Go, my dear fellow, go... and Christ be with you! KutÃºzov was saying to a general who stood beside him, not taking his eye from the battlefield. Having received this order the general passed by Pierre on his way down the knoll. To the crossing! said the general coldly and sternly in reply to one of the staff who asked where he was going. I™ll go there too, I too! thought Pierre, and followed the general. The general mounted a horse a Cossack had brought him. Pierre went to his groom who was holding his horses and, asking which was the quietest, clambered onto it, seized it by the mane, and turning out his toes pressed his heels against its sides and, feeling that his spectacles were slipping off but unable to let go of the mane and reins, he galloped after the general, causing the staff officers to smile as they watched him from the knoll. CHAPTER XXXI Having descended the hill the general after whom Pierre was galloping turned sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped in among some ranks of infantry marching ahead of him. He tried to pass either in front of them or to the right or left, but there were soldiers everywhere, all with the same preoccupied expression and busy with some unseen but evidently important task. They all gazed with the same dissatisfied and inquiring expression at this stout man in a white hat, who for some unknown reason threatened to trample them under his horse™s hoofs. Why ride into the middle of the battalion? one of them shouted at him. Another prodded his horse with the butt end of a musket, and Pierre, bending over his saddlebow and hardly able to control his shying horse, galloped ahead of the soldiers where there was a free space. There was a bridge ahead of him, where other soldiers stood firing. Pierre rode up to them. Without being aware of it he had come to the bridge across the KolochÃ¡ between GÃ³rki and BorodinÃ³, which the French (having occupied BorodinÃ³) were attacking in the first phase of the battle. Pierre saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that soldiers were doing something on both sides of it and in the meadow, among the rows of new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the smoke of the campfires the day before; but despite the incessant firing going on there he had no idea that this was the field of battle. He did not notice the sound of the bullets whistling from every side, or the projectiles that flew over him, did not see the enemy on the other side of the river, and for a long time did not notice the killed and wounded, though many fell near him. He looked about him with a smile which did not leave his face. Why™s that fellow in front of the line? shouted somebody at him again. To the left!... Keep to the right! the men shouted to him. Pierre went to the right, and unexpectedly encountered one of RaÃ©vski™s adjutants whom he knew. The adjutant looked angrily at him, evidently also intending to shout at him, but on recognizing him he nodded. How have you got here? he said, and galloped on. Pierre, feeling out of place there, having nothing to do, and afraid of getting in someone™s way again, galloped after the adjutant. What™s happening here? May I come with you? he asked. One moment, one moment! replied the adjutant, and riding up to a stout colonel who was standing in the meadow, he gave him some message and then addressed Pierre. Why have you come here, Count? he asked with a smile. Still inquisitive? Yes, yes, assented Pierre. But the adjutant turned his horse about and rode on. Here it™s tolerable, said he, but with BagratiÃ³n on the left flank they™re getting it frightfully hot. Really? said Pierre. Where is that? Come along with me to our knoll. We can get a view from there and in our battery it is still bearable, said the adjutant. Will you come? Yes, I™ll come with you, replied Pierre, looking round for his groom. It was only now that he noticed wounded men staggering along or being carried on stretchers. On that very meadow he had ridden over the day before, a soldier was lying athwart the rows of scented hay, with his head thrown awkwardly back and his shako off. Why haven™t they carried him away? Pierre was about to ask, but seeing the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he checked himself. Pierre did not find his groom and rode along the hollow with the adjutant to RaÃ©vski™s Redoubt. His horse lagged behind the adjutant™s and jolted him at every step. You don™t seem to be used to riding, Count? remarked the adjutant. No it™s not that, but her action seems so jerky, said Pierre in a puzzled tone. Why... she™s wounded! said the adjutant. In the off foreleg above the knee. A bullet, no doubt. I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of fire! Having ridden in the smoke past the Sixth Corps, behind the artillery which had been moved forward and was in action, deafening them with the noise of firing, they came to a small wood. There it was cool and quiet, with a scent of autumn. Pierre and the adjutant dismounted and walked up the hill on foot. Is the general here? asked the adjutant on reaching the knoll. He was here a minute ago but has just gone that way, someone told him, pointing to the right. The adjutant looked at Pierre as if puzzled what to do with him now. Don™t trouble about me, said Pierre. I™ll go up onto the knoll if I may? Yes, do. You™ll see everything from there and it™s less dangerous, and I™ll come for you. Pierre went to the battery and the adjutant rode on. They did not meet again, and only much later did Pierre learn that he lost an arm that day. The knoll to which Pierre ascended was that famous one afterwards known to the Russians as the Knoll Battery or RaÃ©vski™s Redoubt, and to the French as la grande redoute, la fatale redoute, la redoute du centre, around which tens of thousands fell, and which the French regarded as the key to the whole position. This redoubt consisted of a knoll, on three sides of which trenches had been dug. Within the entrenchment stood ten guns that were being fired through openings in the earthwork. In line with the knoll on both sides stood other guns which also fired incessantly. A little behind the guns stood infantry. When ascending that knoll Pierre had no notion that this spot, on which small trenches had been dug and from which a few guns were firing, was the most important point of the battle. On the contrary, just because he happened to be there he thought it one of the least significant parts of the field. Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with an unconsciously happy smile. Occasionally he rose and walked about the battery still with that same smile, trying not to obstruct the soldiers who were loading, hauling the guns, and continually running past him with bags and charges. The guns of that battery were being fired continually one after another with a deafening roar, enveloping the whole neighborhood in powder smoke. In contrast with the dread felt by the infantrymen placed in support, here in the battery where a small number of men busy at their work were separated from the rest by a trench, everyone experienced a common and as it were family feeling of animation. The intrusion of Pierre™s nonmilitary figure in a white hat made an unpleasant impression at first. The soldiers looked askance at him with surprise and even alarm as they went past him. The senior artillery officer, a tall, long-legged, pockmarked man, moved over to Pierre as if to see the action of the farthest gun and looked at him with curiosity. A young round-faced officer, quite a boy still and evidently only just out of the Cadet College, who was zealously commanding the two guns entrusted to him, addressed Pierre sternly. Sir, he said, permit me to ask you to stand aside. You must not be here. The soldiers shook their heads disapprovingly as they looked at Pierre. But when they had convinced themselves that this man in the white hat was doing no harm, but either sat quietly on the slope of the trench with a shy smile or, politely making way for the soldiers, paced up and down the battery under fire as calmly as if he were on a boulevard, their feeling of hostile distrust gradually began to change into a kindly and bantering sympathy, such as soldiers feel for their dogs, cocks, goats, and in general for the animals that live with the regiment. The men soon accepted Pierre into their family, adopted him, gave him a nickname (our gentleman), and made kindly fun of him among themselves. A shell tore up the earth two paces from Pierre and he looked around with a smile as he brushed from his clothes some earth it had thrown up. And how™s it you™re not afraid, sir, really now? a red-faced, broad-shouldered soldier asked Pierre, with a grin that disclosed a set of sound, white teeth. Are you afraid, then? said Pierre. What else do you expect? answered the soldier. She has no mercy, you know! When she comes spluttering down, out go your innards. One can™t help being afraid, he said laughing. Several of the men, with bright kindly faces, stopped beside Pierre. They seemed not to have expected him to talk like anybody else, and the discovery that he did so delighted them. It™s the business of us soldiers. But in a gentleman it™s wonderful! There™s a gentleman for you! To your places! cried the young officer to the men gathered round Pierre. The young officer was evidently exercising his duties for the first or second time and therefore treated both his superiors and the men with great precision and formality. The booming cannonade and the fusillade of musketry were growing more intense over the whole field, especially to the left where BagratiÃ³n™s flÃ¨ches were, but where Pierre was the smoke of the firing made it almost impossible to distinguish anything. Moreover, his whole attention was engrossed by watching the family circle”separated from all else”formed by the men in the battery. His first unconscious feeling of joyful animation produced by the sights and sounds of the battlefield was now replaced by another, especially since he had seen that soldier lying alone in the hayfield. Now, seated on the slope of the trench, he observed the faces of those around him. By ten o™clock some twenty men had already been carried away from the battery; two guns were smashed and cannon balls fell more and more frequently on the battery and spent bullets buzzed and whistled around. But the men in the battery seemed not to notice this, and merry voices and jokes were heard on all sides. A live one! shouted a man as a whistling shell approached. Not this way! To the infantry! added another with loud laughter, seeing the shell fly past and fall into the ranks of the supports. Are you bowing to a friend, eh? remarked another, chaffing a peasant who ducked low as a cannon ball flew over. Several soldiers gathered by the wall of the trench, looking out to see what was happening in front. They™ve withdrawn the front line, it has retired, said they, pointing over the earthwork. Mind your own business, an old sergeant shouted at them. If they™ve retired it™s because there™s work for them to do farther back. And the sergeant, taking one of the men by the shoulders, gave him a shove with his knee. This was followed by a burst of laughter. To the fifth gun, wheel it up! came shouts from one side. Now then, all together, like bargees! rose the merry voices of those who were moving the gun. Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman™s hat off! cried the red-faced humorist, showing his teeth chaffing Pierre. Awkward baggage! he added reproachfully to a cannon ball that struck a cannon wheel and a man™s leg. Now then, you foxes! said another, laughing at some militiamen who, stooping low, entered the battery to carry away the wounded man. So this gruel isn™t to your taste? Oh, you crows! You™re scared! they shouted at the militiamen who stood hesitating before the man whose leg had been torn off. There, lads... oh, oh! they mimicked the peasants, they don™t like it at all! Pierre noticed that after every ball that hit the redoubt, and after every loss, the liveliness increased more and more. As the flames of the fire hidden within come more and more vividly and rapidly from an approaching thundercloud, so, as if in opposition to what was taking place, the lightning of hidden fire growing more and more intense glowed in the faces of these men. Pierre did not look out at the battlefield and was not concerned to know what was happening there; he was entirely absorbed in watching this fire which burned ever more brightly and which he felt was flaming up in the same way in his own soul. At ten o™clock the infantry that had been among the bushes in front of the battery and along the KÃ¡menka streamlet retreated. From the battery they could be seen running back past it carrying their wounded on their muskets. A general with his suite came to the battery, and after speaking to the colonel gave Pierre an angry look and went away again having ordered the infantry supports behind the battery to lie down, so as to be less exposed to fire. After this from amid the ranks of infantry to the right of the battery came the sound of a drum and shouts of command, and from the battery one saw how those ranks of infantry moved forward. Pierre looked over the wall of the trench and was particularly struck by a pale young officer who, letting his sword hang down, was walking backwards and kept glancing uneasily around. The ranks of the infantry disappeared amid the smoke but their long-drawn shout and rapid musketry firing could still be heard. A few minutes later crowds of wounded men and stretcher-bearers came back from that direction. Projectiles began to fall still more frequently in the battery. Several men were lying about who had not been removed. Around the cannon the men moved still more briskly and busily. No one any longer took notice of Pierre. Once or twice he was shouted at for being in the way. The senior officer moved with big, rapid strides from one gun to another with a frowning face. The young officer, with his face still more flushed, commanded the men more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers handed up the charges, turned, loaded, and did their business with strained smartness. They gave little jumps as they walked, as though they were on springs. The stormcloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which Pierre had watched kindle burned up brightly. Pierre standing beside the commanding officer. The young officer, his hand to his shako, ran up to his superior. I have the honor to report, sir, that only eight rounds are left. Are we to continue firing? he asked. Grapeshot! the senior shouted, without answering the question, looking over the wall of the trench. Suddenly something happened: the young officer gave a gasp and bending double sat down on the ground like a bird shot on the wing. Everything became strange, confused, and misty in Pierre™s eyes. One cannon ball after another whistled by and struck the earthwork, a soldier, or a gun. Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before, now heard nothing else. On the right of the battery soldiers shouting Hurrah! were running not forwards but backwards, it seemed to Pierre. A cannon ball struck the very end of the earth work by which he was standing, crumbling down the earth; a black ball flashed before his eyes and at the same instant plumped into something. Some militiamen who were entering the battery ran back. All with grapeshot! shouted the officer. The sergeant ran up to the officer and in a frightened whisper informed him (as a butler at dinner informs his master that there is no more of some wine asked for) that there were no more charges. The scoundrels! What are they doing? shouted the officer, turning to Pierre. The officer™s face was red and perspiring and his eyes glittered under his frowning brow. Run to the reserves and bring up the ammunition boxes! he yelled, angrily avoiding Pierre with his eyes and speaking to his men. I™ll go, said Pierre. The officer, without answering him, strode across to the opposite side. Don™t fire.... Wait! he shouted. The man who had been ordered to go for ammunition stumbled against Pierre. Eh, sir, this is no place for you, said he, and ran down the slope. Pierre ran after him, avoiding the spot where the young officer was sitting. One cannon ball, another, and a third flew over him, falling in front, beside, and behind him. Pierre ran down the slope. Where am I going? he suddenly asked himself when he was already near the green ammunition wagons. He halted irresolutely, not knowing whether to return or go on. Suddenly a terrible concussion threw him backwards to the ground. At the same instant he was dazzled by a great flash of flame, and immediately a deafening roar, crackling, and whistling made his ears tingle. When he came to himself he was sitting on the ground leaning on his hands; the ammunition wagons he had been approaching no longer existed, only charred green boards and rags littered the scorched grass, and a horse, dangling fragments of its shaft behind it, galloped past, while another horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering prolonged and piercing cries. CHAPTER XXXII Beside himself with terror Pierre jumped up and ran back to the battery, as to the only refuge from the horrors that surrounded him. On entering the earthwork he noticed that there were men doing something there but that no shots were being fired from the battery. He had no time to realize who these men were. He saw the senior officer lying on the earth wall with his back turned as if he were examining something down below and that one of the soldiers he had noticed before was struggling forward shouting Brothers! and trying to free himself from some men who were holding him by the arm. He also saw something else that was strange. But he had not time to realize that the colonel had been killed, that the soldier shouting Brothers! was a prisoner, and that another man had been bayoneted in the back before his eyes, for hardly had he run into the redoubt before a thin, sallow-faced, perspiring man in a blue uniform rushed on him sword in hand, shouting something. Instinctively guarding against the shock”for they had been running together at full speed before they saw one another”Pierre put out his hands and seized the man (a French officer) by the shoulder with one hand and by the throat with the other. The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by his collar. For some seconds they gazed with frightened eyes at one another™s unfamiliar faces and both were perplexed at what they had done and what they were to do next. Am I taken prisoner or have I taken him prisoner? each was thinking. But the French officer was evidently more inclined to think he had been taken prisoner because Pierre™s strong hand, impelled by instinctive fear, squeezed his throat ever tighter and tighter. The Frenchman was about to say something, when just above their heads, terrible and low, a cannon ball whistled, and it seemed to Pierre that the French officer™s head had been torn off, so swiftly had he ducked it. Pierre too bent his head and let his hands fall. Without further thought as to who had taken whom prisoner, the Frenchman ran back to the battery and Pierre ran down the slope stumbling over the dead and wounded who, it seemed to him, caught at his feet. But before he reached the foot of the knoll he was met by a dense crowd of Russian soldiers who, stumbling, tripping up, and shouting, ran merrily and wildly toward the battery. (This was the attack for which ErmÃ³lov claimed the credit, declaring that only his courage and good luck made such a feat possible: it was the attack in which he was said to have thrown some St. George™s Crosses he had in his pocket into the battery for the first soldiers to take who got there.) The French who had occupied the battery fled, and our troops shouting Hurrah! pursued them so far beyond the battery that it was difficult to call them back. The prisoners were brought down from the battery and among them was a wounded French general, whom the officers surrounded. Crowds of wounded”some known to Pierre and some unknown”Russians and French, with faces distorted by suffering, walked, crawled, and were carried on stretchers from the battery. Pierre again went up onto the knoll where he had spent over an hour, and of that family circle which had received him as a member he did not find a single one. There were many dead whom he did not know, but some he recognized. The young officer still sat in the same way, bent double, in a pool of blood at the edge of the earth wall. The red-faced man was still twitching, but they did not carry him away. Pierre ran down the slope once more. Now they will stop it, now they will be horrified at what they have done! he thought, aimlessly going toward a crowd of stretcher bearers moving from the battlefield. But behind the veil of smoke the sun was still high, and in front and especially to the left, near SemÃ«novsk, something seemed to be seething in the smoke, and the roar of cannon and musketry did not diminish, but even increased to desperation like a man who, straining himself, shrieks with all his remaining strength. CHAPTER XXXIII The chief action of the battle of BorodinÃ³ was fought within the seven thousand feet between BorodinÃ³ and BagratiÃ³n™s flÃ¨ches. Beyond that space there was, on the one side, a demonstration made by the Russians with UvÃ¡rov™s cavalry at midday, and on the other side, beyond UtÃtsa, Poniatowski™s collision with TÃºchkov; but these two were detached and feeble actions in comparison with what took place in the center of the battlefield. On the field between BorodinÃ³ and the flÃ¨ches, beside the wood, the chief action of the day took place on an open space visible from both sides and was fought in the simplest and most artless way. The battle began on both sides with a cannonade from several hundred guns. Then when the whole field was covered with smoke, two divisions, Campan™s and Dessaix™s, advanced from the French right, while Murat™s troops advanced on BorodinÃ³ from their left. From the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt where Napoleon was standing the flÃ¨ches were two thirds of a mile away, and it was more than a mile as the crow flies to BorodinÃ³, so that Napoleon could not see what was happening there, especially as the smoke mingling with the mist hid the whole locality. The soldiers of Dessaix™s division advancing against the flÃ¨ches could only be seen till they had entered the hollow that lay between them and the flÃ¨ches. As soon as they had descended into that hollow, the smoke of the guns and musketry on the flÃ¨ches grew so dense that it covered the whole approach on that side of it. Through the smoke glimpses could be caught of something black”probably men”and at times the glint of bayonets. But whether they were moving or stationary, whether they were French or Russian, could not be discovered from the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt. The sun had risen brightly and its slanting rays struck straight into Napoleon™s face as, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at the flÃ¨ches. The smoke spread out before them, and at times it looked as if the smoke were moving, at times as if the troops moved. Sometimes shouts were heard through the firing, but it was impossible to tell what was being done there. Napoleon, standing on the knoll, looked through a field glass, and in its small circlet saw smoke and men, sometimes his own and sometimes Russians, but when he looked again with the naked eye, he could not tell where what he had seen was. He descended the knoll and began walking up and down before it. Occasionally he stopped, listened to the firing, and gazed intently at the battlefield. But not only was it impossible to make out what was happening from where he was standing down below, or from the knoll above on which some of his generals had taken their stand, but even from the flÃ¨ches themselves”in which by this time there were now Russian and now French soldiers, alternately or together, dead, wounded, alive, frightened, or maddened”even at those flÃ¨ches themselves it was impossible to make out what was taking place. There for several hours amid incessant cannon and musketry fire, now Russians were seen alone, now Frenchmen alone, now infantry, and now cavalry: they appeared, fired, fell, collided, not knowing what to do with one another, screamed, and ran back again. From the battlefield adjutants he had sent out, and orderlies from his marshals, kept galloping up to Napoleon with reports of the progress of the action, but all these reports were false, both because it was impossible in the heat of battle to say what was happening at any given moment and because many of the adjutants did not go to the actual place of conflict but reported what they had heard from others; and also because while an adjutant was riding more than a mile to Napoleon circumstances changed and the news he brought was already becoming false. Thus an adjutant galloped up from Murat with tidings that BorodinÃ³ had been occupied and the bridge over the KolochÃ¡ was in the hands of the French. The adjutant asked whether Napoleon wished the troops to cross it? Napoleon gave orders that the troops should form up on the farther side and wait. But before that order was given”almost as soon in fact as the adjutant had left BorodinÃ³”the bridge had been retaken by the Russians and burned, in the very skirmish at which Pierre had been present at the beginning of the battle. An adjutant galloped up from the flÃ¨ches with a pale and frightened face and reported to Napoleon that their attack had been repulsed, Campan wounded, and Davout killed; yet at the very time the adjutant had been told that the French had been repulsed, the flÃ¨ches had in fact been recaptured by other French troops, and Davout was alive and only slightly bruised. On the basis of these necessarily untrustworthy reports Napoleon gave his orders, which had either been executed before he gave them or could not be and were not executed. The marshals and generals, who were nearer to the field of battle but, like Napoleon, did not take part in the actual fighting and only occasionally went within musket range, made their own arrangements without asking Napoleon and issued orders where and in what direction to fire and where cavalry should gallop and infantry should run. But even their orders, like Napoleon™s, were seldom carried out, and then but partially. For the most part things happened contrary to their orders. Soldiers ordered to advance ran back on meeting grapeshot; soldiers ordered to remain where they were, suddenly, seeing Russians unexpectedly before them, sometimes rushed back and sometimes forward, and the cavalry dashed without orders in pursuit of the flying Russians. In this way two cavalry regiments galloped through the SemÃ«novsk hollow and as soon as they reached the top of the incline turned round and galloped full speed back again. The infantry moved in the same way, sometimes running to quite other places than those they were ordered to go to. All orders as to where and when to move the guns, when to send infantry to shoot or horsemen to ride down the Russian infantry”all such orders were given by the officers on the spot nearest to the units concerned, without asking either Ney, Davout, or Murat, much less Napoleon. They did not fear getting into trouble for not fulfilling orders or for acting on their own initiative, for in battle what is at stake is what is dearest to man”his own life”and it sometimes seems that safety lies in running back, sometimes in running forward; and these men who were right in the heat of the battle acted according to the mood of the moment. In reality, however, all these movements forward and backward did not improve or alter the position of the troops. All their rushing and galloping at one another did little harm, the harm of disablement and death was caused by the balls and bullets that flew over the fields on which these men were floundering about. As soon as they left the place where the balls and bullets were flying about, their superiors, located in the background, re-formed them and brought them under discipline and under the influence of that discipline led them back to the zone of fire, where under the influence of fear of death they lost their discipline and rushed about according to the chance promptings of the throng. CHAPTER XXXIV Napoleon™s generals”Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that region of fire and sometimes even entered it”repeatedly led into it huge masses of well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always happened in their former battles, instead of the news they expected of the enemy™s flight, these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and terrified mobs. The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly decreased. In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to demand reinforcements. Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat™s adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed if His Majesty would let him have another division. Reinforcements? said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at the adjutant”a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like Murat™s own”as though he did not understand his words. Reinforcements! thought Napoleon to himself. How can they need reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a weak, unentrenched Russian wing? Tell the King of Naples, said he sternly, that it is not noon yet, and I don™t yet see my chessboard clearly. Go!... The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being slaughtered. Napoleon rose and having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier began talking to them about matters unconnected with the battle. In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest Napoleon, Berthier™s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite, who was galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard. Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in a loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending reinforcements. He swore on his honor that the Russians were lost if the Emperor would give another division. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down without replying. Belliard began talking loudly and eagerly to the generals of the suite around him. You are very fiery, Belliard, said Napoleon, when he again came up to the general. In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go and have another look and then come back to me. Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the battlefield galloped up. Now then, what do you want? asked Napoleon in the tone of a man irritated at being continually disturbed. Sire, the prince... began the adjutant. Asks for reinforcements? said Napoleon with an angry gesture. The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and began to report, but the Emperor turned from him, took a couple of steps, stopped, came back, and called Berthier. We must give reserves, he said, moving his arms slightly apart. Who do you think should be sent there? he asked of Berthier (whom he subsequently termed that gosling I have made an eagle). Send ClaparÃ¨de™s division, sire, replied Berthier, who knew all the division™s regiments, and battalions by heart. Napoleon nodded assent. The adjutant galloped to ClaparÃ¨de™s division and a few minutes later the Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. Napoleon gazed silently in that direction. No! he suddenly said to Berthier. I can™t send ClaparÃ¨de. Send Friant™s division. Though there was no advantage in sending Friant™s division instead of ClaparÃ¨de™s, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping ClaparÃ¨de and sending Friant now, the order was carried out exactly. Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing the part of a doctor who hinders by his medicines”a role he so justly understood and condemned. Friant™s division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke of the battlefield. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a gallop and as if by agreement all said the same thing. They all asked for reinforcements and all said that the Russians were holding their positions and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was melting away. Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought. M. de Beausset, the man so fond of travel, having fasted since morning, came up to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to suggest lunch to His Majesty. I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory? said he. Napoleon silently shook his head in negation. Assuming the negation to refer only to the victory and not to the lunch, M. de Beausset ventured with respectful jocularity to remark that there is no reason for not having lunch when one can get it. Go away... exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely, and turned aside. A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on M. de Beausset™s face and he glided away to the other generals. Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always winning, suddenly just when he has calculated all the chances of the game, finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he loses. His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations had been made, the same dispositions, and the same proclamation courte et Ã©nergique, he himself was still the same: he knew that and knew that he was now even more experienced and skillful than before. Even the enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland”yet the terrible stroke of his arm had supernaturally become impotent. All the old methods that had been unfailingly crowned with success: the concentration of batteries on one point, an attack by reserves to break the enemy™s line, and a cavalry attack by the men of iron, all these methods had already been employed, yet not only was there no victory, but from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded, of reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the Russians, and of disorganization among his own troops. Formerly, after he had given two or three orders and uttered a few phrases, marshals and adjutants had come galloping up with congratulations and happy faces, announcing the trophies taken, the corps of prisoners, bundles of enemy eagles and standards, cannon and stores, and Murat had only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather in the baggage wagons. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on. But now something strange was happening to his troops. Despite news of the capture of the flÃ¨ches, Napoleon saw that this was not the same, not at all the same, as what had happened in his former battles. He saw that what he was feeling was felt by all the men about him experienced in the art of war. All their faces looked dejected, and they all shunned one another™s eyes”only a de Beausset could fail to grasp the meaning of what was happening. But Napoleon with his long experience of war well knew the meaning of a battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all efforts had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that the least accident might now”with the fight balanced on such a strained center”destroy him and his army. When he ran his mind over the whole of this strange Russian campaign in which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon, or army corps had been captured in two months, when he looked at the concealed depression on the faces around him and heard reports of the Russians still holding their ground”a terrible feeling like a nightmare took possession of him, and all the unlucky accidents that might destroy him occurred to his mind. The Russians might fall on his left wing, might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a stray cannon ball. All this was possible. In former battles he had only considered the possibilities of success, but now innumerable unlucky chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like a dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him, and raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in his helplessness. The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a campstool below the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. Berthier approached and suggested that they should ride along the line to ascertain the position of affairs. What? What do you say? asked Napoleon. Yes, tell them to bring me my horse. He mounted and rode toward SemÃ«novsk. Amid the powder smoke, slowly dispersing over the whole space through which Napoleon rode, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before seen such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of guns, that had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave a peculiar significance to the spectacle, as music does to tableaux vivants. Napoleon rode up the high ground at SemÃ«novsk, and through the smoke saw ranks of men in uniforms of a color unfamiliar to him. They were Russians. The Russians stood in serried ranks behind SemÃ«novsk village and its knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line and sent forth clouds of smoke. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the Russians. Napoleon stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie from which Berthier had aroused him. He could not stop what was going on before him and around him and was supposed to be directed by him and to depend on him, and from its lack of success this affair, for the first time, seemed to him unnecessary and horrible. One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead the Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier, standing near Napoleon, exchanged looks and smiled contemptuously at this general™s senseless offer. Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time. At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard destroyed! he said, and turning his horse rode back to ShevÃ¡rdino. CHAPTER XXXV On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat KutÃºzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no orders, but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested. Yes, yes, do that, he replied to various proposals. Yes, yes: go, dear boy, and have a look, he would say to one or another of those about him; or, No, don™t, we™d better wait! He listened to the reports that were brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of him; but when listening to the reports it seemed as if he were not interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in something else”in the expression of face and tone of voice of those who were reporting. By long years of military experience he knew, and with the wisdom of age understood, that it is impossible for one man to direct hundreds of thousands of others struggling with death, and he knew that the result of a battle is decided not by the orders of a commander in chief, nor the place where the troops are stationed, nor by the number of cannon or of slaughtered men, but by that intangible force called the spirit of the army, and he watched this force and guided it in as far as that was in his power. KutÃºzov™s general expression was one of concentrated quiet attention, and his face wore a strained look as if he found it difficult to master the fatigue of his old and feeble body. At eleven o™clock they brought him news that the flÃ¨ches captured by the French had been retaken, but that Prince BagratiÃ³n was wounded. KutÃºzov groaned and swayed his head. Ride over to Prince Peter IvÃ¡novich and find out about it exactly, he said to one of his adjutants, and then turned to the Duke of WÃ¼rttemberg who was standing behind him. Will Your Highness please take command of the first army? Soon after the duke™s departure”before he could possibly have reached SemÃ«novsk”his adjutant came back from him and told KutÃºzov that the duke asked for more troops. KutÃºzov made a grimace and sent an order to DokhtÃºrov to take over the command of the first army, and a request to the duke”whom he said he could not spare at such an important moment”to return to him. When they brought him news that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff officers congratulated him, KutÃºzov smiled. Wait a little, gentlemen, said he. The battle is won, and there is nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat. Still, it is better to wait before we rejoice. But he sent an adjutant to take the news round the army. When ScherbÃnin came galloping from the left flank with news that the French had captured the flÃ¨ches and the village of SemÃ«novsk, KutÃºzov, guessing by the sounds of the battle and by ScherbÃnin™s looks that the news was bad, rose as if to stretch his legs and, taking ScherbÃnin™s arm, led him aside. Go, my dear fellow, he said to ErmÃ³lov, and see whether something can™t be done. KutÃºzov was in GÃ³rki, near the center of the Russian position. The attack directed by Napoleon against our left flank had been several times repulsed. In the center the French had not got beyond BorodinÃ³, and on their left flank UvÃ¡rov™s cavalry had put the French to flight. Toward three o™clock the French attacks ceased. On the faces of all who came from the field of battle, and of those who stood around him, KutÃºzov noticed an expression of extreme tension. He was satisfied with the day™s success”a success exceeding his expectations, but the old man™s strength was failing him. Several times his head dropped low as if it were falling and he dozed off. Dinner was brought him. Adjutant General Wolzogen, the man who when riding past Prince Andrew had said, the war should be extended widely, and whom BagratiÃ³n so detested, rode up while KutÃºzov was at dinner. Wolzogen had come from Barclay de Tolly to report on the progress of affairs on the left flank. The sagacious Barclay de Tolly, seeing crowds of wounded men running back and the disordered rear of the army, weighed all the circumstances, concluded that the battle was lost, and sent his favorite officer to the commander in chief with that news. KutÃºzov was chewing a piece of roast chicken with difficulty and glanced at Wolzogen with eyes that brightened under their puckering lids. Wolzogen, nonchalantly stretching his legs, approached KutÃºzov with a half-contemptuous smile on his lips, scarcely touching the peak of his cap. He treated his Serene Highness with a somewhat affected nonchalance intended to show that, as a highly trained military man, he left it to Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom he was dealing with. Der alte Herr (as in their own set the Germans called KutÃºzov) is making himself very comfortable, thought Wolzogen, and looking severely at the dishes in front of KutÃºzov he began to report to the old gentleman the position of affairs on the left flank as Barclay had ordered him to and as he himself had seen and understood it. All the points of our position are in the enemy™s hands and we cannot dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is impossible to stop them, he reported. KutÃºzov ceased chewing and fixed an astonished gaze on Wolzogen, as if not understanding what was said to him. Wolzogen, noticing the old gentleman™s agitation, said with a smile: I have not considered it right to conceal from your Serene Highness what I have seen. The troops are in complete disorder.... You have seen? You have seen?... KutÃºzov shouted. Frowning and rising quickly, he went up to Wolzogen. How... how dare you!... he shouted, choking and making a threatening gesture with his trembling arms: How dare you, sir, say that to me? You know nothing about it. Tell General Barclay from me that his information is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to me, the commander in chief, than to him. Wolzogen was about to make a rejoinder, but KutÃºzov interrupted him. The enemy has been repulsed on the left and defeated on the right flank. If you have seen amiss, sir, do not allow yourself to say what you don™t know! Be so good as to ride to General Barclay and inform him of my firm intention to attack the enemy tomorrow, said KutÃºzov sternly. All were silent, and the only sound audible was the heavy breathing of the panting old general. They are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave army! The enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred soil of Russia, said KutÃºzov crossing himself, and he suddenly sobbed as his eyes filled with tears. Wolzogen, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently aside, marveling at the old gentleman™s conceited stupidity. Ah, here he is, my hero! said KutÃºzov to a portly, handsome, dark-haired general who was just ascending the knoll. This was RaÃ©vski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part of the field of BorodinÃ³. RaÃ©vski reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and that the French no longer ventured to attack. After hearing him, KutÃºzov said in French: Then you do not think, like some others, that we must retreat? On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always the most stubborn who remain victors, replied RaÃ©vski, and in my opinion... KaysÃ¡rov! KutÃºzov called to his adjutant. Sit down and write out the order of the day for tomorrow. And you, he continued, addressing another, ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack. While KutÃºzov was talking to RaÃ©vski and dictating the order of the day, Wolzogen returned from Barclay and said that General Barclay wished to have written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given. KutÃºzov, without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to be written out which the former commander in chief, to avoid personal responsibility, very judiciously wished to receive. And by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains throughout an army one and the same temper, known as the spirit of the army, and which constitutes the sinew of war, KutÃºzov™s words, his order for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of the army to the other. It was far from being the same words or the same order that reached the farthest links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth at different ends of the army did not even resemble what KutÃºzov had said, but the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was not the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in the commander in chief™s soul as in that of every Russian. And on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe, the exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited. CHAPTER XXXVI Prince Andrew™s regiment was among the reserves which till after one o™clock were stationed inactive behind SemÃ«novsk, under heavy artillery fire. Toward two o™clock the regiment, having already lost more than two hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap between SemÃ«novsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished that day and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred enemy guns was directed between one and two o™clock. Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here lost another third of its men. From in front and especially from the right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious domain of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing cannon balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as if to allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which the cannon balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men were torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually being dragged away and the wounded carried off. With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those not yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same mood. All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful shot and the cry of stretchers! was heard. Most of the time, by their officers™ order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his shako, carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight again; another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished his bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put his boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when rows of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when great masses of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any attention to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or some of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval were heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was as if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in everyday, commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a trace. Hey, look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She™ll fall.... Ah, they don™t see it! came identical shouts from the ranks all along the regiment. Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown dog, coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner in front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell fell close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But such distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men had been inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale and gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier. Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up and down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the meadow beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back. There was nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything went on of itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded carried away, and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the rear they returned immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew, considering it his duty to rouse the courage of the men and to set them an example, walked about among the ranks, but he soon became convinced that this was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach them. All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were unconsciously bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their situation. He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the grass, and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big strides trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by the mowers, then he counted his steps, calculating how often he must walk from one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped the flowers from the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut, rubbed them in his palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter scent. Nothing remained of the previous day™s thoughts. He thought of nothing. He listened with weary ears to the ever-recurring sounds, distinguishing the whistle of flying projectiles from the booming of the reports, glanced at the tiresomely familiar faces of the men of the first battalion, and waited. Here it comes... this one is coming our way again! he thought, listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke. One, another! Again! It has hit.... He stopped and looked at the ranks. No, it has gone over. But this one has hit! And again he started trying to reach the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five paces from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A chill ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many had been hit”a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion. Adjutant! he shouted. Order them not to crowd together. The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew. From the other side a battalion commander rode up. Look out! came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the battalion commander™s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and galloped aside. The horse™s terror infected the men. Lie down! cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground. Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and the meadow. Can this be death? thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new, envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke that curled up from the rotating black ball. I cannot, I do not wish to die. I love life”I love this grass, this earth, this air.... He thought this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him. It™s shameful, sir! he said to the adjutant. What... He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame, a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side, raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him. From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large stain on the grass. The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass, breathing heavily and noisily. What are you waiting for? Come along! The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again. Pick him up, lift him, it™s all the same! cried someone. They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher. Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My God!”voices among the officers were heard saying. It flew a hair™s breadth past my ear, said the adjutant. The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station. Keep in step! Ah... those peasants! shouted an officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher. Get into step, FÃ«dor... I say, FÃ«dor! said the foremost peasant. Now that™s right! said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into step. Your excellency! Eh, Prince! said the trembling voice of TimÃ³khin, who had run up and was looking down on the stretcher. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids drooped. The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to the dressing station by the wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood. In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating oats from their movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the grains that fell. Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch trees cawing impatiently. Around the tents, over more than five acres, bloodstained men in various garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded stood crowds of soldier stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive faces, whom the officers keeping order tried in vain to drive from the spot. Disregarding the officers™ orders, the soldiers stood leaning against their stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend the difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were to be brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside the tents groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for vodka. Some were delirious. Prince Andrew™s bearers, stepping over the wounded who had not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental commander, close up to one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and for a long time could not make out what was going on around him. He remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life. Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk, a crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered. We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed the King himself! cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered with fever. If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there wouldn™t have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely.... Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. But isn™t it all the same now? thought he. And what will be there, and what has there been here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in this life I did not and do not understand. CHAPTER XXXVII One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron, holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted a little respite. After turning his head from right to left for some time, he sighed and looked down. All right, immediately, he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent. Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting. It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a chance! remarked one. Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted him. All he saw about him merged into a general impression of naked, bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond beside the SmolÃ©nsk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same chair Ã canon, the sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a presentiment. There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied, and on the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he was left alone and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on the other two tables. On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a Cossack, judging by the uniform thrown down beside him. Four soldiers were holding him, and a spectacled doctor was cutting into his muscular brown back. Ooh, ooh, ooh! grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his swarthy snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white teeth, he began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing, ringing, and prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many people were crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back. His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head seemed strangely familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were pressing on his chest to hold him down. One large, white, plump leg twitched rapidly all the time with a feverish tremor. The man was sobbing and choking convulsively. Two doctors”one of whom was pale and trembling”were silently doing something to this man™s other, gory leg. When he had finished with the Tartar, whom they covered with an overcoat, the spectacled doctor came up to Prince Andrew, wiping his hands. He glanced at Prince Andrew™s face and quickly turned away. Undress him! What are you waiting for? he cried angrily to the dressers. His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to Prince Andrew™s mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began hastily to undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The doctor bent down over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he made a sign to someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused Prince Andrew to lose consciousness. When he came to himself the splintered portions of his thighbone had been extracted, the torn flesh cut away, and the wound bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on his face. As soon as Prince Andrew opened his eyes, the doctor bent over, kissed him silently on the lips, and hurried away. After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the best and happiest moments of his life”especially his earliest childhood, when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when leaning over him his nurse sang him to sleep and he, burying his head in the pillow, felt happy in the mere consciousness of life”returned to his memory, not merely as something past but as something present. The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of whose head seemed familiar to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him up and trying to quiet him. Show it to me.... Oh, ooh... Oh! Oh, ooh! his frightened moans could be heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs. Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted to weep. Whether because he was dying without glory, or because he was sorry to part with life, or because of those memories of a childhood that could not return, or because he was suffering and others were suffering and that man near him was groaning so piteously”he felt like weeping childlike, kindly, and almost happy tears. The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted blood and with the boot still on. Oh! Oh, ooh! he sobbed, like a woman. The doctor who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince Andrew from seeing his face, moved away. My God! What is this? Why is he here? said Prince Andrew to himself. In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been amputated, he recognized Anatole KurÃ¡gin. Men were supporting him in their arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling, swollen lips could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully. Yes, it is he! Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me, thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him. What is the connection of that man with my childhood and life? he asked himself without finding an answer. And suddenly a new unexpected memory from that realm of pure and loving childhood presented itself to him. He remembered NatÃ¡sha as he had seen her for the first time at the ball in 1810, with her slender neck and arms and with a frightened happy face ready for rapture, and love and tenderness for her, stronger and more vivid than ever, awoke in his soul. He now remembered the connection that existed between himself and this man who was dimly gazing at him through tears that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered everything, and ecstatic pity and love for that man overflowed his happy heart. Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender loving tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and their errors. Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for those who hate us, love of our enemies; yes, that love which God preached on earth and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not understand”that is what made me sorry to part with life, that is what remained for me had I lived. But now it is too late. I know it! CHAPTER XXXVIII The terrible spectacle of the battlefield covered with dead and wounded, together with the heaviness of his head and the news that some twenty generals he knew personally had been killed or wounded, and the consciousness of the impotence of his once mighty arm, produced an unexpected impression on Napoleon who usually liked to look at the killed and wounded, thereby, he considered, testing his strength of mind. This day the horrible appearance of the battlefield overcame that strength of mind which he thought constituted his merit and his greatness. He rode hurriedly from the battlefield and returned to the ShevÃ¡rdino knoll, where he sat on his campstool, his sallow face swollen and heavy, his eyes dim, his nose red, and his voice hoarse, involuntarily listening, with downcast eyes, to the sounds of firing. With painful dejection he awaited the end of this action, in which he regarded himself as a participant and which he was unable to arrest. A personal, human feeling for a brief moment got the better of the artificial phantasm of life he had served so long. He felt in his own person the sufferings and death he had witnessed on the battlefield. The heaviness of his head and chest reminded him of the possibility of suffering and death for himself. At that moment he did not desire Moscow, or victory, or glory (what need had he for any more glory?). The one thing he wished for was rest, tranquillity, and freedom. But when he had been on the SemÃ«novsk heights the artillery commander had proposed to him to bring several batteries of artillery up to those heights to strengthen the fire on the Russian troops crowded in front of KnyazkÃ³vo. Napoleon had assented and had given orders that news should be brought to him of the effect those batteries produced. An adjutant came now to inform him that the fire of two hundred guns had been concentrated on the Russians, as he had ordered, but that they still held their ground. Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on, said the adjutant. They want more!... said Napoleon in a hoarse voice. Sire? asked the adjutant who had not heard the remark. They want more! croaked Napoleon frowning. Let them have it! Even before he gave that order the thing he did not desire, and for which he gave the order only because he thought it was expected of him, was being done. And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary greatness, and again”as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is doing something for itself”he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad, gloomy, and inhuman role predestined for him. And not for that day and hour alone were the mind and conscience darkened of this man on whom the responsibility for what was happening lay more than on all the others who took part in it. Never to the end of his life could he understand goodness, beauty, or truth, or the significance of his actions which were too contrary to goodness and truth, too remote from everything human, for him ever to be able to grasp their meaning. He could not disavow his actions, belauded as they were by half the world, and so he had to repudiate truth, goodness, and all humanity. Not only on that day, as he rode over the battlefield strewn with men killed and maimed (by his will as he believed), did he reckon as he looked at them how many Russians there were for each Frenchman and, deceiving himself, find reason for rejoicing in the calculation that there were five Russians for every Frenchman. Not on that day alone did he write in a letter to Paris that the battle field was superb, because fifty thousand corpses lay there, but even on the island of St. Helena in the peaceful solitude where he said he intended to devote his leisure to an account of the great deeds he had done, he wrote: The Russian war should have been the most popular war of modern times: it was a war of good sense, for real interests, for the tranquillity and security of all; it was purely pacific and conservative. It was a war for a great cause, the end of uncertainties and the beginning of security. A new horizon and new labors were opening out, full of well-being and prosperity for all. The European system was already founded; all that remained was to organize it. Satisfied on these great points and with tranquility everywhere, I too should have had my Congress and my Holy Alliance. Those ideas were stolen from me. In that reunion of great sovereigns we should have discussed our interests like one family, and have rendered account to the peoples as clerk to master. Europe would in this way soon have been, in fact, but one people, and anyone who traveled anywhere would have found himself always in the common fatherland. I should have demanded the freedom of all navigable rivers for everybody, that the seas should be common to all, and that the great standing armies should be reduced henceforth to mere guards for the sovereigns. On returning to France, to the bosom of the great, strong, magnificent, peaceful, and glorious fatherland, I should have proclaimed her frontiers immutable; all future wars purely defensive, all aggrandizement antinational. I should have associated my son in the Empire; my dictatorship would have been finished, and his constitutional reign would have begun. Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy of the nations! My leisure then, and my old age, would have been devoted, in company with the Empress and during the royal apprenticeship of my son, to leisurely visiting, with our own horses and like a true country couple, every corner of the Empire, receiving complaints, redressing wrongs, and scattering public buildings and benefactions on all sides and everywhere. Napoleon, predestined by Providence for the gloomy role of executioner of the peoples, assured himself that the aim of his actions had been the peoples™ welfare and that he could control the fate of millions and by the employment of power confer benefactions. Of four hundred thousand who crossed the Vistula, he wrote further of the Russian war, half were Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Poles, Bavarians, WÃ¼rttembergers, Mecklenburgers, Spaniards, Italians, and Neapolitans. The Imperial army, strictly speaking, was one third composed of Dutch, Belgians, men from the borders of the Rhine, Piedmontese, Swiss, Genevese, Tuscans, Romans, inhabitants of the Thirty-second Military Division, of Bremen, of Hamburg, and so on: it included scarcely a hundred and forty thousand who spoke French. The Russian expedition actually cost France less than fifty thousand men; the Russian army in its retreat from VÃlna to Moscow lost in the various battles four times more men than the French army; the burning of Moscow cost the lives of a hundred thousand Russians who died of cold and want in the woods; finally, in its march from Moscow to the Oder the Russian army also suffered from the severity of the season; so that by the time it reached VÃlna it numbered only fifty thousand, and at KÃ¡lisch less than eighteen thousand. He imagined that the war with Russia came about by his will, and the horrors that occurred did not stagger his soul. He boldly took the whole responsibility for what happened, and his darkened mind found justification in the belief that among the hundreds of thousands who perished there were fewer Frenchmen than Hessians and Bavarians. CHAPTER XXXIX Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the DavÃ½dov family and to the crown serfs”those fields and meadows where for hundreds of years the peasants of BorodinÃ³, GÃ³rki, ShevÃ¡rdino, and SemÃ«novsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the dressing stations the grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space of some three acres around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and unwounded, with frightened faces, dragged themselves back to MozhÃ¡ysk from the one army and back to ValÃºevo from the other. Other crowds, exhausted and hungry, went forward led by their officers. Others held their ground and continued to fire. Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the glitter of bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood. Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded, on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: Enough, men! Enough! Cease... bethink yourselves! What are you doing? To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest, it began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to slaughter one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the question arose in every soul: For what, for whom, must I kill and be killed?... You may go and kill whom you please, but I don™t want to do so any more! By evening this thought had ripened in every soul. At any moment these men might have been seized with horror at what they were doing and might have thrown up everything and run away anywhere. But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off, some incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and they still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match, though only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though they stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood and powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both sides, crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done by the will of a man but at the will of Him who governs men and worlds continued. Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out. The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking the French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the way to Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the beginning. But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French from their positions, they could not have made this last effort, for all the Russian troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian army that had not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their positions they had lost ONE HALF of their army. The French, with the memory of all their former victories during fifteen years, with the assurance of Napoleon™s invincibility, with the consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had lost only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact, twenty thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French who had attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position ought to have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to block the road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had not been attained and all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French did not make that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have been won. To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring. It could not be. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not want to, but because it could not be done. All the generals, officers, and soldiers of the French army knew it could not be done, because the flagging spirit of the troops would not permit it. It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling of the mighty arm being stricken powerless, but all the generals and soldiers of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not, after all their experience of previous battles”when after one tenth of such efforts the enemy had fled”experienced a similar feeling of terror before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly at the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the Russians at BorodinÃ³. The French invaders, like an infuriated animal that has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker by one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal wound it had received at BorodinÃ³. The direct consequence of the battle of BorodinÃ³ was Napoleon™s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat along the old SmolÃ©nsk road, the destruction of the invading army of five hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on which at BorodinÃ³ for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger spirit had been laid. BOOK ELEVEN: 1812 CHAPTER I Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind. Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the same time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary division of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a well-known, so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that Achilles could never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite of the fact that he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By the time Achilles has covered the distance that separated him from the tortoise, the tortoise has covered one tenth of that distance ahead of him: when Achilles has covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered another one hundredth, and so on forever. This problem seemed to the ancients insoluble. The absurd answer (that Achilles could never overtake the tortoise) resulted from this: that motion was arbitrarily divided into discontinuous elements, whereas the motion both of Achilles and of the tortoise was continuous. By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem. A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with the infinitely small can now yield solutions in other more complex problems of motion which used to appear insoluble. This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small, and so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity) and thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot avoid when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of examining continuous motion. In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens. The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary human wills, is continuous. To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of history. But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all those human wills, man™s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected units. The first method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected series of continuous events and examine it apart from others, though there is and can be no beginning to any event, for one event always flows uninterruptedly from another. The second method is to consider the actions of some one man”a king or a commander”as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills; whereas the sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of a single historic personage. Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others, or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of many men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is in itself false. It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or smaller unit as the subject of observation”as criticism has every right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be arbitrarily selected. Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history. The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave their customary pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man. The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling these sayings and doings the Revolution; then they give a detailed biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him; tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that is why this movement took place and those are its laws. But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of human wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of those wills first tolerated and then destroyed them. But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors; every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been great men, says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of a war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my watch and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is caused by the position of the hands of the watch. Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the movement of the engine. The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak is budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a coincidence of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of life, and I see that however much and however carefully I observe the hands of the watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the oak, I shall not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine moving, or of the winds of spring. To that I must entirely change my point of view and study the laws of the movement of steam, of the bells, and of the wind. History must do the same. And attempts in this direction have already been made. To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of our observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and study the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are moved. No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance in this way toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is evident that only along that path does the possibility of discovering the laws of history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much mental effort has been applied in this direction by historians as has been devoted to describing the actions of various kings, commanders, and ministers and propounding the historians™ own reflections concerning these actions. CHAPTER II The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian army and people avoided a collision till SmolÃ©nsk was reached, and again from SmolÃ©nsk to BorodinÃ³. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its goal, its impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind it were seven hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead were a few dozen miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in Napoleon™s army felt this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum. The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and consolidated. At BorodinÃ³ a collision took place. Neither army was broken up, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the collision as inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another having a greater momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball of invasion that had advanced with such momentum rolled on for some distance, though the collision had deprived it of all its force. The Russians retreated eighty miles”to beyond Moscow”and the French reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after that there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a bleeding, mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in Moscow for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back: they made a dash for the KalÃºga road, and (after a victory”for at MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back to SmolÃ©nsk, beyond SmolÃ©nsk, beyond the BerÃ«zina, beyond VÃlna, and farther still. On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, KutÃºzov and the whole Russian army were convinced that the battle of BorodinÃ³ was a victory. KutÃºzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a fresh conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone, but because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken part in the battle knew it. But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another of unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle proved physically impossible. It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected, the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished, the slain reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been killed, and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the very next morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now seemingly increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from its aim. KutÃºzov™s wish was to attack next day, and the whole army desired to do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that possibility did not exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day™s march, and then in the same way it was impossible not to retreat another and a third day™s march, and at last, on the first of September when the army drew near Moscow”despite the strength of the feeling that had arisen in all ranks”the force of circumstances compelled it to retire beyond Moscow. And the troops retired one more, last, day™s march, and abandoned Moscow to the enemy. For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are made by generals”as anyone of us sitting over a map in his study may imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle”the questions present themselves: Why did KutÃºzov during the retreat not do this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching FilÃ? Why did he not retire at once by the KalÃºga road, abandoning Moscow? and so on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know, the inevitable conditions which always limit the activities of any commander in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not at all resemble the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at ease in our studies examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of troops on this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our plans from some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with the beginning of any event”the position from which we always contemplate it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of shifting events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous, uninterrupted shaping of events the commander in chief is in the midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies, authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him, which constantly conflict with one another. Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that KutÃºzov should have moved his army to the KalÃºga road long before reaching FilÃ, and that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander in chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not one proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based on strategics and tactics, contradict each other. A commander in chief™s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one of these projects. But even that he cannot do. Events and time do not wait. For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the KalÃºga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from MilorÃ¡dovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire. An order must be given him at once, that instant. And the order to retreat carries us past the turn to the KalÃºga road. And after the adjutant comes the commissary general asking where the stores are to be taken, and the chief of the hospitals asks where the wounded are to go, and a courier from Petersburg brings a letter from the sovereign which does not admit of the possibility of abandoning Moscow, and the commander in chief™s rival, the man who is undermining him (and there are always not merely one but several such), presents a new project diametrically opposed to that of turning to the KalÃºga road, and the commander in chief himself needs sleep and refreshment to maintain his energy and a respectable general who has been overlooked in the distribution of rewards comes to complain, and the inhabitants of the district pray to be defended, and an officer sent to inspect the locality comes in and gives a report quite contrary to what was said by the officer previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a general who has been on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the enemy™s army differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these inevitable conditions of a commander in chief™s actions describe to us, for instance, the position of the army at FilÃ and assume that the commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had that question been settled? At Drissa and at SmolÃ©nsk and most palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at ShevÃ¡rdino and on the twenty-sixth at BorodinÃ³, and each day and hour and minute of the retreat from BorodinÃ³ to FilÃ. CHAPTER III When ErmÃ³lov, having been sent by KutÃºzov to inspect the position, told the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow and that they must retreat, KutÃºzov looked at him in silence. Give me your hand, said he and, turning it over so as to feel the pulse, added: You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are saying! KutÃºzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow without a battle. On the PoklÃ³nny Hill, four miles from the DorogomÃlov gate of Moscow, KutÃºzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside. A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count RostopchÃn, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated into several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the situation of Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had not been summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they all felt that this was really a council of war. The conversations all dealt with public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal news, it was done in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general matters. No jokes, or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all these men. They evidently all made an effort to hold themselves at the height the situation demanded. And all these groups, while talking among themselves, tried to keep near the commander in chief (whose bench formed the center of the gathering) and to speak so that he might overhear them. The commander in chief listened to what was being said and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned away with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count RostopchÃn was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and that had he known it sooner things would have been different.... A fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions, discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group was talking absolute nonsense. KutÃºzov™s expression grew more and more preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue. This KutÃºzov knew well. Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian patriotism (KutÃºzov could not listen to this without wincing) by insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight to KutÃºzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on KutÃºzov who had brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this intrigue did not now occupy the old man™s mind. One terrible question absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The question for him now was: Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been yesterday when I ordered PlÃ¡tov to retreat, or was it the evening before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must be given. To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince ProzorÃ³vski, under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against the Emperor™s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear, and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which were assuming too free a character must be stopped. He called the most important generals to him. My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself, said he, rising from the bench, and he rode to FilÃ where his carriages were waiting. CHAPTER IV The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the better and roomier part of Andrew SavostyÃ¡nov™s hut. The men, women, and children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across the passage. Only MalÃ¡sha, Andrew™s six-year-old granddaughter whom his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the larger room. MalÃ¡sha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner under the icons. Granddad himself, as MalÃ¡sha in her own mind called KutÃºzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant KaysÃ¡rov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing KutÃºzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and KaysÃ¡rov understood that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen. Round the peasant™s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another bench and put it beside the table. ErmÃ³lov, KaysÃ¡rov, and Toll, who had just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into his bald crown. He had a St. George™s Cross round his neck and looked pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering and in pain. Beside him sat UvÃ¡rov, who with rapid gesticulations was giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did. Chubby little DokhtÃºrov was listening attentively with eyebrows raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count Ostermann-TolstÃ³y, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand. RaÃ©vski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his habit, glanced now at KutÃºzov and now at the door with a look of impatience. KonovnÃtsyn™s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by a tender, sly smile. His glance met MalÃ¡sha™s, and the expression of his eyes caused the little girl to smile. They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from four till six o™clock and did not begin their deliberations all that time but talked in low tones of other matters. Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did KutÃºzov leave his corner and draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been placed there to light up his face. Bennigsen opened the council with the question: Are we to abandon Russia™s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to defend it? A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown on every face and only KutÃºzov™s angry grunts and occasional cough broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. MalÃ¡sha too looked at Granddad. She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he seemed about to cry, but this did not last long. Russia™s ancient and sacred capital! he suddenly said, repeating Bennigsen™s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the false note in them. Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that question has no meaning for a Russian. (He lurched his heavy body forward.) Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one. The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion, and he sank back in his chair. The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost. Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at FilÃ was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank during the night and attack the French right flank the following day. Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that project. ErmÃ³lov, DokhtÃºrov, and RaÃ©vski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat. MalÃ¡sha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her, understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that it was only a personal struggle between Granddad and Long-coat as she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she sided with Granddad. In the midst of the conversation she noticed Granddad give Bennigsen a quick, subtle glance, and then to her joys she saw that Granddad said something to Long-coat which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was KutÃºzov™s calm and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen™s proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to attack the French right wing. Gentlemen, said KutÃºzov, I cannot approve of the count™s plan. Moving troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military history supports that view. For instance... KutÃºzov seemed to reflect, searching for an example, then with a clear, naÃ¯ve look at Bennigsen he added: Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our troops were rearranged too near the enemy.... There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all. The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all felt that there was no more to be said. During one of these pauses KutÃºzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to speak. They all looked at him. Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken crockery, said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. Gentlemen, I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I, he paused, by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country, order a retreat. After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral. Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to their commander in chief. MalÃ¡sha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted out of the room. When he had dismissed the generals KutÃºzov sat a long time with his elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question: When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was that done which settled the matter? And who was to blame for it? I did not expect this, said he to his adjutant Schneider when the latter came in late that night. I did not expect this! I did not think this would happen. You should take some rest, your Serene Highness, replied Schneider. But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks! exclaimed KutÃºzov without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. They shall too, if only... CHAPTER V At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow, RostopchÃn, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that event, acted in an altogether different manner from KutÃºzov. After the battle of BorodinÃ³ the abandonment and burning of Moscow was as inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting. Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the feeling implanted in each of us and in our fathers. The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns and villages on Russian soil beginning with SmolÃ©nsk, without the participation of Count RostopchÃn and his broadsheets. The people awaited the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear anyone to pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to find what it should do at that most difficult moment. And as soon as the enemy drew near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property, while the poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left. The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and is present in the heart of every Russian. And a consciousness of this, and a foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian Moscow society in 1812. Those who had quitted Moscow already in July and at the beginning of August showed that they expected this. Those who went away, taking what they could and abandoning their houses and half their belongings, did so from the latent patriotism which expresses itself not by phrases or by giving one™s children to save the fatherland and similar unnatural exploits, but unobtrusively, simply, organically, and therefore in the way that always produces the most powerful results. It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running away from Moscow, they were told. In his broadsheets RostopchÃn impressed on them that to leave Moscow was shameful. They were ashamed to be called cowards, ashamed to leave, but still they left, knowing it had to be done. Why did they go? It is impossible to suppose that RostopchÃn had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had committed in conquered countries. The first people to go away were the rich educated people who knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had remained intact and that during Napoleon™s occupation the inhabitants had spent their time pleasantly in the company of the charming Frenchmen whom the Russians, and especially the Russian ladies, then liked so much. They went away because for Russians there could be no question as to whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was out of the question to be under French rule, it would be the worst thing that could happen. They went away even before the battle of BorodinÃ³ and still more rapidly after it, despite RostopchÃn™s calls to defend Moscow or the announcement of his intention to take the wonder-working icon of the Iberian Mother of God and go to fight, or of the balloons that were to destroy the French, and despite all the nonsense RostopchÃn wrote in his broadsheets. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that if it could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house serfs to the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that they must go away, sorry as they were to abandon their property to destruction. They went away without thinking of the tremendous significance of that immense and wealthy city being given over to destruction, for a great city with wooden buildings was certain when abandoned by its inhabitants to be burned. They went away each on his own account, and yet it was only in consequence of their going away that the momentous event was accomplished that will always remain the greatest glory of the Russian people. The lady who, afraid of being stopped by Count RostopchÃn™s orders, had already in June moved with her Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her SarÃ¡tov estate, with a vague consciousness that she was not Bonaparte™s servant, was really, simply, and truly carrying out the great work which saved Russia. But Count RostopchÃn, who now taunted those who left Moscow and now had the government offices removed; now distributed quite useless weapons to the drunken rabble; now had processions displaying the icons, and now forbade Father Augustin to remove icons or the relics of saints; now seized all the private carts in Moscow and on one hundred and thirty-six of them removed the balloon that was being constructed by Leppich; now hinted that he would burn Moscow and related how he had set fire to his own house; now wrote a proclamation to the French solemnly upbraiding them for having destroyed his Orphanage; now claimed the glory of having hinted that he would burn Moscow and now repudiated the deed; now ordered the people to catch all spies and bring them to him, and now reproached them for doing so; now expelled all the French residents from Moscow, and now allowed Madame Aubert-ChalmÃ© (the center of the whole French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old postmaster KlyucharÃ«v to be arrested and exiled for no particular offense; now assembled the people at the Three Hills to fight the French and now, to get rid of them, handed over to them a man to be killed and himself drove away by a back gate; now declared that he would not survive the fall of Moscow, and now wrote French verses in albums concerning his share in the affair”this man did not understand the meaning of what was happening but merely wanted to do something himself that would astonish people, to perform some patriotically heroic feat; and like a child he made sport of the momentous, and unavoidable event”the abandonment and burning of Moscow”and tried with his puny hand now to speed and now to stay the enormous, popular tide that bore him along with it. CHAPTER VI HÃ©lÃ¨ne, having returned with the court from VÃlna to Petersburg, found herself in a difficult position. In Petersburg she had enjoyed the special protection of a grandee who occupied one of the highest posts in the Empire. In VÃlna she had formed an intimacy with a young foreign prince. When she returned to Petersburg both the magnate and the prince were there, and both claimed their rights. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was faced by a new problem”how to preserve her intimacy with both without offending either. What would have seemed difficult or even impossible to another woman did not cause the least embarrassment to Countess BezÃºkhova, who evidently deserved her reputation of being a very clever woman. Had she attempted concealment, or tried to extricate herself from her awkward position by cunning, she would have spoiled her case by acknowledging herself guilty. But HÃ©lÃ¨ne, like a really great man who can do whatever he pleases, at once assumed her own position to be correct, as she sincerely believed it to be, and that everyone else was to blame. The first time the young foreigner allowed himself to reproach her, she lifted her beautiful head and, half turning to him, said firmly: That™s just like a man”selfish and cruel! I expected nothing else. A woman sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward! What right have you, monseigneur, to demand an account of my attachments and friendships? He is a man who has been more than a father to me! The prince was about to say something, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne interrupted him. Well, yes, said she, it may be that he has other sentiments for me than those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door on him. I am not a man, that I should repay kindness with ingratitude! Know, monseigneur, that in all that relates to my intimate feelings I render account only to God and to my conscience, she concluded, laying her hand on her beautiful, fully expanded bosom and looking up to heaven. But for heaven™s sake listen to me! Marry me, and I will be your slave! But that™s impossible. You won™t deign to demean yourself by marrying me, you... said HÃ©lÃ¨ne, beginning to cry. The prince tried to comfort her, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne, as if quite distraught, said through her tears that there was nothing to prevent her marrying, that there were precedents (there were up to that time very few, but she mentioned Napoleon and some other exalted personages), that she had never been her husband™s wife, and that she had been sacrificed. But the law, religion... said the prince, already yielding. The law, religion... What have they been invented for if they can™t arrange that? said HÃ©lÃ¨ne. The prince was surprised that so simple an idea had not occurred to him, and he applied for advice to the holy brethren of the Society of Jesus, with whom he was on intimate terms. A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which HÃ©lÃ¨ne gave at her country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert, a man no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes, a Jesuit Ã robe courte * was presented to her, and in the garden by the light of the illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a long time of the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the consolations the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and the next. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes and to those of Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance, for which her partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with her future directeur de conscience, but the next evening Monsieur de Jobert came to see HÃ©lÃ¨ne when she was alone, and after that often came again. * Lay member of the Society of Jesus. One day he took the countess to a Roman Catholic church, where she knelt down before the altar to which she was led. The enchanting, middle-aged Frenchman laid his hands on her head and, as she herself afterward described it, she felt something like a fresh breeze wafted into her soul. It was explained to her that this was la grÃ¢ce. After that a long-frocked abbÃ© was brought to her. She confessed to him, and he absolved her from her sins. Next day she received a box containing the Sacred Host, which was left at her house for her to partake of. A few days later HÃ©lÃ¨ne learned with pleasure that she had now been admitted to the true Catholic Church and that in a few days the Pope himself would hear of her and would send her a certain document. All that was done around her and to her at this time, all the attention devoted to her by so many clever men and expressed in such pleasant, refined ways, and the state of dove-like purity she was now in (she wore only white dresses and white ribbons all that time) gave her pleasure, but her pleasure did not cause her for a moment to forget her aim. And as it always happens in contests of cunning that a stupid person gets the better of cleverer ones, HÃ©lÃ¨ne”having realized that the main object of all these words and all this trouble was, after converting her to Catholicism, to obtain money from her for Jesuit institutions (as to which she received indications)”before parting with her money insisted that the various operations necessary to free her from her husband should be performed. In her view the aim of every religion was merely to preserve certain proprieties while affording satisfaction to human desires. And with this aim, in one of her talks with her Father Confessor, she insisted on an answer to the question, in how far was she bound by her marriage? They were sitting in the twilight by a window in the drawing room. The scent of flowers came in at the window. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was wearing a white dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbÃ©, a well-fed man with a plump, clean-shaven chin, a pleasant firm mouth, and white hands meekly folded on his knees, sat close to HÃ©lÃ¨ne and, with a subtle smile on his lips and a peaceful look of delight at her beauty, occasionally glanced at her face as he explained his opinion on the subject. HÃ©lÃ¨ne with an uneasy smile looked at his curly hair and his plump, clean-shaven, blackish cheeks and every moment expected the conversation to take a fresh turn. But the abbÃ©, though he evidently enjoyed the beauty of his companion, was absorbed in his mastery of the matter. The course of the Father Confessor™s arguments ran as follows: Ignorant of the import of what you were undertaking, you made a vow of conjugal fidelity to a man who on his part, by entering the married state without faith in the religious significance of marriage, committed an act of sacrilege. That marriage lacked the dual significance it should have had. Yet in spite of this your vow was binding. You swerved from it. What did you commit by so acting? A venial, or a mortal, sin? A venial sin, for you acted without evil intention. If now you married again with the object of bearing children, your sin might be forgiven. But the question is again a twofold one: firstly... But suddenly HÃ©lÃ¨ne, who was getting bored, said with one of her bewitching smiles: But I think that having espoused the true religion I cannot be bound by what a false religion laid upon me. The director of her conscience was astounded at having the case presented to him thus with the simplicity of Columbus™ egg. He was delighted at the unexpected rapidity of his pupil™s progress, but could not abandon the edifice of argument he had laboriously constructed. Let us understand one another, Countess, said he with a smile, and began refuting his spiritual daughter™s arguments. CHAPTER VII HÃ©lÃ¨ne understood that the question was very simple and easy from the ecclesiastical point of view, and that her directors were making difficulties only because they were apprehensive as to how the matter would be regarded by the secular authorities. So she decided that it was necessary to prepare the opinion of society. She provoked the jealousy of the elderly magnate and told him what she had told her other suitor; that is, she put the matter so that the only way for him to obtain a right over her was to marry her. The elderly magnate was at first as much taken aback by this suggestion of marriage with a woman whose husband was alive, as the younger man had been, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as marrying a maiden had its effect on him too. Had HÃ©lÃ¨ne herself shown the least sign of hesitation, shame, or secrecy, her cause would certainly have been lost; but not only did she show no signs of secrecy or shame, on the contrary, with good-natured naÃ¯vetÃ© she told her intimate friends (and these were all Petersburg) that both the prince and the magnate had proposed to her and that she loved both and was afraid of grieving either. A rumor immediately spread in Petersburg, not that HÃ©lÃ¨ne wanted to be divorced from her husband (had such a report spread many would have opposed so illegal an intention) but simply that the unfortunate and interesting HÃ©lÃ¨ne was in doubt which of the two men she should marry. The question was no longer whether this was possible, but only which was the better match and how the matter would be regarded at court. There were, it is true, some rigid individuals unable to rise to the height of such a question, who saw in the project a desecration of the sacrament of marriage, but there were not many such and they remained silent, while the majority were interested in HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s good fortune and in the question which match would be the more advantageous. Whether it was right or wrong to remarry while one had a husband living they did not discuss, for that question had evidently been settled by people wiser than you or me, as they said, and to doubt the correctness of that decision would be to risk exposing one™s stupidity and incapacity to live in society. Only MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna AkhrosÃmova, who had come to Petersburg that summer to see one of her sons, allowed herself plainly to express an opinion contrary to the general one. Meeting HÃ©lÃ¨ne at a ball she stopped her in the middle of the room and, amid general silence, said in her gruff voice: So wives of living men have started marrying again! Perhaps you think you have invented a novelty? You have been forestalled, my dear! It was thought of long ago. It is done in all the brothels, and with these words MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, turning up her wide sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round, moved across the room. Though people were afraid of MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna she was regarded in Petersburg as a buffoon, and so of what she had said they only noticed, and repeated in a whisper, the one coarse word she had used, supposing the whole sting of her remark to lie in that word. Prince VasÃli, who of late very often forgot what he had said and repeated one and the same thing a hundred times, remarked to his daughter whenever he chanced to see her: HÃ©lÃ¨ne, I have a word to say to you, and he would lead her aside, drawing her hand downward. I have heard of certain projects concerning... you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father™s heart rejoices to know that you... You have suffered so much.... But, my dear child, consult only your own heart. That is all I have to say, and concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his daughter™s and move away. BilÃbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man, and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as HÃ©lÃ¨ne always has”men friends who can never change into lovers”once gave her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering. Listen, BilÃbin, said HÃ©lÃ¨ne (she always called friends of that sort by their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white, beringed fingers. Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do. Which of the two? BilÃbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a smile on his lips. You are not taking me unawares, you know, said he. As a true friend, I have thought and thought again about your affair. You see, if you marry the prince”he meant the younger man”and he crooked one finger, you forever lose the chance of marrying the other, and you will displease the court besides. (You know there is some kind of connection.) But if you marry the old count you will make his last days happy, and as widow of the Grand... the prince would no longer be making a mÃ©salliance by marrying you, and BilÃbin smoothed out his forehead. That™s a true friend! said HÃ©lÃ¨ne beaming, and again touching BilÃbin™s sleeve. But I love them, you know, and don™t want to distress either of them. I would give my life for the happiness of them both. BilÃbin shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that not even he could help in that difficulty. Une maÃ®tresse-femme! * That™s what is called putting things squarely. She would like to be married to all three at the same time, thought he. * A masterly woman. But tell me, how will your husband look at the matter? BilÃbin asked, his reputation being so well established that he did not fear to ask so naÃ¯ve a question. Will he agree? Oh, he loves me so! said HÃ©lÃ¨ne, who for some reason imagined that Pierre too loved her. He will do anything for me. BilÃbin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty. Even divorce you? said he. HÃ©lÃ¨ne laughed. Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed marriage was HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s mother, Princess KurÃ¡gina. She was continually tormented by jealousy of her daughter, and now that jealousy concerned a subject near to her own heart, she could not reconcile herself to the idea. She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce and remarriage during a husband™s lifetime, and the priest told her that it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband is alive. Armed with these arguments, which appeared to her unanswerable, she drove to her daughter™s early one morning so as to find her alone. Having listened to her mother™s objections, HÃ©lÃ¨ne smiled blandly and ironically. But it says plainly: ˜Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced...™ said the old princess. Ah, Maman, ne dites pas de bÃªtises. Vous ne comprenez rien. Dans ma position j™ai des devoirs, * said HÃ©lÃ¨ne changing from Russian, in which language she always felt that her case did not sound quite clear, into French which suited it better. * Oh, Mamma, don™t talk nonsense! You don™t understand anything. In my position I have obligations. But, my dear.... Oh, Mamma, how is it you don™t understand that the Holy Father, who has the right to grant dispensations... Just then the lady companion who lived with HÃ©lÃ¨ne came in to announce that His Highness was in the ballroom and wished to see her. Non, dites-lui que je ne veux pas le voir, que je suis furieuse contre lui, parce qu™il m™a manquÃ© parole. * * No, tell him I don™t wish to see him, I am furious with him for not keeping his word to me. Comtesse, Ã tout pÃ©chÃ© misÃ©ricorde, * said a fair-haired young man with a long face and nose, as he entered the room. * Countess, there is mercy for every sin. The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied. The young man who had entered took no notice of her. The princess nodded to her daughter and sidled out of the room. Yes, she is right, thought the old princess, all her convictions dissipated by the appearance of His Highness. She is right, but how is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it? Yet it is so simple, she thought as she got into her carriage. By the beginning of August HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s affairs were clearly defined and she wrote a letter to her husband”who, as she imagined, loved her very much”informing him of her intention to marry N.N. and of her having embraced the one true faith, and asking him to carry out all the formalities necessary for a divorce, which would be explained to him by the bearer of the letter. And so I pray God to have you, my friend, in His holy and powerful keeping”Your friend HÃ©lÃ¨ne. This letter was brought to Pierre™s house when he was on the field of BorodinÃ³. CHAPTER VIII Toward the end of the battle of BorodinÃ³, Pierre, having run down from RaÃ©vski™s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to KnyazkÃ³vo with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and seeing blood and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in the crowds of soldiers. The one thing he now desired with his whole soul was to get away quickly from the terrible sensations amid which he had lived that day and return to ordinary conditions of life and sleep quietly in a room in his own bed. He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he be able to understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But such ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found. Though shells and bullets did not whistle over the road along which he was going, still on all sides there was what there had been on the field of battle. There were still the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers™ overcoats, the same sounds of firing which, though distant now, still aroused terror, and besides this there were the foul air and the dust. Having gone a couple of miles along the MozhÃ¡ysk road, Pierre sat down by the roadside. Dusk had fallen, and the roar of guns died away. Pierre lay leaning on his elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in the darkness. He was continually imagining that a cannon ball was flying toward him with a terrific whizz, and then he shuddered and sat up. He had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night three soldiers, having brought some firewood, settled down near him and began lighting a fire. The soldiers, who threw sidelong glances at Pierre, got the fire to burn and placed an iron pot on it into which they broke some dried bread and put a little dripping. The pleasant odor of greasy viands mingled with the smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The three soldiers were eating and talking among themselves, taking no notice of him. And who may you be? one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently meaning what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: If you want to eat we™ll give you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest man. I, I... said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and better understood by them. By rights I am a militia officer, but my men are not here. I came to the battle and have lost them. There now! said one of the soldiers. Another shook his head. Would you like a little mash? the first soldier asked, and handed Pierre a wooden spoon after licking it clean. Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called the food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food he had ever tasted. As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself to large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by the fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence. Where have you to go to? Tell us! said one of them. To MozhÃ¡ysk. You™re a gentleman, aren™t you? Yes. And what™s your name? Peter KirÃlych. Well then, Peter KirÃlych, come along with us, we™ll take you there. In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to MozhÃ¡ysk. By the time they got near MozhÃ¡ysk and began ascending the steep hill into the town, the cocks were already crowing. Pierre went on with the soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and that he had already passed it. He would not soon have remembered this, such was his state of forgetfulness, had he not halfway up the hill stumbled upon his groom, who had been to look for him in the town and was returning to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre in the darkness by his white hat. Your excellency! he said. Why, we were beginning to despair! How is it you are on foot? And where are you going, please? Oh, yes! said Pierre. The soldiers stopped. So you™ve found your folk? said one of them. Well, good-by, Peter KirÃlych”isn™t it? Good-by, Peter KirÃlych! Pierre heard the other voices repeat. Good-by! he said and turned with his groom toward the inn. I ought to give them something! he thought, and felt in his pocket. No, better not! said another, inner voice. There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied. Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay down in his carriage. CHAPTER IX Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of death seized him. Filled with fright he opened his eyes and lifted his head from under his cloak. All was tranquil in the yard. Only someone™s orderly passed through the gateway, splashing through the mud, and talked to the innkeeper. Above Pierre™s head some pigeons, disturbed by the movement he had made in sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof of the penthouse. The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful smell of stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see the clear starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses. Thank God, there is no more of that! he thought, covering up his head again. Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to it! But they... they were steady and calm all the time, to the end... thought he. They, in Pierre™s mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before the icon. They, those strange men he had not previously known, stood out clearly and sharply from everyone else. To be a soldier, just a soldier! thought Pierre as he fell asleep, to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what they are. But how to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my outer man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could have run away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent to serve as a soldier after the duel with DÃ³lokhov. And the memory of the dinner at the English Club when he had challenged DÃ³lokhov flashed through Pierre™s mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at TorzhÃ³k. And now a picture of a solemn meeting of the lodge presented itself to his mind. It was taking place at the English Club and someone near and dear to him sat at the end of the table. Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor. But he died! thought Pierre. Yes, he died, and I did not know he was alive. How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive again! On one side of the table sat Anatole, DÃ³lokhov, NesvÃtski, DenÃsov, and others like them (in his dream the category to which these men belonged was as clearly defined in his mind as the category of those he termed they), and he heard those people, Anatole and DÃ³lokhov, shouting and singing loudly; yet through their shouting the voice of his benefactor was heard speaking all the time and the sound of his words was as weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what his benefactor was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the possibility of being what they were. And they with their simple, kind, firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But though they were kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him. Wishing to speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at that moment his legs grew cold and bare. He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his cloak had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but now they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew. It is dawn, thought Pierre. But that™s not what I want. I want to hear and understand my benefactor™s words. Again he covered himself up with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there. There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating. Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think and express his thoughts like that when awake. To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man™s freedom to the law of God, the voice had said. Simplicity is submission to the will of God; you cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden. Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to unite the meaning of all. To unite all? he asked himself. No, not to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts together is what we need! Yes, one must harness them, must harness them! he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these words and they alone expressed what he wanted to say and solved the question that tormented him. Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness. Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency! some voice was repeating. We must harness, it is time to harness.... It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone straight into Pierre™s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the middle of which soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump while carts were passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat. No, I don™t want that, I don™t want to see and understand that. I want to understand what was revealing itself to me in my dream. One second more and I should have understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness, but how can I harness everything? and Pierre felt with horror that the meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed. The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer had come with news that the French were already near MozhÃ¡ysk and that our men were leaving it. Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on foot through the town. The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind them. There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and the streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that were to take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could be heard. Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of that of Prince Andrew. CHAPTER X On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of the city he was met by Count RostopchÃn™s adjutant. We have been looking for you everywhere, said the adjutant. The count wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a very important matter. Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow commander in chief. Count RostopchÃn had only that morning returned to town from his summer villa at SokÃ³lniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house were full of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders. VasÃlchikov and PlÃ¡tov had already seen the count and explained to him that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be surrendered. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials”the heads of the various government departments”knew that Moscow would soon be in the enemy™s hands, just as Count RostopchÃn himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various departments. As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came out of RostopchÃn™s private room. In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room. While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there. They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their conversation. If they™re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm, but as things are now one can™t answer for anything. But you see what he writes... said another, pointing to a printed sheet he held in his hand. That™s another matter. That™s necessary for the people, said the first. What is it? asked Pierre. Oh, it™s a fresh broadsheet. Pierre took it and began reading. His Serene Highness has passed through MozhÃ¡ysk in order to join up with the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed; things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I, too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout with both. But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the town, said Pierre, and that the position... Well, of course! That™s what we were saying, replied the first speaker. And what does he mean by ˜One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout with both™? asked Pierre. The count had a sty, replied the adjutant smiling, and was very much upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with him. By the by, Count, he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a smile, we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess, your wife... I have heard nothing, Pierre replied unconcernedly. But what have you heard? Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I heard. But what did you hear? Well, they say, continued the adjutant with the same smile, that the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it™s nonsense.... Possibly, remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. And who is that? he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face. He? That™s a tradesman, that is to say, he™s the restaurant keeper, VereshchÃ¡gin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the proclamation. Oh, so that is VereshchÃ¡gin! said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor. That™s not he himself, that™s the father of the fellow who wrote the proclamation, said the adjutant. The young man is in prison and I expect it will go hard with him. An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a cross round his neck, approached the speaker. It™s a complicated story, you know, said the adjutant. That proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel IvÃ¡novich here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly sixty-three hands. He asked one, ˜From whom did you get it?™ ˜From so-and-so.™ He went to the next one. ˜From whom did you get it?™ and so on till he reached VereshchÃ¡gin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ˜a pet of a trader,™ said the adjutant smiling. They asked him, ˜Who gave it you?™ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to some understanding. He replied: ˜From no one; I made it up myself.™ They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ˜I made it up myself.™ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man. ˜From whom did you get the proclamation?™ ˜I wrote it myself.™ Well, you know the count, said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride, he flared up dreadfully”and just think of the fellow™s audacity, lying, and obstinacy! And the count wanted him to say it was from KlyucharÃ«v? I understand! said Pierre. Not at all, rejoined the adjutant in dismay. KlyucharÃ«v had his own sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished. But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ˜How could you have written it yourself?™ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that was lying on the table. ˜Here it is! You did not write it yourself but translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don™t even know French, you fool.™ And what do you think? ˜No,™ said he, ˜I have not read any papers, I made it up myself.™ ˜If that™s so, you™re a traitor and I™ll have you tried, and you™ll be hanged! Say from whom you had it.™ ˜I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.™ And that was the end of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it. He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the father has come to intercede for him. But he™s a good-for-nothing lad! You know that sort of tradesman™s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match for him. That™s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other. Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do? He found some scoundrel of a painter... CHAPTER XI In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in chief. When he entered the private room Count RostopchÃn, puckering his face, was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out. Ah, how do you do, great warrior? said RostopchÃn as soon as the short man had left the room. We have heard of your prowess. But that™s not the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons? he went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. I am well informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to ruin Russia. Yes, I am a Mason, Pierre replied. There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. SperÃ¡nski and MagnÃtski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. KlyucharÃ«v has been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from him for safe custody. I like you and don™t wish you any harm and”as you are only half my age”I advise you, as a father would, to cease all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as possible. But what did KlyucharÃ«v do wrong, Count? asked Pierre. That is for me to know, but not for you to ask, shouted RostopchÃn. If he is accused of circulating Napoleon™s proclamation it is not proved that he did so, said Pierre without looking at RostopchÃn, and VereshchÃ¡gin... There we are! RostopchÃn shouted at Pierre louder than before, frowning suddenly. VereshchÃ¡gin is a renegade and a traitor who will be punished as he deserves, said he with the vindictive heat with which people speak when recalling an insult. But I did not summon you to discuss my actions, but to give you advice”or an order if you prefer it. I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such men as KlyucharÃ«v. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody”but probably realizing that he was shouting at BezÃºkhov who so far was not guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre™s hand in a friendly manner, We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven™t time to be polite to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl. Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally? Why, nothing, answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the thoughtful expression of his face. The count frowned. A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that™s all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear fellow. Oh, by the by! he shouted through the doorway after Pierre, is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus? Pierre did not answer and left RostopchÃn™s room more sullen and angry than he had ever before shown himself. When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners. They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone at last he opened and read his wife™s letter. They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One must forget and understand... And going to his bed he threw himself on it without undressing and immediately fell asleep. When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count RostopchÃn to know whether Count BezÃºkhov had left or was leaving the town. A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see them, went to the back porch and out through the gate. From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of BezÃºkhov™s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again or knew where he was. CHAPTER XII The RostÃ³vs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till the eve of the enemy™s entry into the city. After PÃ©tya had joined ObolÃ©nski™s regiment of Cossacks and left for BÃ©laya TsÃ©rkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck her that summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to get Nicholas back and wished to go herself to join PÃ©tya, or to get him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved possible. PÃ©tya could not return unless his regiment did so or unless he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas was somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter, in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess Mary. The countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep dreamed that she saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her. He got PÃ©tya transferred from ObolÃ©nski™s regiment to BezÃºkhov™s, which was in training near Moscow. Though PÃ©tya would remain in the service, this transfer would give the countess the consolation of seeing at least one of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her PÃ©tya so as not to let him go again, but always get him appointed to places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long as Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed PÃ©tya with his merry black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show”when he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it”then his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other children. The nearer the time came for PÃ©tya to return, the more uneasy grew the countess. She began to think she would never live to see such happiness. The presence of SÃ³nya, of her beloved NatÃ¡sha, or even of her husband irritated her. What do I want with them? I want no one but PÃ©tya, she thought. At the end of August the RostÃ³vs received another letter from Nicholas. He wrote from the province of VorÃ³nezh where he had been sent to procure remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about PÃ©tya. Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the RostÃ³vs™ acquaintances had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before her treasure, her adored PÃ©tya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August he arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him did not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from him her intention of keeping him under her wing, PÃ©tya guessed her designs, and instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion when with her”might become womanish as he termed it to himself”he treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached himself exclusively to NatÃ¡sha for whom he had always had a particularly brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like. Owing to the count™s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to come from their RyazÃ¡n and Moscow estates to remove their household belongings did not arrive till the thirtieth. From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at BorodinÃ³ were brought in by the DorogomÃlov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow, and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions out by the other gates. In spite of RostopchÃn™s broadsheets, or because of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory rumors were current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed to leave the city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave. Some said there had been another battle after BorodinÃ³ at which the French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the Russian army had been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia which, preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others whispered that Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had been seized, that the peasants were rioting and robbing people on their way from Moscow, and so on. But all this was only talk; in reality (though the Council of FilÃ, at which it was decided to abandon Moscow, had not yet been held) both those who went away and those who remained behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow would certainly be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as possible and save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly break up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so. As a criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die immediately, but yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily continued its wonted life, though it knew that the time of its destruction was near when the conditions of life to which its people were accustomed to submit would be completely upset. During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole RostÃ³v family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the family, Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v, continually drove about the city collecting the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders at home about the preparations for their departure. The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with everything, was constantly in pursuit of PÃ©tya who was always running away from her, and was jealous of NatÃ¡sha with whom he spent all his time. SÃ³nya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting things packed. But of late SÃ³nya had been particularly sad and silent. Nicholas™ letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in her presence, joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention of Providence in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas. I was never pleased at BolkÃ³nski™s engagement to NatÃ¡sha, said the countess, but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be! SÃ³nya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving the RostÃ³vs™ affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite her grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they had any orders to give. PÃ©tya and NatÃ¡sha on the contrary, far from helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause for gaiety and laughter to them. PÃ©tya was in high spirits because having left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine young man, because he was at home, because he had left BÃ©laya TsÃ©rkov where there was no hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to Moscow where there was to be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because NatÃ¡sha, whose lead he always followed, was in high spirits. NatÃ¡sha was gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely”and PÃ©tya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being given out, everybody was escaping”going away somewhere, and in general something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially to the young. CHAPTER XIII On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the RostÃ³vs™ house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up, others still empty. The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head. PÃ©tya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. SÃ³nya was in the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. NatÃ¡sha was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons, and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which she had worn at her first Petersburg ball. NatÃ¡sha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside SÃ³nya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull. DunyÃ¡sha, you pack! You will, won™t you, dear? And when DunyÃ¡sha willingly promised to do it all for her, NatÃ¡sha sat down on the floor, took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. NatÃ¡sha got up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of wounded men had stopped in the street. The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen, postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded. NatÃ¡sha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an end of it in each hand, went out into the street. The former housekeeper, old MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, had stepped out of the crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside. NatÃ¡sha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying. Then you have nobody in Moscow? she was saying. You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family are leaving. I don™t know if it would be allowed, replied the officer in a weak voice. Here is our commanding officer... ask him, and he pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts. NatÃ¡sha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer and at once went to meet the major. May the wounded men stay in our house? she asked. The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile. Which one do you want, Ma™am™selle? said he, screwing up his eyes and smiling. NatÃ¡sha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection”as if considering in how far the thing was possible”replied in the affirmative. Oh yes, why not? They may, he said. With a slight inclination of her head, NatÃ¡sha stepped back quickly to MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer. They may. He says they may! whispered NatÃ¡sha. The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the RostÃ³vs™ yard, and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in PovarskÃ¡ya Street. NatÃ¡sha was evidently pleased to be dealing with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard. Your Papa must be told, though, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house. There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we put them into the wing, the men™s room, or the nurse™s room, we must ask permission. Well, I™ll ask. NatÃ¡sha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman™s drops. Are you asleep, Mamma? Oh, what sleep”? said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping into a doze. Mamma darling! said NatÃ¡sha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her face close to her mother™s, I am sorry, forgive me, I™ll never do it again; I woke you up! MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna has sent me: they have brought some wounded here”officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to go. I knew you™d let them come! she said quickly all in one breath. What officers? Whom have they brought? I don™t understand anything about it, said the countess. NatÃ¡sha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly. I knew you™d give permission... so I™ll tell them, and, having kissed her mother, NatÃ¡sha got up and went to the door. In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news. We™ve stayed too long! said the count with involuntary vexation. The Club is closed and the police are leaving. Papa, is it all right”I™ve invited some of the wounded into the house? said NatÃ¡sha. Of course it is, he answered absently. That™s not the point. I beg you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we must go, go, go!... And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants. At dinner PÃ©tya having returned home told them the news he had heard. He said the people had been getting arms in the KrÃ©mlin, and that though RostopchÃn™s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big battle there. The countess looked with timid horror at her son™s eager, excited face as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the fatherland”something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so, hoping to arrange to leave before then and take PÃ©tya with her as their protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly, that very night if possible. With a woman™s involuntary loving cunning she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she was now afraid of everything. CHAPTER XIV Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the countess™ fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit dealer™s in MyasnÃtski Street. When returning by that street she had been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the cabman had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at the drink store, having received orders to do so. After dinner the whole RostÃ³v household set to work with enthusiastic haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people, and flurrying them still more. PÃ©tya directed things in the yard. SÃ³nya, owing to the count™s contradictory orders, lost her head and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house and yard, shouting and disputing. NatÃ¡sha, with the ardor characteristic of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her intervention in the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody expected some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her. Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When NatÃ¡sha set to work two cases were standing open in the ballroom, one almost full up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in from the storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it. SÃ³nya, wait a bit”we™ll pack everything into these, said NatÃ¡sha. You can™t, Miss, we have tried to, said the butler™s assistant. No, wait a minute, please. And NatÃ¡sha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates wrapped in paper. The dishes must go in here among the carpets, said she. Why, it™s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases, said the butler™s assistant. Oh, wait, please! And NatÃ¡sha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the things. These aren™t needed, said she, putting aside some plates of Kiev ware. These”yes, these must go among the carpets, she said, referring to the Saxony china dishes. Don™t, NatÃ¡sha! Leave it alone! We™ll get it all packed, urged SÃ³nya reproachfully. What a young lady she is! remarked the major-domo. But NatÃ¡sha would not give in. She turned everything out and began quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had been taken out of the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned out that when the cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few more things might have been taken out, but NatÃ¡sha insisted on having her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler™s assistant and PÃ©tya”whom she had drawn into the business of packing”press on the lid, and made desperate efforts herself. That™s enough, NatÃ¡sha, said SÃ³nya. I see you were right, but just take out the top one. I won™t! cried NatÃ¡sha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the carpets. Now press, PÃ©tya! Press, VasÃlich, press hard! she cried. The carpets yielded and the lid closed; NatÃ¡sha, clapping her hands, screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that NatÃ¡sha had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might be corded up. Thanks to NatÃ¡sha™s directions the work now went on expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable packed as compactly as possible. But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count, having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed. SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha slept in the sitting room without undressing. That night another wounded man was driven down the PovarskÃ¡ya, and MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the RostÃ³vs™ yard. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna concluded that he was a very important man. He was being conveyed in a calÃ¨che with a raised hood, and was quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a cart. Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house will be empty, said the old woman to the old attendant. Well, perhaps, said he with a sigh. We don™t expect to get him home alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it™s a long way from here, and there™s nobody living in it. Do us the honor to come in, there™s plenty of everything in the master™s house. Come in, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. Is he very ill? she asked. The attendant made a hopeless gesture. We don™t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor. And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart. All right! said the doctor. The old servant returned to the calÃ¨che, looked into it, shook his head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped beside MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. O, Lord Jesus Christ! she murmured. She invited them to take the wounded man into the house. The masters won™t object... she said. But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss™. This wounded man was Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski. CHAPTER XV Moscow™s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday. The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city. Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow”the rabble, that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials, seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to the Three Hills. Having waited there for RostopchÃn who did not turn up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being given away for nothing. In the RostÃ³vs™ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers came to the RostÃ³vs™ and wounded men dragged themselves there from the RostÃ³vs™ and from neighboring houses where they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused, saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and one™s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one™s own family. So thought the major-domo on his master™s behalf. On waking up that morning Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v left his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch. The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away. Well, VasÃlich, is everything ready? asked the count, and stroking his bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.) We can harness at once, your excellency. Well, that™s right. As soon as the countess wakes we™ll be off, God willing! What is it, gentlemen? he added, turning to the officer. Are you staying in my house? The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson. Count, be so good as to allow me... for God™s sake, to get into some corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be all right on a loaded cart.... Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same request on behalf of his master. Oh, yes, yes, yes! said the count hastily. I shall be very pleased, very pleased. VasÃlich, you™ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts. Well, what of it... do what™s necessary... said the count, muttering some indefinite order. But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer™s face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving toward the porch. Please step into the gallery, your excellency, said the major-domo. What are your orders about the pictures? The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who asked for a lift. Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded, he added in a soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard. At nine o™clock the countess woke up, and MatrÃ«na TimofÃ©evna, who had been her lady™s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of chief gendarme™s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much offended and the young ladies™ summer dresses could not be left behind. On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband. What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded. You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to them!... Really now, in our own yard”we asked them in ourselves and there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them be taken... where™s the hurry? The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters. The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of something detrimental to the children™s interests, such as the building of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so. She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband: Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our”all the children™s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand rubles™ worth of things in the house. I don™t consent, my dear, I don™t! Do as you please! It™s the government™s business to look after the wounded; they know that. Look at the LopukhÃns opposite, they cleared out everything two days ago. That™s what other people do. It™s only we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the children. Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without replying. Papa, what are you doing that for? asked NatÃ¡sha, who had followed him into her mother™s room. Nothing! What business is it of yours? muttered the count angrily. But I heard, said NatÃ¡sha. Why does Mamma object? What business is it of yours? cried the count. NatÃ¡sha stepped up to the window and pondered. Papa! Here™s Berg coming to see us, said she, looking out of the window. CHAPTER XVI Berg, the RostÃ³vs™ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders of VladÃmir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the first division of the Second Army. On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army. He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there. So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and domestic reasons. Berg drove up to his father-in-law™s house in his spruce little trap with a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it. From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya, and hastened to inquire after Mamma™s health. Health, at a time like this? said the count. Come, tell us the news! Is the army retreating or will there be another battle? God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa, said Berg. The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly antique valor of the Russian army, which they”which it (he corrected himself) has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth”there are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa (he smote himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the words Russian army), I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor, he went on rapidly. General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a hillside. You can imagine! And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard those days. NatÃ¡sha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some question. Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors cannot be imagined or adequately praised! said Berg, glancing round at NatÃ¡sha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a smile. ˜Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!™ Isn™t it so, Papa? said he. Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to express sympathy, remained standing beside her. Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get away.... I can™t think what the servants are about, said the countess, turning to her husband. I have just been told that nothing is ready yet. Somebody after all must see to things. One misses MÃtenka at such times. There won™t be any end to it. The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself. He got up from his chair and went to the door. At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose and, seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and significantly. And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa, said he. Hm... said the count, and stopped. I was driving past YusÃºpov™s house just now, said Berg with a laugh, when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn™t buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear VÃ©ra wanted a chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it. (At the mention of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) And it™s such a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know! And dear VÃ©ra has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me have one, I will pay the man well, and... The count frowned and coughed. Ask the countess, I don™t give orders. If it™s inconvenient, please don™t, said Berg. Only I so wanted it, for dear VÃ©ra™s sake. Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil... cried the old count. My head™s in a whirl! And he left the room. The countess began to cry. Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times! said Berg. NatÃ¡sha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs. PÃ©tya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the yard. Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing into one of them helped by an orderly. Do you know what it™s about? PÃ©tya asked NatÃ¡sha. She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about. She did not answer. It™s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded, said PÃ©tya. VasÃlich told me. I consider... I consider, NatÃ¡sha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to PÃ©tya, I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don™t know what. Are we despicable Germans? Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed headlong up the stairs. Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down the room, when NatÃ¡sha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps. It™s horrid! It™s abominable! she screamed. You can™t possibly have ordered it! Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count stood still at the window and listened. Mamma, it™s impossible: see what is going on in the yard! she cried. They will be left!... What™s the matter with you? Who are ˜they™? What do you want? Why, the wounded! It™s impossible, Mamma. It™s monstrous!... No, Mamma darling, it™s not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the yard... Mamma!... It™s impossible! The count stood by the window and listened without turning round. Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window. The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn to look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted. Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone? she said, not surrendering at once. Mamma, darling, forgive me! But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband. My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don™t understand about it, said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly. The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen, muttered the count through tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of shame on his breast. Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?... asked NatÃ¡sha. We will still take all the most necessary things. The count nodded affirmatively, and NatÃ¡sha, at the rapid pace at which she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the anteroom and downstairs into the yard. The servants gathered round NatÃ¡sha, but could not believe the strange order she brought them until the count himself, in his wife™s name, confirmed the order to give up all the carts to the wounded and take the trunks to the storerooms. When they understood that order the servants set to work at this new task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed strange to them but on the contrary it seemed the only thing that could be done, just as a quarter of an hour before it had not seemed strange to anyone that the wounded should be left behind and the goods carted away but that had seemed the only thing to do. The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread to the neighboring houses, from which wounded men began to come into the RostÃ³vs™ yard. Many of the wounded asked them not to unload the carts but only to let them sit on the top of the things. But the work of unloading, once started, could not be arrested. It seemed not to matter whether all or only half the things were left behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures, and mirrors that had been so carefully packed the night before now lay about the yard, and still they went on searching for and finding possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have another and yet another cart. We can take four more men, said the steward. They can have my trap, or else what is to become of them? Let them have my wardrobe cart, said the countess. DunyÃ¡sha can go with me in the carriage. They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was bright and animated. NatÃ¡sha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she had not known for a long time. What could we fasten this onto? asked the servants, trying to fix a trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. We must keep at least one cart. What™s in it? asked NatÃ¡sha. The count™s books. Leave it, VasÃlich will put it away. It™s not wanted. The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count Peter could sit. On the box. You™ll sit on the box, won™t you, PÃ©tya? cried NatÃ¡sha. SÃ³nya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was quite different from NatÃ¡sha™s. She was putting away the things that had to be left behind and making a list of them as the countess wished, and she tried to get as much taken away with them as possible. CHAPTER XVII Before two o™clock in the afternoon the RostÃ³vs™ four carriages, packed full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door. One by one the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard. The calÃ¨che in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted SÃ³nya™s attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she was arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at the entrance. Whose calÃ¨che is that? she inquired, leaning out of the carriage window. Why, didn™t you know, Miss? replied the maid. The wounded prince: he spent the night in our house and is going with us. But who is it? What™s his name? It™s our intended that was”Prince BolkÃ³nski himself! They say he is dying, replied the maid with a sigh. SÃ³nya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess, tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. NatÃ¡sha was not in the room. Mamma, said SÃ³nya, Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is going with us. The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing SÃ³nya™s arm, glanced around. NatÃ¡sha? she murmured. At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them. They knew their NatÃ¡sha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked. NatÃ¡sha does not know yet, but he is going with us, said SÃ³nya. You say he is dying? SÃ³nya nodded. The countess put her arms around SÃ³nya and began to cry. The ways of God are past finding out! she thought, feeling that the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was now taking place. Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What™s the matter? asked NatÃ¡sha, as with animated face she ran into the room. Nothing, answered the countess. If everything is ready let us start. And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. SÃ³nya embraced NatÃ¡sha and kissed her. NatÃ¡sha looked at her inquiringly. What is it? What has happened? Nothing... No... Is it something very bad for me? What is it? persisted NatÃ¡sha with her quick intuition. SÃ³nya sighed and made no reply. The count, PÃ©tya, Madame Schoss, MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, and VasÃlich came into the drawing room and, having closed the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments silently seated without looking at one another. The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna and VasÃlich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess went into the oratory and there SÃ³nya found her on her knees before the icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall. (The most precious ones, with which some family tradition was connected, were being taken with them.) In the porch and in the yard the men whom PÃ©tya had armed with swords and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind. As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house to the carriages, the calÃ¨che, the phaeton, and back again. They always will forget everything! said the countess. Don™t you know I can™t sit like that? And DunyÃ¡sha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an aggrieved look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange the seat. Oh, those servants! said the count, swaying his head. EfÃm, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance round at what was going on behind him. From thirty years™ experience he knew it would be some time yet before the order, Be off, in God™s name! would be given him: and he knew that even when it was said he would be stopped once or twice more while they sent back to fetch something that had been forgotten, and even after that he would again be stopped and the countess herself would lean out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the hill. He knew all this and therefore waited calmly for what would happen, with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say. Then EfÃm deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants did the same. Off, in God™s name! said EfÃm, putting on his hat. Start! The postilion started the horses, the off pole horse tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body of the coach swayed. The footman sprang onto the box of the moving coach which jolted as it passed out of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the other vehicles jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In the carriages, the calÃ¨che, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off. Rarely had NatÃ¡sha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned out of the carriage window and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrew™s calÃ¨che. She did not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that calÃ¨che. She knew it was right in front. In KÃºdrino, from the NikÃtski, PrÃ©snya, and PodnovÃnsk Streets came several other trains of vehicles similar to the RostÃ³vs™, and as they passed along the SadÃ³vaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows abreast. As they were going round the SÃºkharev water tower NatÃ¡sha, who was inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise: Dear me! Mamma, SÃ³nya, look, it™s he! Who? Who? Look! Yes, on my word, it™s BezÃºkhov! said NatÃ¡sha, putting her head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman™s long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the SÃºkharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat. Yes, it really is BezÃºkhov in a coachman™s coat, with a queer-looking old boy. Really, said NatÃ¡sha, look, look! No, it™s not he. How can you talk such nonsense? Mamma, screamed NatÃ¡sha, I™ll stake my head it™s he! I assure you! Stop, stop! she cried to the coachman. But the coachman could not stop, for from the MeshchÃ¡nski Street came more carts and carriages, and the RostÃ³vs were being shouted at to move on and not block the way. In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the RostÃ³vs all saw Pierre”or someone extraordinarily like him”in a coachman™s coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, and respectfully touching Pierre™s elbow said something to him and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first understand him. At length when he had understood and looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized NatÃ¡sha, and following his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped. NatÃ¡sha™s face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical kindliness. Peter KirÃlovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is wonderful! she cried, holding out her hand to him. What are you doing? Why are you like this? Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked along beside her while the coach still moved on. What is the matter, Count? asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone. What? What? Why? Don™t ask me, said Pierre, and looked round at NatÃ¡sha whose radiant, happy expression”of which he was conscious without looking at her”filled him with enchantment. Are you remaining in Moscow, then? Pierre hesitated. In Moscow? he said in a questioning tone. Yes, in Moscow. Good-by! Ah, if only I were a man! I™d certainly stay with you. How splendid! said NatÃ¡sha. Mamma, if you™ll let me, I™ll stay! Pierre glanced absently at NatÃ¡sha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him. You were at the battle, we heard. Yes, I was, Pierre answered. There will be another battle tomorrow... he began, but NatÃ¡sha interrupted him. But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself.... Oh, don™t ask me, don™t ask me! I don™t know myself. Tomorrow... But no! Good-by, good-by! he muttered. It™s an awful time! and dropping behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement. NatÃ¡sha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile. CHAPTER XVIII For the last two days, ever since leaving home, Pierre had been living in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, BazdÃ©ev. This is how it happened. When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count RostopchÃn, he could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that among others awaiting him in his reception room there was a Frenchman who had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess HÃ©lÃ¨ne, he felt suddenly overcome by that sense of confusion and hopelessness to which he was apt to succumb. He felt that everything was now at an end, all was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or wrong, the future held nothing, and there was no escape from this position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he first sat down on the sofa in an attitude of despair, then rose, went to the door of the reception room and peeped through the crack, returned flourishing his arms, and took up a book. His major-domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was very anxious to see him if only for a minute, and that someone from BazdÃ©ev™s widow had called to ask Pierre to take charge of her husband™s books, as she herself was leaving for the country. Oh, yes, in a minute; wait... or no! No, of course... go and say I will come directly, Pierre replied to the major-domo. But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door. There was no one in the passage. He went along the whole length of this passage to the stairs and, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, went down as far as the first landing. The hall porter was standing at the front door. From the landing where Pierre stood there was a second staircase leading to the back entrance. He went down that staircase and out into the yard. No one had seen him. But there were some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate the coachmen and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him. When he felt he was being looked at he behaved like an ostrich which hides its head in a bush in order not to be seen: he hung his head and quickening his pace went down the street. Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph BazdÃ©ev™s books and papers appeared to him the most necessary. He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the Patriarch™s Ponds, where the widow BazdÃ©ev™s house was. Continually turning round to look at the rows of loaded carts that were making their way from all sides out of Moscow, and balancing his bulky body so as not to slip out of the ramshackle old vehicle, Pierre, experiencing the joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to talk to his driver. The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the KrÃ©mlin and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills gates and a great battle would be fought there. Having reached the Patriarch™s Ponds Pierre found the BazdÃ©evs™ house, where he had not been for a long time past. He went up to the gate. GerÃ¡sim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at TorzhÃ³k five years before with Joseph BazdÃ©ev, came out in answer to his knock. At home? asked Pierre. Owing to the present state of things Sophia DanÃlovna has gone to the TorzhÃ³k estate with the children, your excellency. I will come in all the same, I have to look through the books, said Pierre. Be so good as to step in. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, the brother of my late master”may the kingdom of heaven be his”has remained here, but he is in a weak state as you know, said the old servant. Pierre knew that MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was Joseph BazdÃ©ev™s half-insane brother and a hard drinker. Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in... said Pierre and entered the house. A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose, wearing a dressing gown and with galoshes on his bare feet, stood in the anteroom. On seeing Pierre he muttered something angrily and went away along the passage. He was a very clever man but has now grown quite feeble, as your honor sees, said GerÃ¡sim. Will you step into the study? Pierre nodded. As it was sealed up so it has remained, but Sophia DanÃlovna gave orders that if anyone should come from you they were to have the books. Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation in his benefactor™s lifetime. The room, dusty and untouched since the death of Joseph BazdÃ©ev was now even gloomier. GerÃ¡sim opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre went round the study, approached the cupboard in which the manuscripts were kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important, the holy of holies of the order. This was the authentic Scotch Acts with BazdÃ©ev™s notes and explanations. He sat down at the dusty writing table, and, having laid the manuscripts before him, opened them out, closed them, finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand sank into meditation. GerÃ¡sim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre always sitting in the same attitude. More than two hours passed and GerÃ¡sim took the liberty of making a slight noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not hear him. Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor? Oh yes! said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly. Look here, he added, taking GerÃ¡sim by a button of his coat and looking down at the old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, I say, do you know that there is going to be a battle tomorrow? We heard so, replied the man. I beg you not to tell anyone who I am, and to do what I ask you. Yes, your excellency, replied GerÃ¡sim. Will you have something to eat? No, but I want something else. I want peasant clothes and a pistol, said Pierre, unexpectedly blushing. Yes, your excellency, said GerÃ¡sim after thinking for a moment. All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor™s study, and GerÃ¡sim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and talking to himself. And he spent the night on a bed made up for him there. GerÃ¡sim, being a servant who in his time had seen many strange things, accepted Pierre™s taking up his residence in the house without surprise, and seemed pleased to have someone to wait on. That same evening”without even asking himself what they were wanted for”he procured a coachman™s coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich came twice that evening shuffling along in his galoshes as far as the door and stopped and looked ingratiatingly at Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned toward him he wrapped his dressing gown around him with a shamefaced and angry look and hurried away. It was when Pierre (wearing the coachman™s coat which GerÃ¡sim had procured for him and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man to buy the pistol at the SÃºkharev market that he met the RostÃ³vs. CHAPTER XIX KutÃºzov™s order to retreat through Moscow to the RyazÃ¡n road was issued at night on the first of September. The first troops started at once, and during the night they marched slowly and steadily without hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing the town at the DorogomÃlov bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers crowding and hurrying across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side and blocking the streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were bearing down on them from behind, and an unreasoning hurry and alarm overcame them. They all rushed forward to the bridge, onto it, and to the fords and the boats. KutÃºzov himself had driven round by side streets to the other side of Moscow. By ten o™clock in the morning of the second of September, only the rear guard remained in the DorogomÃlov suburb, where they had ample room. The main army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it. At that very time, at ten in the morning of the second of September, Napoleon was standing among his troops on the PoklÃ³nny Hill looking at the panorama spread out before him. From the twenty-sixth of August to the second of September, that is from the battle of BorodinÃ³ to the entry of the French into Moscow, during the whole of that agitating, memorable week, there had been the extraordinary autumn weather that always comes as a surprise, when the sun hangs low and gives more heat than in spring, when everything shines so brightly in the rare clear atmosphere that the eyes smart, when the lungs are strengthened and refreshed by inhaling the aromatic autumn air, when even the nights are warm, and when in those dark warm nights, golden stars startle and delight us continually by falling from the sky. At ten in the morning of the second of September this weather still held. The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow seen from the PoklÃ³nny Hill lay spaciously spread out with her river, her gardens, and her churches, and she seemed to be living her usual life, her cupolas glittering like stars in the sunlight. The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as he had never seen before, filled Napoleon with the rather envious and uneasy curiosity men feel when they see an alien form of life that has no knowledge of them. This city was evidently living with the full force of its own life. By the indefinite signs which, even at a distance, distinguish a living body from a dead one, Napoleon from the PoklÃ³nny Hill perceived the throb of life in the town and felt, as it were, the breathing of that great and beautiful body. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it. Cette ville asiatique aux innombrables Ã©glises, Moscou la sainte. La voilÃ donc enfin, cette fameuse ville! Il Ã©tait temps, * said he, and dismounting he ordered a plan of Moscow to be spread out before him, and summoned Lelorgne d™Ideville, the interpreter. * That Asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy Moscow! Here it is then at last, that famous city. It was high time. A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her honor, thought he (he had said so to TÃºchkov at SmolÃ©nsk). From that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it agitated and awed him. But could it be otherwise? he thought. Here is this capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what light must I appear to them! thought he, thinking of his troops. Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men, he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up. One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can™t be true that I am in Moscow, he suddenly thought. Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy.... It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him. (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander.) From the height of the KrÃ©mlin”yes, there is the KrÃ©mlin, yes”I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. ˜Boyars,™ I will say to them, ˜I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.™ However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies. Qu™on m™amÃ¨ne les boyars, * said he to his suite. * Bring the boyars to me. A general with a brilliant suite galloped off at once to fetch the boyars. Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched and was again standing in the same place on the PoklÃ³nny Hill awaiting the deputation. His speech to the boyars had already taken definite shape in his imagination. That speech was full of dignity and greatness as Napoleon understood it. He was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to adopt toward Moscow. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would mingle. He mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the hearts of the people. Having learned that there were many charitable institutions in Moscow he mentally decided that he would shower favors on them all. He thought that, as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be beneficent like the Tsars. And in order finally to touch the hearts of the Russians”and being like all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference to ma chÃ¨re, ma tendre, ma pauvre mÃ¨re * ”he decided that he would place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters: This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother. Or no, it should be simply: Maison de ma MÃ¨re, *(2) he concluded. But am I really in Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the city so long in appearing? he wondered. * My dear, my tender, my poor mother. * (2) House of my Mother. Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to fetch the deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty, that everyone had left it. The faces of those who were not conferring together were pale and perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor”without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous”that he had been awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort must be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then told the truth. He will have to be told, all the same, said some gentlemen of the suite. But, gentlemen... The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile. But it™s impossible... declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word”le ridicule.... At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor™s instinct suggesting to him that the sublime moment having been too long drawn out was beginning to lose its sublimity, gave a sign with his hand. A single report of a signaling gun followed, and the troops, who were already spread out on different sides of Moscow, moved into the city through the Tver, KalÃºga, and DorogomÃlov gates. Faster and faster, vying with one another, they moved at the double or at a trot, vanishing amid the clouds of dust they raised and making the air ring with a deafening roar of mingling shouts. Drawn on by the movement of his troops Napoleon rode with them as far as the DorogomÃlov gate, but there again stopped and, dismounting from his horse, paced for a long time by the KÃ¡mmer-KollÃ©zski rampart, awaiting the deputation. CHAPTER XX Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps a fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty. It was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty. In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it seems as much alive as other hives. The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday sun as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance it smells of honey like the others, and bees fly in and out in the same way. But one has only to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it. The bees do not fly in the same way, the smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the same. To the beekeeper™s tap on the wall of the sick hive, instead of the former instant unanimous humming of tens of thousands of bees with their abdomens threateningly compressed, and producing by the rapid vibration of their wings an aerial living sound, the only reply is a disconnected buzzing from different parts of the deserted hive. From the alighting board, instead of the former spirituous fragrant smell of honey and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded life, comes an odor of emptiness and decay mingling with the smell of honey. There are no longer sentinels sounding the alarm with their abdomens raised, and ready to die in defense of the hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing activity, like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds of disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with honey fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from danger. Formerly only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and they flew out empty; now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower part of the hive and peers in. Instead of black, glossy bees”tamed by toil, clinging to one another™s legs and drawing out the wax, with a ceaseless hum of labor”that used to hang in long clusters down to the floor of the hive, drowsy shriveled bees crawl about separately in various directions on the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving their legs, and dead ones that have not been cleared away. The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super. Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the combs, but no longer in their former state of purity. All is neglected and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of the hive in their flight. Here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey an angry buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of bees, by force of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells, with efforts beyond their strength laboriously drag away a dead bee or bumblebee without knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting, or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without themselves knowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. In a third place a crowd of bees, crushing one another, attack some victim and fight and smother it, and the victim, enfeebled or killed, drops from above slowly and lightly as a feather, among the heap of corpses. The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine the brood cells. In place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands of bees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation, he sees hundreds of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of bees. They have almost all died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no more. They reek of decay and death. Only a few of them still move, rise, and feebly fly to settle on the enemy™s hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging him; the rest are dead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes the hive, chalks a mark on it, and when he has time tears out its contents and burns it clean. So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy, and morose, paced up and down in front of the KÃ¡mmer-KollÃ©zski rampart, awaiting what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal, observance of the proprieties”a deputation. In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they were doing. When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty, he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently continued to walk to and fro. My carriage! he said. He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove into the suburb. Moscow deserted! he said to himself. What an incredible event! He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in the DorogomÃlov suburb. The coup de thÃ©Ã¢tre had not come off. CHAPTER XXI The Russian troops were passing through Moscow from two o™clock at night till two in the afternoon and bore away with them the wounded and the last of the inhabitants who were leaving. The greatest crush during the movement of the troops took place at the Stone, MoskvÃ¡, and YaÃºza bridges. While the troops, dividing into two parts when passing around the KrÃ©mlin, were thronging the MoskvÃ¡ and the Stone bridges, a great many soldiers, taking advantage of the stoppage and congestion, turned back from the bridges and slipped stealthily and silently past the church of VasÃli the Beatified and under the BorovÃtski gate, back up the hill to the Red Square where some instinct told them they could easily take things not belonging to them. Crowds of the kind seen at cheap sales filled all the passages and alleys of the Bazaar. But there were no dealers with voices of ingratiating affability inviting customers to enter; there were no hawkers, nor the usual motley crowd of female purchasers”but only soldiers, in uniforms and overcoats though without muskets, entering the Bazaar empty-handed and silently making their way out through its passages with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants (of whom there were but few) moved about among the soldiers quite bewildered. They unlocked their shops and locked them up again, and themselves carried goods away with the help of their assistants. On the square in front of the Bazaar were drummers beating the muster call. But the roll of the drums did not make the looting soldiers run in the direction of the drum as formerly, but made them, on the contrary, run farther away. Among the soldiers in the shops and passages some men were to be seen in gray coats, with closely shaven heads. Two officers, one with a scarf over his uniform and mounted on a lean, dark-gray horse, the other in an overcoat and on foot, stood at the corner of IlyÃnka Street, talking. A third officer galloped up to them. The general orders them all to be driven out at once, without fail. This is outrageous! Half the men have dispersed. Where are you off to?... Where?... he shouted to three infantrymen without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats, were slipping past him into the Bazaar passage. Stop, you rascals! But how are you going to stop them? replied another officer. There is no getting them together. The army should push on before the rest bolt, that™s all! How can one push on? They are stuck there, wedged on the bridge, and don™t move. Shouldn™t we put a cordon round to prevent the rest from running away? Come, go in there and drive them out! shouted the senior officer. The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer, and went with him into the arcade. Some soldiers started running away in a group. A shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheeks near the nose, and a calm, persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms. Your honor! said he. Be so good as to protect us! We won™t grudge trifles, you are welcome to anything”we shall be delighted! Pray!... I™ll fetch a piece of cloth at once for such an honorable gentleman, or even two pieces with pleasure. For we feel how it is; but what™s all this”sheer robbery! If you please, could not guards be placed if only to let us close the shop.... Several shopkeepers crowded round the officer. Eh, what twaddle! said one of them, a thin, stern-looking man. When one™s head is gone one doesn™t weep for one™s hair! Take what any of you like! And flourishing his arm energetically he turned sideways to the officer. It™s all very well for you, IvÃ¡n SidÃ³rych, to talk, said the first tradesman angrily. Please step inside, your honor! Talk indeed! cried the thin one. In my three shops here I have a hundred thousand rubles™ worth of goods. Can they be saved when the army has gone? Eh, what people! ˜Against God™s might our hands can™t fight.™ Come inside, your honor! repeated the tradesman, bowing. The officer stood perplexed and his face showed indecision. It™s not my business! he exclaimed, and strode on quickly down one of the passages. From one open shop came the sound of blows and vituperation, and just as the officer came up to it a man in a gray coat with a shaven head was flung out violently. This man, bent double, rushed past the tradesman and the officer. The officer pounced on the soldiers who were in the shops, but at that moment fearful screams reached them from the huge crowd on the MoskvÃ¡ bridge and the officer ran out into the square. What is it? What is it? he asked, but his comrade was already galloping off past VasÃli the Beatified in the direction from which the screams came. The officer mounted his horse and rode after him. When he reached the bridge he saw two unlimbered guns, the infantry crossing the bridge, several overturned carts, and frightened and laughing faces among the troops. Beside the cannon a cart was standing to which two horses were harnessed. Four borzois with collars were pressing close to the wheels. The cart was loaded high, and at the very top, beside a child™s chair with its legs in the air, sat a peasant woman uttering piercing and desperate shrieks. He was told by his fellow officers that the screams of the crowd and the shrieks of the woman were due to the fact that General ErmÃ³lov, coming up to the crowd and learning that soldiers were dispersing among the shops while crowds of civilians blocked the bridge, had ordered two guns to be unlimbered and made a show of firing at the bridge. The crowd, crushing one another, upsetting carts, and shouting and squeezing desperately, had cleared off the bridge and the troops were now moving forward. CHAPTER XXII Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only here and there round the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody drove through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The PovarskÃ¡ya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the RostÃ³vs™ house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing room of the house, which had been left with all it contained, were two people. They were the yard porter IgnÃ¡t, and the page boy MÃshka, VasÃlich™s grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather. MÃshka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with satisfaction before the large mirror. Isn™t it fine, eh, Uncle IgnÃ¡t? said the boy, suddenly beginning to strike the keyboard with both hands. Only fancy! answered IgnÃ¡t, surprised at the broadening grin on his face in the mirror. Impudence! Impudence! they heard behind them the voice of MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna who had entered silently. How he™s grinning, the fat mug! Is that what you™re here for? Nothing™s cleared away down there and VasÃlich is worn out. Just you wait a bit! IgnÃ¡t left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with meekly downcast eyes. Aunt, I did it gently, said the boy. I™ll give you something gently, you monkey you! cried MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, raising her arm threateningly. Go and get the samovar to boil for your grandfather. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door. Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go next”to drink tea in the servants™ wing with VasÃlich, or into the storeroom to put away what still lay about. She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna went to the gate. Who do you want? The count”Count IlyÃ¡ AndrÃ©evich RostÃ³v. And who are you? An officer, I have to see him, came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred Russian voice. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the round face of a RostÃ³v, entered the yard. They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna cordially. The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to enter or not, clicked his tongue. Ah, how annoying! he muttered. I should have come yesterday.... Ah, what a pity. Meanwhile, MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna was attentively and sympathetically examining the familiar RostÃ³v features of the young man™s face, his tattered coat and trodden-down boots. What did you want to see the count for? she asked. Oh well... it can™t be helped! said he in a tone of vexation and placed his hand on the gate as if to leave. He again paused in indecision. You see, he suddenly said, I am a kinsman of the count™s and he has been very kind to me. As you see (he glanced with an amused air and good-natured smile at his coat and boots) my things are worn out and I have no money, so I was going to ask the count... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna did not let him finish. Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment, said she. And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned and, hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard to the servants™ quarters. While MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna was running to her room the officer walked about the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint smile on his lips. What a pity I™ve missed Uncle! What a nice old woman! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the RogÃ³zhski gate? thought he. Just then MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna appeared from behind the corner of the house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a rolled-up check kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from the officer she unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white twenty-five-ruble assignat and hastily handed it to him. If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he would of course... but as it is... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did not decline, but took the note quietly and thanked her. If the count had been at home... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna went on apologetically. Christ be with you, sir! May God preserve you! said she, bowing as she saw him out. Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the officer ran almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward the YaÃºza bridge to overtake his regiment. But MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna stood at the closed gate for some time with moist eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer. CHAPTER XXIII From an unfinished house on the VarvÃ¡rka, the ground floor of which was a dramshop, came drunken shouts and songs. On benches round the tables in a dirty little room sat some ten factory hands. Tipsy and perspiring, with dim eyes and wide-open mouths, they were all laboriously singing some song or other. They were singing discordantly, arduously, and with great effort, evidently not because they wished to sing, but because they wanted to show they were drunk and on a spree. One, a tall, fair-haired lad in a clean blue coat, was standing over the others. His face with its fine straight nose would have been handsome had it not been for his thin, compressed, twitching lips and dull, gloomy, fixed eyes. Evidently possessed by some idea, he stood over those who were singing, and solemnly and jerkily flourished above their heads his white arm with the sleeve turned up to the elbow, trying unnaturally to spread out his dirty fingers. The sleeve of his coat kept slipping down and he always carefully rolled it up again with his left hand, as if it were most important that the sinewy white arm he was flourishing should be bare. In the midst of the song cries were heard, and fighting and blows in the passage and porch. The tall lad waved his arm. Stop it! he exclaimed peremptorily. There™s a fight, lads! And, still rolling up his sleeve, he went out to the porch. The factory hands followed him. These men, who under the leadership of the tall lad were drinking in the dramshop that morning, had brought the publican some skins from the factory and for this had had drink served them. The blacksmiths from a neighboring smithy, hearing the sounds of revelry in the tavern and supposing it to have been broken into, wished to force their way in too and a fight in the porch had resulted. The publican was fighting one of the smiths at the door, and when the workmen came out the smith, wrenching himself free from the tavern keeper, fell face downward on the pavement. Another smith tried to enter the doorway, pressing against the publican with his chest. The lad with the turned-up sleeve gave the smith a blow in the face and cried wildly: They™re fighting us, lads! At that moment the first smith got up and, scratching his bruised face to make it bleed, shouted in a tearful voice: Police! Murder!... They™ve killed a man, lads! Oh, gracious me, a man beaten to death”killed!... screamed a woman coming out of a gate close by. A crowd gathered round the bloodstained smith. Haven™t you robbed people enough”taking their last shirts? said a voice addressing the publican. What have you killed a man for, you thief? The tall lad, standing in the porch, turned his bleared eyes from the publican to the smith and back again as if considering whom he ought to fight now. Murderer! he shouted suddenly to the publican. Bind him, lads! I daresay you would like to bind me! shouted the publican, pushing away the men advancing on him, and snatching his cap from his head he flung it on the ground. As if this action had some mysterious and menacing significance, the workmen surrounding the publican paused in indecision. I know the law very well, mates! I™ll take the matter to the captain of police. You think I won™t get to him? Robbery is not permitted to anybody nowadays! shouted the publican, picking up his cap. Come along then! Come along then! the publican and the tall young fellow repeated one after the other, and they moved up the street together. The bloodstained smith went beside them. The factory hands and others followed behind, talking and shouting. At the corner of the MorosÃ©yka, opposite a large house with closed shutters and bearing a bootmaker™s signboard, stood a score of thin, worn-out, gloomy-faced bootmakers, wearing overalls and long tattered coats. He should pay folks off properly, a thin workingman, with frowning brows and a straggly beard, was saying. But he™s sucked our blood and now he thinks he™s quit of us. He™s been misleading us all the week and now that he™s brought us to this pass he™s made off. On seeing the crowd and the bloodstained man the workman ceased speaking, and with eager curiosity all the bootmakers joined the moving crowd. Where are all the folks going? Why, to the police, of course! I say, is it true that we have been beaten? And what did you think? Look what folks are saying. Questions and answers were heard. The publican, taking advantage of the increased crowd, dropped behind and returned to his tavern. The tall youth, not noticing the disappearance of his foe, waved his bare arm and went on talking incessantly, attracting general attention to himself. It was around him that the people chiefly crowded, expecting answers from him to the questions that occupied all their minds. He must keep order, keep the law, that™s what the government is there for. Am I not right, good Christians? said the tall youth, with a scarcely perceptible smile. He thinks there™s no government! How can one do without government? Or else there would be plenty who™d rob us. Why talk nonsense? rejoined voices in the crowd. Will they give up Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it! Aren™t there plenty of troops on the march? Let him in, indeed! That™s what the government is for. You™d better listen to what people are saying, said some of the mob pointing to the tall youth. By the wall of China-Town a smaller group of people were gathered round a man in a frieze coat who held a paper in his hand. An ukÃ¡se, they are reading an ukÃ¡se! Reading an ukÃ¡se! cried voices in the crowd, and the people rushed toward the reader. The man in the frieze coat was reading the broadsheet of August 31. When the crowd collected round him he seemed confused, but at the demand of the tall lad who had pushed his way up to him, he began in a rather tremulous voice to read the sheet from the beginning. Early tomorrow I shall go to his Serene Highness, he read (Sirin Highness, said the tall fellow with a triumphant smile on his lips and a frown on his brow), to consult with him to act, and to aid the army to exterminate these scoundrels. We too will take part... the reader went on, and then paused (Do you see, shouted the youth victoriously, he™s going to clear up the whole affair for you....), in destroying them, and will send these visitors to the devil. I will come back to dinner, and we™ll set to work. We will do, completely do, and undo these scoundrels. The last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. The tall lad hung his head gloomily. It was evident that no one had understood the last part. In particular, the words I will come back to dinner, evidently displeased both reader and audience. The people™s minds were tuned to a high pitch and this was too simple and needlessly comprehensible”it was what any one of them might have said and therefore was what an ukÃ¡se emanating from the highest authority should not say. They all stood despondent and silent. The tall youth moved his lips and swayed from side to side. We should ask him... that™s he himself?... Yes, ask him indeed!... Why not? He™ll explain... voices in the rear of the crowd were suddenly heard saying, and the general attention turned to the police superintendent™s trap which drove into the square attended by two mounted dragoons. The superintendent of police, who had gone that morning by Count RostopchÃn™s orders to burn the barges and had in connection with that matter acquired a large sum of money which was at that moment in his pocket, on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him told his coachman to stop. What people are these? he shouted to the men, who were moving singly and timidly in the direction of his trap. What people are these? he shouted again, receiving no answer. Your honor... replied the shopman in the frieze coat, your honor, in accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of riot, but as his highest excellence said... The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued concerning you, said the superintendent of police. Go on! he ordered his coachman. The crowd halted, pressing around those who had heard what the superintendent had said, and looking at the departing trap. The superintendent of police turned round at that moment with a scared look, said something to his coachman, and his horses increased their speed. It™s a fraud, lads! Lead the way to him, himself! shouted the tall youth. Don™t let him go, lads! Let him answer us! Keep him! shouted different people and the people dashed in pursuit of the trap. Following the superintendent of police and talking loudly the crowd went in the direction of the LubyÃ¡nka Street. There now, the gentry and merchants have gone away and left us to perish. Do they think we™re dogs? voices in the crowd were heard saying more and more frequently. CHAPTER XXIV On the evening of the first of September, after his interview with KutÃºzov, Count RostopchÃn had returned to Moscow mortified and offended because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and because KutÃºzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the defense of the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him at the camp, which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its patriotic fervor as not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and unimportant matters. Distressed, offended, and surprised by all this, RostopchÃn had returned to Moscow. After supper he lay down on a sofa without undressing, and was awakened soon after midnight by a courier bringing him a letter from KutÃºzov. This letter requested the count to send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army was retreating to the RyazÃ¡n road beyond Moscow. This was not news to RostopchÃn. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since his interview the previous day with KutÃºzov on the PoklÃ³nny Hill but ever since the battle of BorodinÃ³, for all the generals who came to Moscow after that battle had said unanimously that it was impossible to fight another battle, and since then the government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city with RostopchÃn™s own permission. Yet all the same this information astonished and irritated the count, coming as it did in the form of a simple note with an order from KutÃºzov, and received at night, breaking in on his beauty sleep. When later on in his memoirs Count RostopchÃn explained his actions at this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this twofold aim all RostopchÃn™s actions appear irreproachable. Why were the holy relics, the arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why were thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would not be given up”and thereby ruined? To preserve the tranquillity of the city, explains Count RostopchÃn. Why were bundles of useless papers from the government offices, and Leppich™s balloon and other articles removed? To leave the town empty, explains Count RostopchÃn. One need only admit that public tranquillity is in danger and any action finds a justification. All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for public tranquillity. On what, then, was Count RostopchÃn™s fear for the tranquillity of Moscow based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability of an uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it and the retreating troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to riot? Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than ten thousand people were still in Moscow on the first and second of September, and except for a mob in the governor™s courtyard, assembled there at his bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would have been even less reason to expect a disturbance among the people if after the battle of BorodinÃ³, when the surrender of Moscow became certain or at least probable, RostopchÃn instead of exciting the people by distributing arms and broadsheets had taken steps to remove all the holy relics, the gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the population plainly that the town would be abandoned. RostopchÃn, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to be guiding. Ever since the enemy™s entry into SmolÃ©nsk he had in imagination been playing the role of director of the popular feeling of the heart of Russia. Not only did it seem to him (as to all administrators) that he controlled the external actions of Moscow™s inhabitants, but he also thought he controlled their mental attitude by means of his broadsheets and posters, written in a coarse tone which the people despise in their own class and do not understand from those in authority. RostopchÃn was so pleased with the fine role of leader of popular feeling, and had grown so used to it, that the necessity of relinquishing that role and abandoning Moscow without any heroic display took him unawares and he suddenly felt the ground slip away from under his feet, so that he positively did not know what to do. Though he knew it was coming, he did not till the last moment wholeheartedly believe that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not prepare for it. The inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government offices were removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the count yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had created for himself. As is often the case with those gifted with an ardent imagination, though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned he knew it only with his intellect, he did not believe it in his heart and did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs. All his painstaking and energetic activity (in how far it was useful and had any effect on the people is another question) had been simply directed toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic hatred of the French. But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not even possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when self-confidence was of no avail in relation to the one question before Moscow, when the whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man, abandoning their belongings and proving by that negative action all the depth of their national feeling, then the role chosen by RostopchÃn suddenly appeared senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous, weak, and alone, with no ground to stand on. When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note from KutÃºzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself to blame. All that he had been specially put in charge of, the state property which he should have removed, was still in Moscow and it was no longer possible to take the whole of it away. Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass? he ruminated. Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow firmly in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains! Traitors! he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and traitors were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever they might be who were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in which he found himself. All that night Count RostopchÃn issued orders, for which people came to him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count so morose and irritable. Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar™s Department has sent for instructions.... From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent... asking for information.... What are your orders about the Fire Brigade? From the governor of the prison... from the superintendent of the lunatic asylum... All night long such announcements were continually being received by the count. To all these inquiries he gave brief and angry replies indicating that orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen. Oh, tell that blockhead, he said in reply to the question from the Registrar™s Department, that he should remain to guard his documents. Now why are you asking silly questions about the Fire Brigade? They have horses, let them be off to VladÃmir, and not leave them to the French. Your excellency, the superintendent of the lunatic asylum has come: what are your commands? My commands? Let them go away, that™s all.... And let the lunatics out into the town. When lunatics command our armies God evidently means these other madmen to be free. In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count RostopchÃn shouted angrily at the governor: Do you expect me to give you two battalions”which we have not got”for a convoy? Release them, that™s all about it! Your excellency, there are some political prisoners, MeshkÃ³v, VereshchÃ¡gin... VereshchÃ¡gin! Hasn™t he been hanged yet? shouted RostopchÃn. Bring him to me! CHAPTER XXV Toward nine o™clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving through Moscow, nobody came to the count any more for instructions. Those who were able to get away were going of their own accord, those who remained behind decided for themselves what they must do. The count ordered his carriage that he might drive to SokÃ³lniki, and sat in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn. In quiet and untroubled times it seems to every administrator that it is only by his efforts that the whole population under his rule is kept going, and in this consciousness of being indispensable every administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts. While the sea of history remains calm the ruler-administrator in his frail bark, holding on with a boat hook to the ship of the people and himself moving, naturally imagines that his efforts move the ship he is holding on to. But as soon as a storm arises and the sea begins to heave and the ship to move, such a delusion is no longer possible. The ship moves independently with its own enormous motion, the boat hook no longer reaches the moving vessel, and suddenly the administrator, instead of appearing a ruler and a source of power, becomes an insignificant, useless, feeble man. RostopchÃn felt this, and it was this which exasperated him. The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the horses were harnessed. They were both pale, and the superintendent of police, after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had received, informed the count that an immense crowd had collected in the courtyard and wished to see him. Without saying a word RostopchÃn rose and walked hastily to his light, luxurious drawing room, went to the balcony door, took hold of the handle, let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a better view of the whole crowd. The tall lad was standing in front, flourishing his arm and saying something with a stern look. The blood-stained smith stood beside him with a gloomy face. A drone of voices was audible through the closed window. Is my carriage ready? asked RostopchÃn, stepping back from the window. It is, your excellency, replied the adjutant. RostopchÃn went again to the balcony door. But what do they want? he asked the superintendent of police. Your excellency, they say they have got ready, according to your orders, to go against the French, and they shouted something about treachery. But it is a turbulent crowd, your excellency”I hardly managed to get away from it. Your excellency, I venture to suggest... You may go. I don™t need you to tell me what to do! exclaimed RostopchÃn angrily. He stood by the balcony door looking at the crowd. This is what they have done with Russia! This is what they have done with me! thought he, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up within him against the someone to whom what was happening might be attributed. As often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by anger but was still seeking an object on which to vent it. Here is that mob, the dregs of the people, he thought as he gazed at the crowd: this rabble they have roused by their folly! They want a victim, he thought as he looked at the tall lad flourishing his arm. And this thought occurred to him just because he himself desired a victim, something on which to vent his rage. Is the carriage ready? he asked again. Yes, your excellency. What are your orders about VereshchÃ¡gin? He is waiting at the porch, said the adjutant. Ah! exclaimed RostopchÃn, as if struck by an unexpected recollection. And rapidly opening the door he went resolutely out onto the balcony. The talking instantly ceased, hats and caps were doffed, and all eyes were raised to the count. Good morning, lads! said the count briskly and loudly. Thank you for coming. I™ll come out to you in a moment, but we must first settle with the villain. We must punish the villain who has caused the ruin of Moscow. Wait for me! And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door behind him. A murmur of approbation and satisfaction ran through the crowd. He™ll settle with all the villains, you™ll see! And you said the French... He™ll show you what law is! the mob were saying as if reproving one another for their lack of confidence. A few minutes later an officer came hurriedly out of the front door, gave an order, and the dragoons formed up in line. The crowd moved eagerly from the balcony toward the porch. RostopchÃn, coming out there with quick angry steps, looked hastily around as if seeking someone. Where is he? he inquired. And as he spoke he saw a young man coming round the corner of the house between two dragoons. He had a long thin neck, and his head, that had been half shaved, was again covered by short hair. This young man was dressed in a threadbare blue cloth coat lined with fox fur, that had once been smart, and dirty hempen convict trousers, over which were pulled his thin, dirty, trodden-down boots. On his thin, weak legs were heavy chains which hampered his irresolute movements. Ah! said RostopchÃn, hurriedly turning away his eyes from the young man in the fur-lined coat and pointing to the bottom step of the porch. Put him there. The young man in his clattering chains stepped clumsily to the spot indicated, holding away with one finger the coat collar which chafed his neck, turned his long neck twice this way and that, sighed, and submissively folded before him his thin hands, unused to work. For several seconds while the young man was taking his place on the step the silence continued. Only among the back rows of the people, who were all pressing toward the one spot, could sighs, groans, and the shuffling of feet be heard. While waiting for the young man to take his place on the step RostopchÃn stood frowning and rubbing his face with his hand. Lads! said he, with a metallic ring in his voice. This man, VereshchÃ¡gin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing. The young man in the fur-lined coat, stooping a little, stood in a submissive attitude, his fingers clasped before him. His emaciated young face, disfigured by the half-shaven head, hung down hopelessly. At the count™s first words he raised it slowly and looked up at him as if wishing to say something or at least to meet his eye. But RostopchÃn did not look at him. A vein in the young man™s long thin neck swelled like a cord and went blue behind the ear, and suddenly his face flushed. All eyes were fixed on him. He looked at the crowd, and rendered more hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there, he smiled sadly and timidly, and lowering his head shifted his feet on the step. He has betrayed his Tsar and his country, he has gone over to Bonaparte. He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name, he has caused Moscow to perish, said RostopchÃn in a sharp, even voice, but suddenly he glanced down at VereshchÃ¡gin who continued to stand in the same submissive attitude. As if inflamed by the sight, he raised his arm and addressed the people, almost shouting: Deal with him as you think fit! I hand him over to you. The crowd remained silent and only pressed closer and closer to one another. To keep one another back, to breathe in that stifling atmosphere, to be unable to stir, and to await something unknown, uncomprehended, and terrible, was becoming unbearable. Those standing in front, who had seen and heard what had taken place before them, all stood with wide-open eyes and mouths, straining with all their strength, and held back the crowd that was pushing behind them. Beat him!... Let the traitor perish and not disgrace the Russian name! shouted RostopchÃn. Cut him down. I command it. Hearing not so much the words as the angry tone of RostopchÃn™s voice, the crowd moaned and heaved forward, but again paused. Count! exclaimed the timid yet theatrical voice of VereshchÃ¡gin in the midst of the momentary silence that ensued, Count! One God is above us both.... He lifted his head and again the thick vein in his thin neck filled with blood and the color rapidly came and went in his face. He did not finish what he wished to say. Cut him down! I command it... shouted RostopchÃn, suddenly growing pale like VereshchÃ¡gin. Draw sabers! cried the dragoon officer, drawing his own. Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd and reaching the front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood beside VereshchÃ¡gin. Saber him! the dragoon officer almost whispered. And one of the soldiers, his face all at once distorted with fury, struck VereshchÃ¡gin on the head with the blunt side of his saber. Ah! cried VereshchÃ¡gin in meek surprise, looking round with a frightened glance as if not understanding why this was done to him. A similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. O Lord! exclaimed a sorrowful voice. But after the exclamation of surprise that had escaped from VereshchÃ¡gin he uttered a plaintive cry of pain, and that cry was fatal. The barrier of human feeling, strained to the utmost, that had held the crowd in check suddenly broke. The crime had begun and must now be completed. The plaintive moan of reproach was drowned by the threatening and angry roar of the crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, that last irresistible wave burst from the rear and reached the front ranks, carrying them off their feet and engulfing them all. The dragoon was about to repeat his blow. VereshchÃ¡gin with a cry of horror, covering his head with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth, against whom he stumbled, seized his thin neck with his hands and, yelling wildly, fell with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling crowd. Some beat and tore at VereshchÃ¡gin, others at the tall youth. And the screams of those that were being trampled on and of those who tried to rescue the tall lad only increased the fury of the crowd. It was a long time before the dragoons could extricate the bleeding youth, beaten almost to death. And for a long time, despite the feverish haste with which the mob tried to end the work that had been begun, those who were hitting, throttling, and tearing at VereshchÃ¡gin were unable to kill him, for the crowd pressed from all sides, swaying as one mass with them in the center and rendering it impossible for them either to kill him or let him go. Hit him with an ax, eh!... Crushed?... Traitor, he sold Christ.... Still alive... tenacious... serves him right! Torture serves a thief right. Use the hatchet!... What”still alive? Only when the victim ceased to struggle and his cries changed to a long-drawn, measured death rattle did the crowd around his prostrate, bleeding corpse begin rapidly to change places. Each one came up, glanced at what had been done, and with horror, reproach, and astonishment pushed back again. O Lord! The people are like wild beasts! How could he be alive? voices in the crowd could be heard saying. Quite a young fellow too... must have been a merchant™s son. What men!... and they say he™s not the right one.... How not the right one?... O Lord! And there™s another has been beaten too”they say he™s nearly done for.... Oh, the people... Aren™t they afraid of sinning?... said the same mob now, looking with pained distress at the dead body with its long, thin, half-severed neck and its livid face stained with blood and dust. A painstaking police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in his excellency™s courtyard unseemly, told the dragoons to take it away. Two dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the ground. The gory, dust-stained, half-shaven head with its long neck trailed twisting along the ground. The crowd shrank back from it. At the moment when VereshchÃ¡gin fell and the crowd closed in with savage yells and swayed about him, RostopchÃn suddenly turned pale and, instead of going to the back entrance where his carriage awaited him, went with hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the passage leading to the rooms on the ground floor. The count™s face was white and he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw. This way, your excellency... Where are you going?... This way, please... said a trembling, frightened voice behind him. Count RostopchÃn was unable to reply and, turning obediently, went in the direction indicated. At the back entrance stood his calÃ¨che. The distant roar of the yelling crowd was audible even there. He hastily took his seat and told the coachman to drive him to his country house in SokÃ³lniki. When they reached the MyasnÃtski Street and could no longer hear the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He remembered with dissatisfaction the agitation and fear he had betrayed before his subordinates. The mob is terrible”disgusting, he said to himself in French. They are like wolves whom nothing but flesh can appease. Count! One God is above us both!”VereshchÃ¡gin™s words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back. But this was only a momentary feeling and Count RostopchÃn smiled disdainfully at himself. I had other duties, thought he. The people had to be appeased. Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the public good”and he began thinking of his social duties to his family and to the city entrusted to him, and of himself”not himself as Theodore VasÃlyevich RostopchÃn (he fancied that Theodore VasÃlyevich RostopchÃn was sacrificing himself for the public good) but himself as governor, the representative of authority and of the Tsar. Had I been simply Theodore VasÃlyevich my course of action would have been quite different, but it was my duty to safeguard my life and dignity as commander in chief. Lightly swaying on the flexible springs of his carriage and no longer hearing the terrible sounds of the crowd, RostopchÃn grew physically calm and, as always happens, as soon as he became physically tranquil his mind devised reasons why he should be mentally tranquil too. The thought which tranquillized RostopchÃn was not a new one. Since the world began and men have killed one another no one has ever committed such a crime against his fellow man without comforting himself with this same idea. This idea is le bien public, the hypothetical welfare of other people. To a man not swayed by passion that welfare is never certain, but he who commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies. And RostopchÃn now knew it. Not only did his reason not reproach him for what he had done, but he even found cause for self-satisfaction in having so successfully contrived to avail himself of a convenient opportunity to punish a criminal and at the same time pacify the mob. VereshchÃ¡gin was tried and condemned to death, thought RostopchÃn (though the Senate had only condemned VereshchÃ¡gin to hard labor), he was a traitor and a spy. I could not let him go unpunished and so I have killed two birds with one stone: to appease the mob I gave them a victim and at the same time punished a miscreant. Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil. Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the SokÃ³lniki field, no longer thinking of what had occurred but considering what was to come. He was driving to the YaÃºza bridge where he had heard that KutÃºzov was. Count RostopchÃn was mentally preparing the angry and stinging reproaches he meant to address to KutÃºzov for his deception. He would make that foxy old courtier feel that the responsibility for all the calamities that would follow the abandonment of the city and the ruin of Russia (as RostopchÃn regarded it) would fall upon his doting old head. Planning beforehand what he would say to KutÃºzov, RostopchÃn turned angrily in his calÃ¨che and gazed sternly from side to side. The SokÃ³lniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front of the almshouse and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people in white and others like them walking singly across the field shouting and gesticulating. One of these was running to cross the path of Count RostopchÃn™s carriage, and the count himself, his coachman, and his dragoons looked with vague horror and curiosity at these released lunatics and especially at the one running toward them. Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on RostopchÃn, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him to stop. The lunatic™s solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow, with its beard growing in uneven tufts. His black, agate pupils with saffron-yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids. Stop! Pull up, I tell you! he cried in a piercing voice, and again shouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures. Coming abreast of the calÃ¨che he ran beside it. Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. They stoned me, crucified me... I shall rise... shall rise... shall rise. They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown... Thrice will I overthrow it and thrice re-establish it! he cried, raising his voice higher and higher. Count RostopchÃn suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed in on VereshchÃ¡gin. He turned away. Go fas... faster! he cried in a trembling voice to his coachman. The calÃ¨che flew over the ground as fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count RostopchÃn still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance, while his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of the traitor in the fur-lined coat. Recent as that mental picture was, RostopchÃn already felt that it had cut deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he felt clearly that the gory trace of that recollection would not pass with time, but that the terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell in his heart ever more cruelly and painfully to the end of his life. He seemed still to hear the sound of his own words: Cut him down! I command it.... Why did I utter those words? It was by some accident I said them.... I need not have said them, he thought. And then nothing would have happened. He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the fur-lined coat had turned upon him. But I did not do it for my own sake. I was bound to act that way.... The mob, the traitor... the public welfare, thought he. Troops were still crowding at the YaÃºza bridge. It was hot. KutÃºzov, dejected and frowning, sat on a bench by the bridge toying with his whip in the sand when a calÃ¨che dashed up noisily. A man in a general™s uniform with plumes in his hat went up to KutÃºzov and said something in French. It was Count RostopchÃn. He told KutÃºzov that he had come because Moscow, the capital, was no more and only the army remained. Things would have been different if your Serene Highness had not told me that you would not abandon Moscow without another battle; all this would not have happened, he said. KutÃºzov looked at RostopchÃn as if, not grasping what was said to him, he was trying to read something peculiar written at that moment on the face of the man addressing him. RostopchÃn grew confused and became silent. KutÃºzov slightly shook his head and not taking his penetrating gaze from RostopchÃn™s face muttered softly: No! I shall not give up Moscow without a battle! Whether KutÃºzov was thinking of something entirely different when he spoke those words, or uttered them purposely, knowing them to be meaningless, at any rate RostopchÃn made no reply and hastily left him. And strange to say, the Governor of Moscow, the proud Count RostopchÃn, took up a Cossack whip and went to the bridge where he began with shouts to drive on the carts that blocked the way. CHAPTER XXVI Toward four o™clock in the afternoon Murat™s troops were entering Moscow. In front rode a detachment of WÃ¼rttemberg hussars and behind them rode the King of Naples himself accompanied by a numerous suite. About the middle of the ArbÃ¡t Street, near the Church of the Miraculous Icon of St. Nicholas, Murat halted to await news from the advanced detachment as to the condition in which they had found the citadel, le Kremlin. Around Murat gathered a group of those who had remained in Moscow. They all stared in timid bewilderment at the strange, long-haired commander dressed up in feathers and gold. Is that their Tsar himself? He™s not bad! low voices could be heard saying. An interpreter rode up to the group. Take off your cap... your caps! These words went from one to another in the crowd. The interpreter addressed an old porter and asked if it was far to the KrÃ©mlin. The porter, listening in perplexity to the unfamiliar Polish accent and not realizing that the interpreter was speaking Russian, did not understand what was being said to him and slipped behind the others. Murat approached the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian army was. One of the Russians understood what was asked and several voices at once began answering the interpreter. A French officer, returning from the advanced detachment, rode up to Murat and reported that the gates of the citadel had been barricaded and that there was probably an ambuscade there. Good! said Murat and, turning to one of the gentlemen in his suite, ordered four light guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates. The guns emerged at a trot from the column following Murat and advanced up the ArbÃ¡t. When they reached the end of the VozdvÃzhenka Street they halted and drew in the Square. Several French officers superintended the placing of the guns and looked at the KrÃ©mlin through field glasses. The bells in the KrÃ©mlin were ringing for vespers, and this sound troubled the French. They imagined it to be a call to arms. A few infantrymen ran to the KutÃ¡fyev Gate. Beams and wooden screens had been put there, and two musket shots rang out from under the gate as soon as an officer and men began to run toward it. A general who was standing by the guns shouted some words of command to the officer, and the latter ran back again with his men. The sound of three more shots came from the gate. One shot struck a French soldier™s foot, and from behind the screens came the strange sound of a few voices shouting. Instantly as at a word of command the expression of cheerful serenity on the faces of the French general, officers, and men changed to one of determined concentrated readiness for strife and suffering. To all of them from the marshal to the least soldier, that place was not the VozdvÃzhenka, MokhavÃ¡ya, or KutÃ¡fyev Street, nor the TrÃ³itsa Gate (places familiar in Moscow), but a new battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary. And all made ready for that battle. The cries from the gates ceased. The guns were advanced, the artillerymen blew the ash off their linstocks, and an officer gave the word Fire! This was followed by two whistling sounds of canister shot, one after another. The shot rattled against the stone of the gate and upon the wooden beams and screens, and two wavering clouds of smoke rose over the Square. A few instants after the echo of the reports resounding over the stone-built KrÃ©mlin had died away the French heard a strange sound above their head. Thousands of crows rose above the walls and circled in the air, cawing and noisily flapping their wings. Together with that sound came a solitary human cry from the gateway and amid the smoke appeared the figure of a bareheaded man in a peasant™s coat. He grasped a musket and took aim at the French. Fire! repeated the officer once more, and the reports of a musket and of two cannon shots were heard simultaneously. The gate was again hidden by smoke. Nothing more stirred behind the screens and the French infantry soldiers and officers advanced to the gate. In the gateway lay three wounded and four dead. Two men in peasant coats ran away at the foot of the wall, toward the ZnÃ¡menka. Clear that away! said the officer, pointing to the beams and the corpses, and the French soldiers, after dispatching the wounded, threw the corpses over the parapet. Who these men were nobody knew. Clear that away! was all that was said of them, and they were thrown over the parapet and removed later on that they might not stink. Thiers alone dedicates a few eloquent lines to their memory: These wretches had occupied the sacred citadel, having supplied themselves with guns from the arsenal, and fired (the wretches) at the French. Some of them were sabered and the KrÃ©mlin was purged of their presence. Murat was informed that the way had been cleared. The French entered the gates and began pitching their camp in the Senate Square. Out of the windows of the Senate House the soldiers threw chairs into the Square for fuel and kindled fires there. Other detachments passed through the KrÃ©mlin and encamped along the MorosÃ©yka, the LubyÃ¡nka, and PokrÃ³vka Streets. Others quartered themselves along the VozdvÃzhenka, the NikÃ³lski, and the TverskÃ³y Streets. No masters of the houses being found anywhere, the French were not billeted on the inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as in a camp. Though tattered, hungry, worn out, and reduced to a third of their original number, the French entered Moscow in good marching order. It was a weary and famished, but still a fighting and menacing army. But it remained an army only until its soldiers had dispersed into their different lodgings. As soon as the men of the various regiments began to disperse among the wealthy and deserted houses, the army was lost forever and there came into being something nondescript, neither citizens nor soldiers but what are known as marauders. When five weeks later these same men left Moscow, they no longer formed an army. They were a mob of marauders, each carrying a quantity of articles which seemed to him valuable or useful. The aim of each man when he left Moscow was no longer, as it had been, to conquer, but merely to keep what he had acquired. Like a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow neck of a jug, and having seized a handful of nuts will not open its fist for fear of losing what it holds, and therefore perishes, the French when they left Moscow had inevitably to perish because they carried their loot with them, yet to abandon what they had stolen was as impossible for them as it is for the monkey to open its paw and let go of its nuts. Ten minutes after each regiment had entered a Moscow district, not a soldier or officer was left. Men in military uniforms and Hessian boots could be seen through the windows, laughing and walking through the rooms. In cellars and storerooms similar men were busy among the provisions, and in the yards unlocking or breaking open coach house and stable doors, lighting fires in kitchens and kneading and baking bread with rolled-up sleeves, and cooking; or frightening, amusing, or caressing women and children. There were many such men both in the shops and houses”but there was no army. Order after order was issued by the French commanders that day forbidding the men to disperse about the town, sternly forbidding any violence to the inhabitants or any looting, and announcing a roll call for that very evening. But despite all these measures the men, who had till then constituted an army, flowed all over the wealthy, deserted city with its comforts and plentiful supplies. As a hungry herd of cattle keeps well together when crossing a barren field, but gets out of hand and at once disperses uncontrollably as soon as it reaches rich pastures, so did the army disperse all over the wealthy city. No residents were left in Moscow, and the soldiers”like water percolating through sand”spread irresistibly through the city in all directions from the KrÃ©mlin into which they had first marched. The cavalry, on entering a merchant™s house that had been abandoned and finding there stabling more than sufficient for their horses, went on, all the same, to the next house which seemed to them better. Many of them appropriated several houses, chalked their names on them, and quarreled and even fought with other companies for them. Before they had had time to secure quarters the soldiers ran out into the streets to see the city and, hearing that everything had been abandoned, rushed to places where valuables were to be had for the taking. The officers followed to check the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into doing the same. In Carriage Row carriages had been left in the shops, and generals flocked there to select calÃ¨ches and coaches for themselves. The few inhabitants who had remained invited commanding officers to their houses, hoping thereby to secure themselves from being plundered. There were masses of wealth and there seemed no end to it. All around the quarters occupied by the French were other regions still unexplored and unoccupied where, they thought, yet greater riches might be found. And Moscow engulfed the army ever deeper and deeper. When water is spilled on dry ground both the dry ground and the water disappear and mud results; and in the same way the entry of the famished army into the rich and deserted city resulted in fires and looting and the destruction of both the army and the wealthy city. The French attributed the Fire of Moscow au patriotisme fÃ©roce de RostopchÃne, * the Russians to the barbarity of the French. In reality, however, it was not, and could not be, possible to explain the burning of Moscow by making any individual, or any group of people, responsible for it. Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which any town built of wood was bound to burn, quite apart from whether it had, or had not, a hundred and thirty inferior fire engines. Deserted Moscow had to burn as inevitably as a heap of shavings has to burn on which sparks continually fall for several days. A town built of wood, where scarcely a day passes without conflagrations when the house owners are in residence and a police force is present, cannot help burning when its inhabitants have left it and it is occupied by soldiers who smoke pipes, make campfires of the Senate chairs in the Senate Square, and cook themselves meals twice a day. In peacetime it is only necessary to billet troops in the villages of any district and the number of fires in that district immediately increases. How much then must the probability of fire be increased in an abandoned, wooden town where foreign troops are quartered. Le patriotisme fÃ©roce de RostopchÃne and the barbarity of the French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by the soldiers™ pipes, kitchens, and campfires, and by the carelessness of enemy soldiers occupying houses they did not own. Even if there was any arson (which is very doubtful, for no one had any reason to burn the houses”in any case a troublesome and dangerous thing to do), arson cannot be regarded as the cause, for the same thing would have happened without any incendiarism. * To RostopchÃn™s ferocious patriotism. However tempting it might be for the French to blame RostopchÃn™s ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte, or later on to place an heroic torch in the hands of their own people, it is impossible not to see that there could be no such direct cause of the fire, for Moscow had to burn as every village, factory, or house must burn which is left by its owners and in which strangers are allowed to live and cook their porridge. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, it is true, but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained in it. Moscow when occupied by the enemy did not remain intact like Berlin, Vienna, and other towns, simply because its inhabitants abandoned it and did not welcome the French with bread and salt, nor bring them the keys of the city. CHAPTER XXVII The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did, only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the second of September. After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances, Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completely obsessed by one persistent thought. He did not know how or when this thought had taken such possession of him, but he remembered nothing of the past, understood nothing of the present, and all he saw and heard appeared to him like a dream. He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life™s demands that enmeshed him, and which in his present condition he was unable to unravel. He had gone to Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s house, on the plea of sorting the deceased™s books and papers, only in search of rest from life™s turmoil, for in his mind the memory of Joseph AlexÃ©evich was connected with a world of eternal, solemn, and calm thoughts, quite contrary to the restless confusion into which he felt himself being drawn. He sought a quiet refuge, and in Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s study he really found it. When he sat with his elbows on the dusty writing table in the deathlike stillness of the study, calm and significant memories of the last few days rose one after another in his imagination, particularly of the battle of BorodinÃ³ and of that vague sense of his own insignificance and insincerity compared with the truth, simplicity, and strength of the class of men he mentally classed as they. When GerÃ¡sim roused him from his reverie the idea occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscow which he knew was projected. And with that object he had asked GerÃ¡sim to get him a peasant™s coat and a pistol, confiding to him his intentions of remaining in Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s house and keeping his name secret. Then during the first day spent in inaction and solitude (he tried several times to fix his attention on the Masonic manuscripts, but was unable to do so) the idea that had previously occurred to him of the cabalistic significance of his name in connection with Bonaparte™s more than once vaguely presented itself. But the idea that he, L™russe Besuhof, was destined to set a limit to the power of the Beast was as yet only one of the fancies that often passed through his mind and left no trace behind. When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the RostÃ³vs and NatÃ¡sha had said to him: Are you remaining in Moscow?... How splendid! the thought flashed into his mind that it really would be a good thing, even if Moscow were taken, for him to remain there and do what he was predestined to do. Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and not lagging in any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills gate. But when he returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable. He must remain in Moscow, concealing his name, and must meet Napoleon and kill him, and either perish or put an end to the misery of all Europe”which it seemed to him was solely due to Napoleon. Pierre knew all the details of the attempt on Bonaparte™s life in 1809 by a German student in Vienna, and knew that the student had been shot. And the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying out his design excited him still more. Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose. The first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice and suffering in view of the common calamity, the same feeling that had caused him to go to MozhÃ¡ysk on the twenty-fifth and to make his way to the very thick of the battle and had now caused him to run away from his home and, in place of the luxury and comfort to which he was accustomed, to sleep on a hard sofa without undressing and eat the same food as GerÃ¡sim. The other was that vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, and human”for everything the majority of men regard as the greatest good in the world. Pierre had first experienced this strange and fascinating feeling at the SlobÃ³da Palace, when he had suddenly felt that wealth, power, and life”all that men so painstakingly acquire and guard”if it has any worth has so only by reason of the joy with which it can all be renounced. It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses for no apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actions which from an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal power and strength, affirming the existence of a higher, nonhuman criterion of life. From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time at the SlobÃ³da Palace he had been continuously under its influence, but only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the RostÃ³vs that he would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was very sensitive. Pierre™s physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding”all this kept him in a state of excitement bordering on insanity. It was two o™clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his fancy he did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the blow or the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and melancholy enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance. Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish! he thought. Yes, I will approach... and then suddenly... with pistol or dagger? But that is all the same! ˜It is not I but the hand of Providence that punishes thee,™ I shall say, thought he, imagining what he would say when killing Napoleon. Well then, take me and execute me! he went on, speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression. While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, always so timid before but now quite transformed. His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He was obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing embarrassment on Pierre™s face immediately grew bold and, staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room. They™re frightened, he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. I say I won™t surrender, I say... Am I not right, sir? He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor. GerÃ¡sim and the porter, who had followed MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, stopped him in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, frowning with exertion, held on to the pistol and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head. To arms! Board them! No, you shan™t get it, he yelled. That will do, please, that will do. Have the goodness”please, sir, to let go! Please, sir... pleaded GerÃ¡sim, trying carefully to steer MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich by the elbows back to the door. Who are you? Bonaparte!... shouted MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich. That™s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to have the pistol. Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this? shouted MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, brandishing the pistol. Board them! Catch hold! whispered GerÃ¡sim to the porter. They seized MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich by the arms and dragged him to the door. The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a tipsy, hoarse voice. Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule. It™s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen! she cried. GerÃ¡sim and the porter let MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich go, and in the now silent corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be heard. CHAPTER XXVIII Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not retire”an irresistible curiosity kept him there. There were two of them. One was an officer”a tall, soldierly, handsome man”the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his mustache and lightly touched his hat. Bonjour, la compagnie! * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him. * Good day, everybody! No one gave any reply. Vous Ãªtes le bourgeois? * the officer asked GerÃ¡sim. * Are you the master here? GerÃ¡sim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look. Quartier, quartier, logement! said the officer, looking down at the little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. Les franÃ§ais sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fÃ¢chons pas, mon vieux! * added he, clapping the scared and silent GerÃ¡sim on the shoulder. Well, does no one speak French in this establishment? he asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre™s eyes. Pierre moved away from the door. * Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good fellows. What the devil! There, don™t let us be cross, old fellow! Again the officer turned to GerÃ¡sim and asked him to show him the rooms in the house. Master, not here”don™t understand... me, you... said GerÃ¡sim, trying to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them. Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before GerÃ¡sim™s nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved, limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With a madman™s cunning, MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim. Board them! yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door. Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre, snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer and addressed him in French. You are not wounded? he asked. I think not, answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. But I have had a lucky escape this time, he added, pointing to the damaged plaster of the wall. Who is that man? said he, looking sternly at Pierre. Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred, said Pierre rapidly, quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. He is an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing. The officer went up to MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich and took him by the collar. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall. Brigand! You shall pay for this, said the Frenchman, letting go of him. We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon traitors, he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic gesture. Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand. You have saved my life. You are French, said he. For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could perform a great deed, and to save his life”the life of M. Ramballe, captain of the 13th Light Regiment”was undoubtedly a very great deed. But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer™s conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him. I am Russian, he said quickly. Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others, said the officer, waving his finger before his nose and smiling. You shall tell me all about that presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we to do with this man? he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother. Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer™s look and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished. The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his arm. You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it you. Lead that man away! said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room. The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits, but the officer sternly checked them. You will be called in when you are wanted, he said. The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer. Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen, said he. Shall I serve them up? Yes, and some wine, answered the captain. CHAPTER XXIX When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the parlor”the first room they entered. To Pierre™s assurances that he was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving his life. Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre™s feelings were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man™s animated obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre. A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito, said the officer, looking at Pierre™s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger. I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That is all I can say. There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the word) in the officer™s voice, in the expression of his face and in his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the Frenchman™s smile, pressed the hand held out to him. Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September, he introduced himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under his mustache. Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance with that maniac™s bullet in my body? Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing, began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him. Oh, please! said he. I understand your reasons. You are an officer... a superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That™s not my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at your service. You belong to the gentry? he concluded with a shade of inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. Your baptismal name, if you please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say.... That™s all I want to know. When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man, munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking his lips, and repeating”Excellent! Delicious! His face grew red and was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass, taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to the French and had been given a special name. They called it limonade de cochon (pig™s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de cochon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain still more lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner. Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in my body already. Here is one I got at Wagram (he touched his side) and a second at SmolÃ©nsk”he showed a scar on his cheek”and this leg which as you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great battle of la Moskowa. SacrÃ© Dieu! It was splendid! That deluge of fire was worth seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may be proud of it! And on my honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it. I was there, said Pierre. Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The great redoubt held out well, by my pipe! continued the Frenchman. And you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times”sure as I sit here. Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your grenadiers were splendid, by heaven! I saw them close up their ranks six times in succession and march as if on parade. Fine fellows! Our King of Naples, who knows what™s what, cried ˜Bravo!™ Ha, ha! So you are one of us soldiers! he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. So much the better, so much the better, Monsieur Pierre! Terrible in battle... gallant... with the fair (he winked and smiled), that™s what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren™t they? The captain was so naÃ¯vely and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily at him. Probably the word gallant turned the captain™s thoughts to the state of Moscow. Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of? Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians entered it? asked Pierre. Ha, ha, ha! The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting Pierre on the shoulder. What a thing to say! he exclaimed. Paris?... But Paris, Paris... Paris”the capital of the world, Pierre finished his remark for him. The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindly eyes. Well, if you hadn™t told me you were Russian, I should have wagered that you were Parisian! You have that... I don™t know what, that... and having uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence. I have been in Paris. I spent years there, said Pierre. Oh yes, one sees that plainly. Paris!... A man who doesn™t know Paris is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Talma, la DuchÃ©nois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards, and noticing that his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly: There is only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don™t esteem you the less for it. Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed talking with this cheerful and good-natured man. To return to your ladies”I hear they are lovely. What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed! Your peasants, now”that™s another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to know us better than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all the world™s capitals.... We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to know. And then the Emperor... he began, but Pierre interrupted him. The Emperor, Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed, is the Emperor...? The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius”that™s what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so.... I assure you I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count.... But that man has vanquished me. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has covered France. When I understood what he wanted”when I saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: ˜That is a monarch,™ and I devoted myself to him! So there! Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest man of the ages past or future. Is he in Moscow? Pierre stammered with a guilty look. The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled. No, he will make his entry tomorrow, he replied, and continued his talk. Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at the gate and by Morel, who came to say that some WÃ¼rttemberg hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain™s horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly because the hussars did not understand what was said to them in French. The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a stern voice asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer, and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already occupied. The German who knew little French, answered the two first questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding officer, but in reply to the third question which he did not understand said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the quartermaster of the regiment and his commander had ordered him to occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German, translated what the German said to the captain and gave the captain™s reply to the WÃ¼rttemberg hussar in German. When he had understood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The captain went out into the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice. When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as that was it was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk and the conversation with this good-natured man had destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last few days and which was essential for the execution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not know why, but he felt a foreboding that he would not carry out his intention. He struggled against the confession of his weakness but dimly felt that he could not overcome it and that his former gloomy frame of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first man he met. The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling a tune. The Frenchman™s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesture with which he twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. I will go away immediately. I won™t say another word to him, thought Pierre. He thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of weakness tied him to the spot; he wished to get up and go away, but could not do so. The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and down the room twice. His eyes shone and his mustache twitched as if he were smiling to himself at some amusing thought. The colonel of those WÃ¼rttembergers is delightful, he suddenly said. He™s a German, but a nice fellow all the same.... But he™s a German. He sat down facing Pierre. By the way, you know German, then? Pierre looked at him in silence. What is the German for ˜shelter™? Shelter? Pierre repeated. The German for shelter is Unterkunft. How do you say it? the captain asked quickly and doubtfully. Unterkunft, Pierre repeated. Onterkoff, said the captain and looked at Pierre for some seconds with laughing eyes. These Germans are first-rate fools, don™t you think so, Monsieur Pierre? he concluded. Well, let™s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel! he called out gaily. Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on his companion™s face. Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him. There now, we™re sad, said he, touching Pierre™s hand. Have I upset you? No, really, have you anything against me? he asked Pierre. Perhaps it™s the state of affairs? Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman™s eyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him. Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death. I say it with my hand on my heart! said he, striking his chest. Thank you, said Pierre. The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that shelter was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenly brightened. Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship! he cried gaily, filling two glasses with wine. Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his too, again pressed Pierre™s hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a pensive attitude. Yes, my dear friend, he began, such is fortune™s caprice. Who would have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I am in Moscow with him. I must tell you, mon cher, he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, that our name is one of the most ancient in France. And with a Frenchman™s easy and naÃ¯ve frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, ma pauvre mÃ¨re playing of course an important part in the story. But all that is only life™s setting, the real thing is love”love! Am I not right, Monsieur Pierre? said he, growing animated. Another glass? Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third. Oh, women, women! and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs. There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the officer™s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe™s love stories had the sensual character which Frenchmen regard as the special charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with such sincere conviction that he alone had experienced and known all the charm of love and he described women so alluringly that Pierre listened to him with curiosity. It was plain that l™amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was not that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for NatÃ¡sha. (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one he considered the love of clodhoppers and the other the love of simpletons.) L™amour which the Frenchman worshiped consisted principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a combination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling. Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming, innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise. The conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in the mother™s sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of a distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he”the lover”assumed the role of the husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where shelter is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat sauerkraut and the young girls are too blonde. Finally, the latest episode in Poland still fresh in the captain™s memory, and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of life continually occurred in the captain™s stories) and the Pole had entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de cÅ“ur) while himself entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so: I have saved your life, and I save your honor! Having repeated these words the captain wiped his eyes and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection. Listening to the captain™s tales, Pierre”as often happens late in the evening and under the influence of wine”followed all that was told him, understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of personal memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While listening to these love stories his own love for NatÃ¡sha unexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe™s tales. Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the SÃºkharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had not produced an effect upon him”he had not even once recalled it. But now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very important and poetic. Peter KirÃlovich, come here! We have recognized you, he now seemed to hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her smile, her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair... and there seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this. Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband. Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could never be his. Tiens! said the captain. Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name. Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in the world, and especially therefore above himself. When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he understood that. The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand it he begged Pierre to continue. PlatÃ³nic love, clouds... he muttered. Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together, something loosened Pierre™s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his marriage, NatÃ¡sha™s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe™s questions he also told what he had at first concealed”his own position and even his name. More than anything else in Pierre™s story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station. When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the PokrÃ³vka a fire glowed”the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre™s heart with his love. At the gate stood GerÃ¡sim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the town. There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense city. Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. There now, how good it is, what more does one need? thought he. And suddenly remembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned against the fence to save himself from falling. Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep. CHAPTER XXX The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was watched from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the retreating troops, with many different feelings. The RostÃ³v party spent the night at MytÃshchi, fourteen miles from Moscow. They had started so late on the first of September, the road had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been forgotten for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning they woke late and were again delayed so often that they only got as far as Great MytÃshchi. At ten o™clock that evening the RostÃ³v family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The RostÃ³vs™ servants and coachmen and the orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches. In a neighboring hut lay RaÃ©vski™s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had spent the first night in the same yard as the RostÃ³vs. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at MytÃshchi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the wounded man. In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another fire. One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was Little MytÃshchi burning”set on fire by MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks. But look here, brothers, there™s another fire! remarked an orderly. All turned their attention to the glow. But they told us Little MytÃshchi had been set on fire by MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks. But that™s not MytÃshchi, it™s farther away. Look, it must be in Moscow! Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down on its steps. It™s more to the left, why, Little MytÃshchi is over there, and this is right on the other side. Several men joined the first two. See how it™s flaring, said one. That™s a fire in Moscow: either in the SushchÃ©vski or the RogÃ³zhski quarter. No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance. Old Daniel TerÃ©ntich, the count™s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at MÃshka. What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?... The count will be calling and there™s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together. I only ran out to get some water, said MÃshka. But what do you think, Daniel TerÃ©ntich? Doesn™t it look as if that glow were in Moscow? remarked one of the footmen. Daniel TerÃ©ntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still. God have mercy.... It™s windy and dry... said another voice. Just look! See what it™s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners! They™ll put it out, no fear! Who™s to put it out? Daniel TerÃ©ntich, who had hitherto been silent, was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. Moscow it is, brothers, said he. Mother Moscow, the white... his voice faltered, and he gave way to an old man™s sob. And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard, words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count™s old valet. CHAPTER XXXI The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. SÃ³nya and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only NatÃ¡sha and the countess remained in the room. PÃ©tya was no longer with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for TrÃ³itsa. The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. NatÃ¡sha, pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father™s words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three houses off. Oh, how terrible, said SÃ³nya returning from the yard chilled and frightened. I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there™s an awful glow! NatÃ¡sha, do look! You can see it from the window, she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind. But NatÃ¡sha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when SÃ³nya, to the surprise and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell NatÃ¡sha of Prince Andrew™s wound and of his being with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with SÃ³nya. SÃ³nya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin. Look, NatÃ¡sha, how dreadfully it is burning! said she. What™s burning? asked NatÃ¡sha. Oh, yes, Moscow. And as if in order not to offend SÃ³nya and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude. But you didn™t see it! Yes, really I did, NatÃ¡sha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left in peace. Both the countess and SÃ³nya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to NatÃ¡sha. The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was wont to do when NatÃ¡sha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her. You are cold. You are trembling all over. You™d better lie down, said the countess. Lie down? All right, I will. I™ll lie down at once, said NatÃ¡sha. When NatÃ¡sha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see him, that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger, she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving what they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the countess knew so well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same way on the bench where she had seated herself on arriving. She was planning something and either deciding or had already decided something in her mind. The countess knew this, but what it might be she did not know, and this alarmed and tormented her. NatÃ¡sha, undress, darling; lie down on my bed. A bed had been made on a bedstead for the countess only. Madame Schoss and the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor. No, Mamma, I will lie down here on the floor, NatÃ¡sha replied irritably and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open window the moans of the adjutant could be heard more distinctly. She put her head out into the damp night air, and the countess saw her slim neck shaking with sobs and throbbing against the window frame. NatÃ¡sha knew it was not Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage; but this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The countess exchanged a look with SÃ³nya. Lie down, darling; lie down, my pet, said the countess, softly touching NatÃ¡sha™s shoulders. Come, lie down. Oh, yes... I™ll lie down at once, said NatÃ¡sha, and began hurriedly undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat. When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat down with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the floor, jerked her thin and rather short plait of hair to the front, and began replaiting it. Her long, thin, practiced fingers rapidly unplaited, replaited, and tied up her plait. Her head moved from side to side from habit, but her eyes, feverishly wide, looked fixedly before her. When her toilet for the night was finished she sank gently onto the sheet spread over the hay on the side nearest the door. NatÃ¡sha, you™d better lie in the middle, said SÃ³nya. I™ll stay here, muttered NatÃ¡sha. Do lie down, she added crossly, and buried her face in the pillow. The countess, Madame Schoss, and SÃ³nya undressed hastily and lay down. The small lamp in front of the icons was the only light left in the room. But in the yard there was a light from the fire at Little MytÃshchi a mile and a half away, and through the night came the noise of people shouting at a tavern MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks had set up across the street, and the adjutant™s unceasing moans could still be heard. For a long time NatÃ¡sha listened attentively to the sounds that reached her from inside and outside the room and did not move. First she heard her mother praying and sighing and the creaking of her bed under her, then Madame Schoss™ familiar whistling snore and SÃ³nya™s gentle breathing. Then the countess called to NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha did not answer. I think she™s asleep, Mamma, said SÃ³nya softly. After a short silence the countess spoke again but this time no one replied. Soon after that NatÃ¡sha heard her mother™s even breathing. NatÃ¡sha did not move, though her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt, was growing cold on the bare floor. As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied near by. The shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the adjutant was heard. NatÃ¡sha sat up. SÃ³nya, are you asleep? Mamma? she whispered. No one replied. NatÃ¡sha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim, supple, bare feet. The boards of the floor creaked. Stepping cautiously from one foot to the other she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and grasped the cold door handle. It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against all the walls of the room: it was her own heart, sinking with alarm and terror and overflowing with love. She opened the door and stepped across the threshold and onto the cold, damp earthen floor of the passage. The cold she felt refreshed her. With her bare feet she touched a sleeping man, stepped over him, and opened the door into the part of the hut where Prince Andrew lay. It was dark in there. In the farthest corner, on a bench beside a bed on which something was lying, stood a tallow candle with a long, thick, and smoldering wick. From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew™s wound and his presence there, NatÃ¡sha had resolved to see him. She did not know why she had to, she knew the meeting would be painful, but felt the more convinced that it was necessary. All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night. But now that the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might see. How was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant moaning of the adjutant™s? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her imagination he was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an indistinct shape in the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there, and stood still in terror. But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the middle of a small room containing baggage. Another man”TimÃ³khin”was lying in a corner on the benches beneath the icons, and two others”the doctor and a valet”lay on the floor. The valet sat up and whispered something. TimÃ³khin, kept awake by the pain in his wounded leg, gazed with wide-open eyes at this strange apparition of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket, and nightcap. The valet™s sleepy, frightened exclamation, What do you want? What™s the matter? made NatÃ¡sha approach more swiftly to what was lying in the corner. Horribly unlike a man as that body looked, she must see him. She passed the valet, the snuff fell from the candle wick, and she saw Prince Andrew clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she had always seen him. He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck, delicate as a child™s, revealed by the turn-down collar of his shirt, gave him a peculiarly innocent, childlike look, such as she had never seen on him before. She went up to him and with a swift, flexible, youthful movement dropped on her knees. He smiled and held out his hand to her. CHAPTER XXXII Seven days had passed since Prince Andrew found himself in the ambulance station on the field of BorodinÃ³. His feverish state and the inflammation of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor™s opinion sure to carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his temperature was lower. He had regained consciousness that morning. The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had remained in the calÃ¨che, but at MytÃshchi the wounded man himself asked to be taken out and given some tea. The pain caused by his removal into the hut had made him groan aloud and again lose consciousness. When he had been placed on his camp bed he lay for a long time motionless with closed eyes. Then he opened them and whispered softly: And the tea? His remembering such a small detail of everyday life astonished the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew™s pulse, and to his surprise and dissatisfaction found it had improved. He was dissatisfied because he knew by experience that if his patient did not die now, he would do so a little later with greater suffering. TimÃ³khin, the red-nosed major of Prince Andrew™s regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of BorodinÃ³. They were accompanied by a doctor, Prince Andrew™s valet, his coachman, and two orderlies. They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with feverish eyes at the door in front of him as if trying to understand and remember something. I don™t want any more. Is TimÃ³khin here? he asked. TimÃ³khin crept along the bench to him. I am here, your excellency. How™s your wound? Mine, sir? All right. But how about you? Prince Andrew again pondered as if trying to remember something. Couldn™t one get a book? he asked. What book? The Gospels. I haven™t one. The doctor promised to procure it for him and began to ask how he was feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak with which he was covered and, making wry faces at the noisome smell of mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful place. The doctor was very much displeased about something and made a change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking them to get him the book and put it under him. What trouble would it be to you? he said. I have not got one. Please get it for me and put it under for a moment, he pleaded in a piteous voice. The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands. You fellows have no conscience, said he to the valet who was pouring water over his hands. For just one moment I didn™t look after you... It™s such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it. By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him! said the valet. The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked to be carried into the hut after his calÃ¨che had stopped at MytÃshchi. After growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut he again regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled all that had happened to him, and above all vividly remembered the moment at the ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of a man he disliked, those new thoughts had come to him which promised him happiness. And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again possessed his soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of happiness and that this happiness had something to do with the Gospels. That was why he asked for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in which they had put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts, and when he came to himself a third time it was in the complete stillness of the night. Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket chirped from across the passage; someone was shouting and singing in the street; cockroaches rustled on the table, on the icons, and on the walls, and a big fly flopped at the head of the bed and around the candle beside him, the wick of which was charred and had shaped itself like a mushroom. His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of, feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the power and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to fix his whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the deepest reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in and can then return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew™s mind was not in a normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most diverse thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his brain suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had never reached when he was in health, but suddenly in the midst of its work it would turn to some unexpected idea and he had not the strength to turn it back again. Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be deprived, he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut, gazing fixedly before him with feverish wide open eyes. A happiness lying beyond material forces, outside the material influences that act on man”a happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man can understand it, but to conceive it and enjoin it was possible only for God. But how did God enjoin that law? And why was the Son...? And suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off, and Prince Andrew heard (without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality) a soft whispering voice incessantly and rhythmically repeating piti-piti-piti, and then titi, and then again piti-piti-piti, and ti-ti once more. At the same time he felt that above his face, above the very middle of it, some strange airy structure was being erected out of slender needles or splinters, to the sound of this whispered music. He felt that he had to balance carefully (though it was difficult) so that this airy structure should not collapse; but nevertheless it kept collapsing and again slowly rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic music”it stretches, stretches, spreading out and stretching, said Prince Andrew to himself. While listening to this whispering and feeling the sensation of this drawing out and the construction of this edifice of needles, he also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and heard the rustle of the cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that flopped against his pillow and his face. Each time the fly touched his face it gave him a burning sensation and yet to his surprise it did not destroy the structure, though it knocked against the very region of his face where it was rising. But besides this there was something else of importance. It was something white by the door”the statue of a sphinx, which also oppressed him. But perhaps that™s my shirt on the table, he thought, and that™s my legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and ˜piti-piti-piti™ and ˜ti-ti™ and ˜piti-piti-piti™...? That™s enough, please leave off! Prince Andrew painfully entreated someone. And suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of his mind with peculiar clearness and force. Yes”love, he thought again quite clearly. But not love which loves for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason, but the love which I”while dying”first experienced when I saw my enemy and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love which is the very essence of the soul and does not require an object. Now again I feel that bliss. To love one™s neighbors, to love one™s enemies, to love everything, to love God in all His manifestations. It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive?... When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but divine love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can destroy it. It is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have I hated in my life? And of them all, I loved and hated none as I did her. And he vividly pictured to himself NatÃ¡sha, not as he had done in the past with nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for the first time picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her feelings, her sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the first time all the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his rupture with her. If only it were possible for me to see her once more! Just once, looking into those eyes to say... Piti-piti-piti and ti-ti and piti-piti-piti boom! flopped the fly.... And his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world of reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall, something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo was still burning, and the same shirtlike sphinx lay near the door; but besides all this something creaked, there was a whiff of fresh air, and a new white sphinx appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had the pale face and shining eyes of the very NatÃ¡sha of whom he had just been thinking. Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is, thought Prince Andrew, trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew wished to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not, and delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft whispering voice continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched out, and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all his strength in an effort to recover his senses, he moved a little, and suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, NatÃ¡sha, that same living NatÃ¡sha whom of all people he most longed to love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to him, was kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living NatÃ¡sha, and he was not surprised but quietly happy. NatÃ¡sha, motionless on her knees (she was unable to stir), with frightened eyes riveted on him, was restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid. Only in the lower part of it something quivered. Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand. You? he said. How fortunate! With a rapid but careful movement NatÃ¡sha drew nearer to him on her knees and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began kissing it, just touching it lightly with her lips. Forgive me! she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him. Forgive me! I love you, said Prince Andrew. Forgive...! Forgive what? he asked. Forgive me for what I ha-ve do-ne! faltered NatÃ¡sha in a scarcely audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just touching it with her lips. I love you more, better than before, said Prince Andrew, lifting her face with his hand so as to look into her eyes. Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly, compassionately, and with joyous love. NatÃ¡sha™s thin pale face, with its swollen lips, was more than plain”it was dreadful. But Prince Andrew did not see that, he saw her shining eyes which were beautiful. They heard the sound of voices behind them. Peter the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor. TimÃ³khin, who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had long been watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare body with the sheet as he huddled up on his bench. What™s this? said the doctor, rising from his bed. Please go away, madam! At that moment a maid sent by the countess, who had noticed her daughter™s absence, knocked at the door. Like a somnambulist aroused from her sleep NatÃ¡sha went out of the room and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed. From that time, during all the rest of the RostÃ³vs™ journey, at every halting place and wherever they spent a night, NatÃ¡sha never left the wounded BolkÃ³nski, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a wounded man. Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die in her daughter™s arms during the journey”as, judging by what the doctor said, it seemed might easily happen”she could not oppose NatÃ¡sha. Though with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and NatÃ¡sha the thought occurred that should he recover their former engagement would be renewed, no one”least of all NatÃ¡sha and Prince Andrew”spoke of this: the unsettled question of life and death, which hung not only over BolkÃ³nski but over all Russia, shut out all other considerations. CHAPTER XXXIII On the third of September Pierre awoke late. His head was aching, the clothes in which he had slept without undressing felt uncomfortable on his body, and his mind had a dim consciousness of something shameful he had done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday™s conversation with Captain Ramballe. It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors. Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock which GerÃ¡sim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he was and what lay before him that very day. Am I not too late? he thought. No, probably he won™t make his entry into Moscow before noon. Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but hastened to act. After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out. But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could not carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult to hide such a big pistol even under his wide coat. He could not carry it unnoticed in his belt or under his arm. Besides, it had been discharged, and he had not had time to reload it. No matter, the dagger will do, he said to himself, though when planning his design he had more than once come to the conclusion that the chief mistake made by the student in 1809 had been to try to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But as his chief aim consisted not in carrying out his design, but in proving to himself that he would not abandon his intention and was doing all he could to achieve it, Pierre hastily took the blunt jagged dagger in a green sheath which he had bought at the SÃºkharev market with the pistol, and hid it under his waistcoat. Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head, Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting the captain, and passed out into the street. The conflagration, at which he had looked with so much indifference the evening before, had greatly increased during the night. Moscow was on fire in several places. The buildings in Carriage Row, across the river, in the Bazaar and the PovarskÃ³y, as well as the barges on the MoskvÃ¡ River and the timber yards by the DorogomÃlov Bridge, were all ablaze. Pierre™s way led through side streets to the PovarskÃ³y and from there to the church of St. Nicholas on the ArbÃ¡t, where he had long before decided that the deed should be done. The gates of most of the houses were locked and the shutters up. The streets and lanes were deserted. The air was full of smoke and the smell of burning. Now and then he met Russians with anxious and timid faces, and Frenchmen with an air not of the city but of the camp, walking in the middle of the streets. Both the Russians and the French looked at Pierre with surprise. Besides his height and stoutness, and the strange morose look of suffering in his face and whole figure, the Russians stared at Pierre because they could not make out to what class he could belong. The French followed him with astonishment in their eyes chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the other Russians who gazed at the French with fear and curiosity, paid no attention to them. At the gate of one house three Frenchmen, who were explaining something to some Russians who did not understand them, stopped Pierre asking if he did not know French. Pierre shook his head and went on. In another side street a sentinel standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man™s musket as he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side of the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing of what went on around him. He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night™s experience, he was afraid of losing it. But he was not destined to bring his mood safely to his destination. And even had he not been hindered by anything on the way, his intention could not now have been carried out, for Napoleon had passed the ArbÃ¡t more than four hours previously on his way from the DorogomÃlov suburb to the KrÃ©mlin, and was now sitting in a very gloomy frame of mind in a royal study in the KrÃ©mlin, giving detailed and exact orders as to measures to be taken immediately to extinguish the fire, to prevent looting, and to reassure the inhabitants. But Pierre did not know this; he was entirely absorbed in what lay before him, and was tortured”as those are who obstinately undertake a task that is impossible for them not because of its difficulty but because of its incompatibility with their natures”by the fear of weakening at the decisive moment and so losing his self-esteem. Though he heard and saw nothing around him he found his way by instinct and did not go wrong in the side streets that led to the PovarskÃ³y. As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser”he even felt the heat of the fire. Occasionally curly tongues of flame rose from under the roofs of the houses. He met more people in the streets and they were more excited. But Pierre, though he felt that something unusual was happening around him, did not realize that he was approaching the fire. As he was going along a footpath across a wide-open space adjoining the PovarskÃ³y on one side and the gardens of Prince GruzÃnski™s house on the other, Pierre suddenly heard the desperate weeping of a woman close to him. He stopped as if awakening from a dream and lifted his head. By the side of the path, on the dusty dry grass, all sorts of household goods lay in a heap: featherbeds, a samovar, icons, and trunks. On the ground, beside the trunks, sat a thin woman no longer young, with long, prominent upper teeth, and wearing a black cloak and cap. This woman, swaying to and fro and muttering something, was choking with sobs. Two girls of about ten and twelve, dressed in dirty short frocks and cloaks, were staring at their mother with a look of stupefaction on their pale frightened faces. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, who wore an overcoat and an immense cap evidently not his own, was crying in his old nurse™s arms. A dirty, barefooted maid was sitting on a trunk, and, having undone her pale-colored plait, was pulling it straight and sniffing at her singed hair. The woman™s husband, a short, round-shouldered man in the undress uniform of a civilian official, with sausage-shaped whiskers and showing under his square-set cap the hair smoothly brushed forward over his temples, with expressionless face was moving the trunks, which were placed one on another, and was dragging some garments from under them. As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet. Dear people, good Christians, save me, help me, dear friends... help us, somebody, she muttered between her sobs. My girl... My daughter! My youngest daughter is left behind. She™s burned! Ooh! Was it for this I nursed you.... Ooh! Don™t, Mary NikolÃ¡evna! said her husband to her in a low voice, evidently only to justify himself before the stranger. Sister must have taken her, or else where can she be? he added. Monster! Villain! shouted the woman angrily, suddenly ceasing to weep. You have no heart, you don™t feel for your own child! Another man would have rescued her from the fire. But this is a monster and neither a man nor a father! You, honored sir, are a noble man, she went on, addressing Pierre rapidly between her sobs. The fire broke out alongside, and blew our way, the maid called out ˜Fire!™ and we rushed to collect our things. We ran out just as we were.... This is what we have brought away.... The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost. We seized the children. But not Katie! Ooh! O Lord!... and again she began to sob. My child, my dear one! Burned, burned! But where was she left? asked Pierre. From the expression of his animated face the woman saw that this man might help her. Oh, dear sir! she cried, seizing him by the legs. My benefactor, set my heart at ease.... AnÃska, go, you horrid girl, show him the way! she cried to the maid, angrily opening her mouth and still farther exposing her long teeth. Show me the way, show me, I... I™ll do it, gasped Pierre rapidly. The dirty maidservant stepped from behind the trunk, put up her plait, sighed, and went on her short, bare feet along the path. Pierre felt as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon. He held his head higher, his eyes shone with the light of life, and with swift steps he followed the maid, overtook her, and came out on the PovarskÃ³y. The whole street was full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame here and there broke through that cloud. A great number of people crowded in front of the conflagration. In the middle of the street stood a French general saying something to those around him. Pierre, accompanied by the maid, was advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French soldiers stopped him. On ne passe pas! * cried a voice. * You can™t pass! This way, uncle, cried the girl. We™ll pass through the side street, by the NikÃºlins™! Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her. She ran across the street, turned down a side street to the left, and, passing three houses, turned into a yard on the right. It™s here, close by, said she and, running across the yard, opened a gate in a wooden fence and, stopping, pointed out to him a small wooden wing of the house, which was burning brightly and fiercely. One of its sides had fallen in, another was on fire, and bright flames issued from the openings of the windows and from under the roof. As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and involuntarily stopped. Before he was thoroughly awake next morning everybody had already left the hut. The panes were rattling in the little windows and his groom was shaking him. Your excellency! Your excellency! Your excellency! he kept repeating pertinaciously while he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at him, having apparently lost hope of getting him to wake up. What? Has it begun? Is it time? Pierre asked, waking up. Hear the firing, said the groom, a discharged soldier. All the gentlemen have gone out, and his Serene Highness himself rode past long ago. Pierre dressed hastily and ran out to the porch. Outside all was bright, fresh, dewy, and cheerful. The sun, just bursting forth from behind a cloud that had concealed it, was shining, with rays still half broken by the clouds, over the roofs of the street opposite, on the dew-besprinkled dust of the road, on the walls of the houses, on the windows, the fence, and on Pierre™s horses standing before the hut. The roar of guns sounded more distinct outside. An adjutant accompanied by a Cossack passed by at a sharp trot. It™s time, Count; it™s time! cried the adjutant. Telling the groom to follow him with the horses, Pierre went down the street to the knoll from which he had looked at the field of battle the day before. A crowd of military men was assembled there, members of the staff could be heard conversing in French, and KutÃºzov™s gray head in a white cap with a red band was visible, his gray nape sunk between his shoulders. He was looking through a field glass down the highroad before him. Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him, spellbound by beauty. It was the same panorama he had admired from that spot the day before, but now the whole place was full of troops and covered by smoke clouds from the guns, and the slanting rays of the bright sun, rising slightly to the left behind Pierre, cast upon it through the clear morning air penetrating streaks of rosy, golden-tinted light and long dark shadows. The forest at the farthest extremity of the panorama seemed carved in some precious stone of a yellowish-green color; its undulating outline was silhouetted against the horizon and was pierced beyond ValÃºevo by the SmolÃ©nsk highroad crowded with troops. Nearer at hand glittered golden cornfields interspersed with copses. There were troops to be seen everywhere, in front and to the right and left. All this was vivid, majestic, and unexpected; but what impressed Pierre most of all was the view of the battlefield itself, of BorodinÃ³ and the hollows on both sides of the KolochÃ¡. Above the KolochÃ¡, in BorodinÃ³ and on both sides of it, especially to the left where the VÃ³yna flowing between its marshy banks falls into the KolochÃ¡, a mist had spread which seemed to melt, to dissolve, and to become translucent when the brilliant sun appeared and magically colored and outlined everything. The smoke of the guns mingled with this mist, and over the whole expanse and through that mist the rays of the morning sun were reflected, flashing back like lightning from the water, from the dew, and from the bayonets of the troops crowded together by the riverbanks and in BorodinÃ³. A white church could be seen through the mist, and here and there the roofs of huts in BorodinÃ³ as well as dense masses of soldiers, or green ammunition chests and ordnance. And all this moved, or seemed to move, as the smoke and mist spread out over the whole space. Just as in the mist-enveloped hollow near BorodinÃ³, so along the entire line outside and above it and especially in the woods and fields to the left, in the valleys and on the summits of the high ground, clouds of powder smoke seemed continually to spring up out of nothing, now singly, now several at a time, some translucent, others dense, which, swelling, growing, rolling, and blending, extended over the whole expanse. These puffs of smoke and (strange to say) the sound of the firing produced the chief beauty of the spectacle. Puff!”suddenly a round compact cloud of smoke was seen merging from violet into gray and milky white, and boom! came the report a second later. Puff! puff!”and two clouds arose pushing one another and blending together; and boom, boom! came the sounds confirming what the eye had seen. Pierre glanced round at the first cloud, which he had seen as a round compact ball, and in its place already were balloons of smoke floating to one side, and”puff (with a pause)”puff, puff! three and then four more appeared and then from each, with the same interval”boom”boom, boom! came the fine, firm, precise sounds in reply. It seemed as if those smoke clouds sometimes ran and sometimes stood still while woods, fields, and glittering bayonets ran past them. From the left, over fields and bushes, those large balls of smoke were continually appearing followed by their solemn reports, while nearer still, in the hollows and woods, there burst from the muskets small cloudlets that had no time to become balls, but had their little echoes in just the same way. Trakh-ta-ta-takh! came the frequent crackle of musketry, but it was irregular and feeble in comparison with the reports of the cannon. Pierre wished to be there with that smoke, those shining bayonets, that movement, and those sounds. He turned to look at KutÃºzov and his suite, to compare his impressions with those of others. They were all looking at the field of battle as he was, and, as it seemed to him, with the same feelings. All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth of feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood after his talk with Prince Andrew. Go, my dear fellow, go... and Christ be with you! KutÃºzov was saying to a general who stood beside him, not taking his eye from the battlefield. Having received this order the general passed by Pierre on his way down the knoll. To the crossing! said the general coldly and sternly in reply to one of the staff who asked where he was going. I™ll go there too, I too! thought Pierre, and followed the general. The general mounted a horse a Cossack had brought him. Pierre went to his groom who was holding his horses and, asking which was the quietest, clambered onto it, seized it by the mane, and turning out his toes pressed his heels against its sides and, feeling that his spectacles were slipping off but unable to let go of the mane and reins, he galloped after the general, causing the staff officers to smile as they watched him from the knoll. CHAPTER XXXI Having descended the hill the general after whom Pierre was galloping turned sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped in among some ranks of infantry marching ahead of him. He tried to pass either in front of them or to the right or left, but there were soldiers everywhere, all with the same preoccupied expression and busy with some unseen but evidently important task. They all gazed with the same dissatisfied and inquiring expression at this stout man in a white hat, who for some unknown reason threatened to trample them under his horse™s hoofs. Why ride into the middle of the battalion? one of them shouted at him. Another prodded his horse with the butt end of a musket, and Pierre, bending over his saddlebow and hardly able to control his shying horse, galloped ahead of the soldiers where there was a free space. There was a bridge ahead of him, where other soldiers stood firing. Pierre rode up to them. Without being aware of it he had come to the bridge across the KolochÃ¡ between GÃ³rki and BorodinÃ³, which the French (having occupied BorodinÃ³) were attacking in the first phase of the battle. Pierre saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that soldiers were doing something on both sides of it and in the meadow, among the rows of new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the smoke of the campfires the day before; but despite the incessant firing going on there he had no idea that this was the field of battle. He did not notice the sound of the bullets whistling from every side, or the projectiles that flew over him, did not see the enemy on the other side of the river, and for a long time did not notice the killed and wounded, though many fell near him. He looked about him with a smile which did not leave his face. Why™s that fellow in front of the line? shouted somebody at him again. To the left!... Keep to the right! the men shouted to him. Pierre went to the right, and unexpectedly encountered one of RaÃ©vski™s adjutants whom he knew. The adjutant looked angrily at him, evidently also intending to shout at him, but on recognizing him he nodded. How have you got here? he said, and galloped on. Pierre, feeling out of place there, having nothing to do, and afraid of getting in someone™s way again, galloped after the adjutant. What™s happening here? May I come with you? he asked. One moment, one moment! replied the adjutant, and riding up to a stout colonel who was standing in the meadow, he gave him some message and then addressed Pierre. Why have you come here, Count? he asked with a smile. Still inquisitive? Yes, yes, assented Pierre. But the adjutant turned his horse about and rode on. Here it™s tolerable, said he, but with BagratiÃ³n on the left flank they™re getting it frightfully hot. Really? said Pierre. Where is that? Come along with me to our knoll. We can get a view from there and in our battery it is still bearable, said the adjutant. Will you come? Yes, I™ll come with you, replied Pierre, looking round for his groom. It was only now that he noticed wounded men staggering along or being carried on stretchers. On that very meadow he had ridden over the day before, a soldier was lying athwart the rows of scented hay, with his head thrown awkwardly back and his shako off. Why haven™t they carried him away? Pierre was about to ask, but seeing the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he checked himself. Pierre did not find his groom and rode along the hollow with the adjutant to RaÃ©vski™s Redoubt. His horse lagged behind the adjutant™s and jolted him at every step. You don™t seem to be used to riding, Count? remarked the adjutant. No it™s not that, but her action seems so jerky, said Pierre in a puzzled tone. Why... she™s wounded! said the adjutant. In the off foreleg above the knee. A bullet, no doubt. I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of fire! Having ridden in the smoke past the Sixth Corps, behind the artillery which had been moved forward and was in action, deafening them with the noise of firing, they came to a small wood. There it was cool and quiet, with a scent of autumn. Pierre and the adjutant dismounted and walked up the hill on foot. Is the general here? asked the adjutant on reaching the knoll. He was here a minute ago but has just gone that way, someone told him, pointing to the right. The adjutant looked at Pierre as if puzzled what to do with him now. Don™t trouble about me, said Pierre. I™ll go up onto the knoll if I may? Yes, do. You™ll see everything from there and it™s less dangerous, and I™ll come for you. Pierre went to the battery and the adjutant rode on. They did not meet again, and only much later did Pierre learn that he lost an arm that day. The knoll to which Pierre ascended was that famous one afterwards known to the Russians as the Knoll Battery or RaÃ©vski™s Redoubt, and to the French as la grande redoute, la fatale redoute, la redoute du centre, around which tens of thousands fell, and which the French regarded as the key to the whole position. This redoubt consisted of a knoll, on three sides of which trenches had been dug. Within the entrenchment stood ten guns that were being fired through openings in the earthwork. In line with the knoll on both sides stood other guns which also fired incessantly. A little behind the guns stood infantry. When ascending that knoll Pierre had no notion that this spot, on which small trenches had been dug and from which a few guns were firing, was the most important point of the battle. On the contrary, just because he happened to be there he thought it one of the least significant parts of the field. Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with an unconsciously happy smile. Occasionally he rose and walked about the battery still with that same smile, trying not to obstruct the soldiers who were loading, hauling the guns, and continually running past him with bags and charges. The guns of that battery were being fired continually one after another with a deafening roar, enveloping the whole neighborhood in powder smoke. In contrast with the dread felt by the infantrymen placed in support, here in the battery where a small number of men busy at their work were separated from the rest by a trench, everyone experienced a common and as it were family feeling of animation. The intrusion of Pierre™s nonmilitary figure in a white hat made an unpleasant impression at first. The soldiers looked askance at him with surprise and even alarm as they went past him. The senior artillery officer, a tall, long-legged, pockmarked man, moved over to Pierre as if to see the action of the farthest gun and looked at him with curiosity. A young round-faced officer, quite a boy still and evidently only just out of the Cadet College, who was zealously commanding the two guns entrusted to him, addressed Pierre sternly. Sir, he said, permit me to ask you to stand aside. You must not be here. The soldiers shook their heads disapprovingly as they looked at Pierre. But when they had convinced themselves that this man in the white hat was doing no harm, but either sat quietly on the slope of the trench with a shy smile or, politely making way for the soldiers, paced up and down the battery under fire as calmly as if he were on a boulevard, their feeling of hostile distrust gradually began to change into a kindly and bantering sympathy, such as soldiers feel for their dogs, cocks, goats, and in general for the animals that live with the regiment. The men soon accepted Pierre into their family, adopted him, gave him a nickname (our gentleman), and made kindly fun of him among themselves. A shell tore up the earth two paces from Pierre and he looked around with a smile as he brushed from his clothes some earth it had thrown up. And how™s it you™re not afraid, sir, really now? a red-faced, broad-shouldered soldier asked Pierre, with a grin that disclosed a set of sound, white teeth. Are you afraid, then? said Pierre. What else do you expect? answered the soldier. She has no mercy, you know! When she comes spluttering down, out go your innards. One can™t help being afraid, he said laughing. Several of the men, with bright kindly faces, stopped beside Pierre. They seemed not to have expected him to talk like anybody else, and the discovery that he did so delighted them. It™s the business of us soldiers. But in a gentleman it™s wonderful! There™s a gentleman for you! To your places! cried the young officer to the men gathered round Pierre. The young officer was evidently exercising his duties for the first or second time and therefore treated both his superiors and the men with great precision and formality. The booming cannonade and the fusillade of musketry were growing more intense over the whole field, especially to the left where BagratiÃ³n™s flÃ¨ches were, but where Pierre was the smoke of the firing made it almost impossible to distinguish anything. Moreover, his whole attention was engrossed by watching the family circle”separated from all else”formed by the men in the battery. His first unconscious feeling of joyful animation produced by the sights and sounds of the battlefield was now replaced by another, especially since he had seen that soldier lying alone in the hayfield. Now, seated on the slope of the trench, he observed the faces of those around him. By ten o™clock some twenty men had already been carried away from the battery; two guns were smashed and cannon balls fell more and more frequently on the battery and spent bullets buzzed and whistled around. But the men in the battery seemed not to notice this, and merry voices and jokes were heard on all sides. A live one! shouted a man as a whistling shell approached. Not this way! To the infantry! added another with loud laughter, seeing the shell fly past and fall into the ranks of the supports. Are you bowing to a friend, eh? remarked another, chaffing a peasant who ducked low as a cannon ball flew over. Several soldiers gathered by the wall of the trench, looking out to see what was happening in front. They™ve withdrawn the front line, it has retired, said they, pointing over the earthwork. Mind your own business, an old sergeant shouted at them. If they™ve retired it™s because there™s work for them to do farther back. And the sergeant, taking one of the men by the shoulders, gave him a shove with his knee. This was followed by a burst of laughter. To the fifth gun, wheel it up! came shouts from one side. Now then, all together, like bargees! rose the merry voices of those who were moving the gun. Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman™s hat off! cried the red-faced humorist, showing his teeth chaffing Pierre. Awkward baggage! he added reproachfully to a cannon ball that struck a cannon wheel and a man™s leg. Now then, you foxes! said another, laughing at some militiamen who, stooping low, entered the battery to carry away the wounded man. So this gruel isn™t to your taste? Oh, you crows! You™re scared! they shouted at the militiamen who stood hesitating before the man whose leg had been torn off. There, lads... oh, oh! they mimicked the peasants, they don™t like it at all! Pierre noticed that after every ball that hit the redoubt, and after every loss, the liveliness increased more and more. As the flames of the fire hidden within come more and more vividly and rapidly from an approaching thundercloud, so, as if in opposition to what was taking place, the lightning of hidden fire growing more and more intense glowed in the faces of these men. Pierre did not look out at the battlefield and was not concerned to know what was happening there; he was entirely absorbed in watching this fire which burned ever more brightly and which he felt was flaming up in the same way in his own soul. At ten o™clock the infantry that had been among the bushes in front of the battery and along the KÃ¡menka streamlet retreated. From the battery they could be seen running back past it carrying their wounded on their muskets. A general with his suite came to the battery, and after speaking to the colonel gave Pierre an angry look and went away again having ordered the infantry supports behind the battery to lie down, so as to be less exposed to fire. After this from amid the ranks of infantry to the right of the battery came the sound of a drum and shouts of command, and from the battery one saw how those ranks of infantry moved forward. Pierre looked over the wall of the trench and was particularly struck by a pale young officer who, letting his sword hang down, was walking backwards and kept glancing uneasily around. The ranks of the infantry disappeared amid the smoke but their long-drawn shout and rapid musketry firing could still be heard. A few minutes later crowds of wounded men and stretcher-bearers came back from that direction. Projectiles began to fall still more frequently in the battery. Several men were lying about who had not been removed. Around the cannon the men moved still more briskly and busily. No one any longer took notice of Pierre. Once or twice he was shouted at for being in the way. The senior officer moved with big, rapid strides from one gun to another with a frowning face. The young officer, with his face still more flushed, commanded the men more scrupulously than ever. The soldiers handed up the charges, turned, loaded, and did their business with strained smartness. They gave little jumps as they walked, as though they were on springs. The stormcloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which Pierre had watched kindle burned up brightly. Pierre standing beside the commanding officer. The young officer, his hand to his shako, ran up to his superior. I have the honor to report, sir, that only eight rounds are left. Are we to continue firing? he asked. Grapeshot! the senior shouted, without answering the question, looking over the wall of the trench. Suddenly something happened: the young officer gave a gasp and bending double sat down on the ground like a bird shot on the wing. Everything became strange, confused, and misty in Pierre™s eyes. One cannon ball after another whistled by and struck the earthwork, a soldier, or a gun. Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before, now heard nothing else. On the right of the battery soldiers shouting Hurrah! were running not forwards but backwards, it seemed to Pierre. A cannon ball struck the very end of the earth work by which he was standing, crumbling down the earth; a black ball flashed before his eyes and at the same instant plumped into something. Some militiamen who were entering the battery ran back. All with grapeshot! shouted the officer. The sergeant ran up to the officer and in a frightened whisper informed him (as a butler at dinner informs his master that there is no more of some wine asked for) that there were no more charges. The scoundrels! What are they doing? shouted the officer, turning to Pierre. The officer™s face was red and perspiring and his eyes glittered under his frowning brow. Run to the reserves and bring up the ammunition boxes! he yelled, angrily avoiding Pierre with his eyes and speaking to his men. I™ll go, said Pierre. The officer, without answering him, strode across to the opposite side. Don™t fire.... Wait! he shouted. The man who had been ordered to go for ammunition stumbled against Pierre. Eh, sir, this is no place for you, said he, and ran down the slope. Pierre ran after him, avoiding the spot where the young officer was sitting. One cannon ball, another, and a third flew over him, falling in front, beside, and behind him. Pierre ran down the slope. Where am I going? he suddenly asked himself when he was already near the green ammunition wagons. He halted irresolutely, not knowing whether to return or go on. Suddenly a terrible concussion threw him backwards to the ground. At the same instant he was dazzled by a great flash of flame, and immediately a deafening roar, crackling, and whistling made his ears tingle. When he came to himself he was sitting on the ground leaning on his hands; the ammunition wagons he had been approaching no longer existed, only charred green boards and rags littered the scorched grass, and a horse, dangling fragments of its shaft behind it, galloped past, while another horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering prolonged and piercing cries. CHAPTER XXXII Beside himself with terror Pierre jumped up and ran back to the battery, as to the only refuge from the horrors that surrounded him. On entering the earthwork he noticed that there were men doing something there but that no shots were being fired from the battery. He had no time to realize who these men were. He saw the senior officer lying on the earth wall with his back turned as if he were examining something down below and that one of the soldiers he had noticed before was struggling forward shouting Brothers! and trying to free himself from some men who were holding him by the arm. He also saw something else that was strange. But he had not time to realize that the colonel had been killed, that the soldier shouting Brothers! was a prisoner, and that another man had been bayoneted in the back before his eyes, for hardly had he run into the redoubt before a thin, sallow-faced, perspiring man in a blue uniform rushed on him sword in hand, shouting something. Instinctively guarding against the shock”for they had been running together at full speed before they saw one another”Pierre put out his hands and seized the man (a French officer) by the shoulder with one hand and by the throat with the other. The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by his collar. For some seconds they gazed with frightened eyes at one another™s unfamiliar faces and both were perplexed at what they had done and what they were to do next. Am I taken prisoner or have I taken him prisoner? each was thinking. But the French officer was evidently more inclined to think he had been taken prisoner because Pierre™s strong hand, impelled by instinctive fear, squeezed his throat ever tighter and tighter. The Frenchman was about to say something, when just above their heads, terrible and low, a cannon ball whistled, and it seemed to Pierre that the French officer™s head had been torn off, so swiftly had he ducked it. Pierre too bent his head and let his hands fall. Without further thought as to who had taken whom prisoner, the Frenchman ran back to the battery and Pierre ran down the slope stumbling over the dead and wounded who, it seemed to him, caught at his feet. But before he reached the foot of the knoll he was met by a dense crowd of Russian soldiers who, stumbling, tripping up, and shouting, ran merrily and wildly toward the battery. (This was the attack for which ErmÃ³lov claimed the credit, declaring that only his courage and good luck made such a feat possible: it was the attack in which he was said to have thrown some St. George™s Crosses he had in his pocket into the battery for the first soldiers to take who got there.) The French who had occupied the battery fled, and our troops shouting Hurrah! pursued them so far beyond the battery that it was difficult to call them back. The prisoners were brought down from the battery and among them was a wounded French general, whom the officers surrounded. Crowds of wounded”some known to Pierre and some unknown”Russians and French, with faces distorted by suffering, walked, crawled, and were carried on stretchers from the battery. Pierre again went up onto the knoll where he had spent over an hour, and of that family circle which had received him as a member he did not find a single one. There were many dead whom he did not know, but some he recognized. The young officer still sat in the same way, bent double, in a pool of blood at the edge of the earth wall. The red-faced man was still twitching, but they did not carry him away. Pierre ran down the slope once more. Now they will stop it, now they will be horrified at what they have done! he thought, aimlessly going toward a crowd of stretcher bearers moving from the battlefield. But behind the veil of smoke the sun was still high, and in front and especially to the left, near SemÃ«novsk, something seemed to be seething in the smoke, and the roar of cannon and musketry did not diminish, but even increased to desperation like a man who, straining himself, shrieks with all his remaining strength. CHAPTER XXXIII The chief action of the battle of BorodinÃ³ was fought within the seven thousand feet between BorodinÃ³ and BagratiÃ³n™s flÃ¨ches. Beyond that space there was, on the one side, a demonstration made by the Russians with UvÃ¡rov™s cavalry at midday, and on the other side, beyond UtÃtsa, Poniatowski™s collision with TÃºchkov; but these two were detached and feeble actions in comparison with what took place in the center of the battlefield. On the field between BorodinÃ³ and the flÃ¨ches, beside the wood, the chief action of the day took place on an open space visible from both sides and was fought in the simplest and most artless way. The battle began on both sides with a cannonade from several hundred guns. Then when the whole field was covered with smoke, two divisions, Campan™s and Dessaix™s, advanced from the French right, while Murat™s troops advanced on BorodinÃ³ from their left. From the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt where Napoleon was standing the flÃ¨ches were two thirds of a mile away, and it was more than a mile as the crow flies to BorodinÃ³, so that Napoleon could not see what was happening there, especially as the smoke mingling with the mist hid the whole locality. The soldiers of Dessaix™s division advancing against the flÃ¨ches could only be seen till they had entered the hollow that lay between them and the flÃ¨ches. As soon as they had descended into that hollow, the smoke of the guns and musketry on the flÃ¨ches grew so dense that it covered the whole approach on that side of it. Through the smoke glimpses could be caught of something black”probably men”and at times the glint of bayonets. But whether they were moving or stationary, whether they were French or Russian, could not be discovered from the ShevÃ¡rdino Redoubt. The sun had risen brightly and its slanting rays struck straight into Napoleon™s face as, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at the flÃ¨ches. The smoke spread out before them, and at times it looked as if the smoke were moving, at times as if the troops moved. Sometimes shouts were heard through the firing, but it was impossible to tell what was being done there. Napoleon, standing on the knoll, looked through a field glass, and in its small circlet saw smoke and men, sometimes his own and sometimes Russians, but when he looked again with the naked eye, he could not tell where what he had seen was. He descended the knoll and began walking up and down before it. Occasionally he stopped, listened to the firing, and gazed intently at the battlefield. But not only was it impossible to make out what was happening from where he was standing down below, or from the knoll above on which some of his generals had taken their stand, but even from the flÃ¨ches themselves”in which by this time there were now Russian and now French soldiers, alternately or together, dead, wounded, alive, frightened, or maddened”even at those flÃ¨ches themselves it was impossible to make out what was taking place. There for several hours amid incessant cannon and musketry fire, now Russians were seen alone, now Frenchmen alone, now infantry, and now cavalry: they appeared, fired, fell, collided, not knowing what to do with one another, screamed, and ran back again. From the battlefield adjutants he had sent out, and orderlies from his marshals, kept galloping up to Napoleon with reports of the progress of the action, but all these reports were false, both because it was impossible in the heat of battle to say what was happening at any given moment and because many of the adjutants did not go to the actual place of conflict but reported what they had heard from others; and also because while an adjutant was riding more than a mile to Napoleon circumstances changed and the news he brought was already becoming false. Thus an adjutant galloped up from Murat with tidings that BorodinÃ³ had been occupied and the bridge over the KolochÃ¡ was in the hands of the French. The adjutant asked whether Napoleon wished the troops to cross it? Napoleon gave orders that the troops should form up on the farther side and wait. But before that order was given”almost as soon in fact as the adjutant had left BorodinÃ³”the bridge had been retaken by the Russians and burned, in the very skirmish at which Pierre had been present at the beginning of the battle. An adjutant galloped up from the flÃ¨ches with a pale and frightened face and reported to Napoleon that their attack had been repulsed, Campan wounded, and Davout killed; yet at the very time the adjutant had been told that the French had been repulsed, the flÃ¨ches had in fact been recaptured by other French troops, and Davout was alive and only slightly bruised. On the basis of these necessarily untrustworthy reports Napoleon gave his orders, which had either been executed before he gave them or could not be and were not executed. The marshals and generals, who were nearer to the field of battle but, like Napoleon, did not take part in the actual fighting and only occasionally went within musket range, made their own arrangements without asking Napoleon and issued orders where and in what direction to fire and where cavalry should gallop and infantry should run. But even their orders, like Napoleon™s, were seldom carried out, and then but partially. For the most part things happened contrary to their orders. Soldiers ordered to advance ran back on meeting grapeshot; soldiers ordered to remain where they were, suddenly, seeing Russians unexpectedly before them, sometimes rushed back and sometimes forward, and the cavalry dashed without orders in pursuit of the flying Russians. In this way two cavalry regiments galloped through the SemÃ«novsk hollow and as soon as they reached the top of the incline turned round and galloped full speed back again. The infantry moved in the same way, sometimes running to quite other places than those they were ordered to go to. All orders as to where and when to move the guns, when to send infantry to shoot or horsemen to ride down the Russian infantry”all such orders were given by the officers on the spot nearest to the units concerned, without asking either Ney, Davout, or Murat, much less Napoleon. They did not fear getting into trouble for not fulfilling orders or for acting on their own initiative, for in battle what is at stake is what is dearest to man”his own life”and it sometimes seems that safety lies in running back, sometimes in running forward; and these men who were right in the heat of the battle acted according to the mood of the moment. In reality, however, all these movements forward and backward did not improve or alter the position of the troops. All their rushing and galloping at one another did little harm, the harm of disablement and death was caused by the balls and bullets that flew over the fields on which these men were floundering about. As soon as they left the place where the balls and bullets were flying about, their superiors, located in the background, re-formed them and brought them under discipline and under the influence of that discipline led them back to the zone of fire, where under the influence of fear of death they lost their discipline and rushed about according to the chance promptings of the throng. CHAPTER XXXIV Napoleon™s generals”Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that region of fire and sometimes even entered it”repeatedly led into it huge masses of well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always happened in their former battles, instead of the news they expected of the enemy™s flight, these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and terrified mobs. The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly decreased. In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to demand reinforcements. Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat™s adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed if His Majesty would let him have another division. Reinforcements? said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at the adjutant”a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like Murat™s own”as though he did not understand his words. Reinforcements! thought Napoleon to himself. How can they need reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a weak, unentrenched Russian wing? Tell the King of Naples, said he sternly, that it is not noon yet, and I don™t yet see my chessboard clearly. Go!... The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being slaughtered. Napoleon rose and having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier began talking to them about matters unconnected with the battle. In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest Napoleon, Berthier™s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite, who was galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard. Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in a loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending reinforcements. He swore on his honor that the Russians were lost if the Emperor would give another division. Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down without replying. Belliard began talking loudly and eagerly to the generals of the suite around him. You are very fiery, Belliard, said Napoleon, when he again came up to the general. In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go and have another look and then come back to me. Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the battlefield galloped up. Now then, what do you want? asked Napoleon in the tone of a man irritated at being continually disturbed. Sire, the prince... began the adjutant. Asks for reinforcements? said Napoleon with an angry gesture. The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and began to report, but the Emperor turned from him, took a couple of steps, stopped, came back, and called Berthier. We must give reserves, he said, moving his arms slightly apart. Who do you think should be sent there? he asked of Berthier (whom he subsequently termed that gosling I have made an eagle). Send ClaparÃ¨de™s division, sire, replied Berthier, who knew all the division™s regiments, and battalions by heart. Napoleon nodded assent. The adjutant galloped to ClaparÃ¨de™s division and a few minutes later the Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. Napoleon gazed silently in that direction. No! he suddenly said to Berthier. I can™t send ClaparÃ¨de. Send Friant™s division. Though there was no advantage in sending Friant™s division instead of ClaparÃ¨de™s, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping ClaparÃ¨de and sending Friant now, the order was carried out exactly. Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing the part of a doctor who hinders by his medicines”a role he so justly understood and condemned. Friant™s division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke of the battlefield. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a gallop and as if by agreement all said the same thing. They all asked for reinforcements and all said that the Russians were holding their positions and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was melting away. Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought. M. de Beausset, the man so fond of travel, having fasted since morning, came up to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to suggest lunch to His Majesty. I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory? said he. Napoleon silently shook his head in negation. Assuming the negation to refer only to the victory and not to the lunch, M. de Beausset ventured with respectful jocularity to remark that there is no reason for not having lunch when one can get it. Go away... exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely, and turned aside. A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on M. de Beausset™s face and he glided away to the other generals. Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always winning, suddenly just when he has calculated all the chances of the game, finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he loses. His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations had been made, the same dispositions, and the same proclamation courte et Ã©nergique, he himself was still the same: he knew that and knew that he was now even more experienced and skillful than before. Even the enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland”yet the terrible stroke of his arm had supernaturally become impotent. All the old methods that had been unfailingly crowned with success: the concentration of batteries on one point, an attack by reserves to break the enemy™s line, and a cavalry attack by the men of iron, all these methods had already been employed, yet not only was there no victory, but from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded, of reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the Russians, and of disorganization among his own troops. Formerly, after he had given two or three orders and uttered a few phrases, marshals and adjutants had come galloping up with congratulations and happy faces, announcing the trophies taken, the corps of prisoners, bundles of enemy eagles and standards, cannon and stores, and Murat had only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather in the baggage wagons. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena, Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on. But now something strange was happening to his troops. Despite news of the capture of the flÃ¨ches, Napoleon saw that this was not the same, not at all the same, as what had happened in his former battles. He saw that what he was feeling was felt by all the men about him experienced in the art of war. All their faces looked dejected, and they all shunned one another™s eyes”only a de Beausset could fail to grasp the meaning of what was happening. But Napoleon with his long experience of war well knew the meaning of a battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all efforts had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that the least accident might now”with the fight balanced on such a strained center”destroy him and his army. When he ran his mind over the whole of this strange Russian campaign in which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon, or army corps had been captured in two months, when he looked at the concealed depression on the faces around him and heard reports of the Russians still holding their ground”a terrible feeling like a nightmare took possession of him, and all the unlucky accidents that might destroy him occurred to his mind. The Russians might fall on his left wing, might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a stray cannon ball. All this was possible. In former battles he had only considered the possibilities of success, but now innumerable unlucky chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like a dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him, and raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in his helplessness. The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a campstool below the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. Berthier approached and suggested that they should ride along the line to ascertain the position of affairs. What? What do you say? asked Napoleon. Yes, tell them to bring me my horse. He mounted and rode toward SemÃ«novsk. Amid the powder smoke, slowly dispersing over the whole space through which Napoleon rode, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before seen such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of guns, that had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave a peculiar significance to the spectacle, as music does to tableaux vivants. Napoleon rode up the high ground at SemÃ«novsk, and through the smoke saw ranks of men in uniforms of a color unfamiliar to him. They were Russians. The Russians stood in serried ranks behind SemÃ«novsk village and its knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line and sent forth clouds of smoke. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the Russians. Napoleon stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie from which Berthier had aroused him. He could not stop what was going on before him and around him and was supposed to be directed by him and to depend on him, and from its lack of success this affair, for the first time, seemed to him unnecessary and horrible. One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead the Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier, standing near Napoleon, exchanged looks and smiled contemptuously at this general™s senseless offer. Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time. At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard destroyed! he said, and turning his horse rode back to ShevÃ¡rdino. CHAPTER XXXV On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat KutÃºzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no orders, but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested. Yes, yes, do that, he replied to various proposals. Yes, yes: go, dear boy, and have a look, he would say to one or another of those about him; or, No, don™t, we™d better wait! He listened to the reports that were brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded that of him; but when listening to the reports it seemed as if he were not interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in something else”in the expression of face and tone of voice of those who were reporting. By long years of military experience he knew, and with the wisdom of age understood, that it is impossible for one man to direct hundreds of thousands of others struggling with death, and he knew that the result of a battle is decided not by the orders of a commander in chief, nor the place where the troops are stationed, nor by the number of cannon or of slaughtered men, but by that intangible force called the spirit of the army, and he watched this force and guided it in as far as that was in his power. KutÃºzov™s general expression was one of concentrated quiet attention, and his face wore a strained look as if he found it difficult to master the fatigue of his old and feeble body. At eleven o™clock they brought him news that the flÃ¨ches captured by the French had been retaken, but that Prince BagratiÃ³n was wounded. KutÃºzov groaned and swayed his head. Ride over to Prince Peter IvÃ¡novich and find out about it exactly, he said to one of his adjutants, and then turned to the Duke of WÃ¼rttemberg who was standing behind him. Will Your Highness please take command of the first army? Soon after the duke™s departure”before he could possibly have reached SemÃ«novsk”his adjutant came back from him and told KutÃºzov that the duke asked for more troops. KutÃºzov made a grimace and sent an order to DokhtÃºrov to take over the command of the first army, and a request to the duke”whom he said he could not spare at such an important moment”to return to him. When they brought him news that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff officers congratulated him, KutÃºzov smiled. Wait a little, gentlemen, said he. The battle is won, and there is nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat. Still, it is better to wait before we rejoice. But he sent an adjutant to take the news round the army. When ScherbÃnin came galloping from the left flank with news that the French had captured the flÃ¨ches and the village of SemÃ«novsk, KutÃºzov, guessing by the sounds of the battle and by ScherbÃnin™s looks that the news was bad, rose as if to stretch his legs and, taking ScherbÃnin™s arm, led him aside. Go, my dear fellow, he said to ErmÃ³lov, and see whether something can™t be done. KutÃºzov was in GÃ³rki, near the center of the Russian position. The attack directed by Napoleon against our left flank had been several times repulsed. In the center the French had not got beyond BorodinÃ³, and on their left flank UvÃ¡rov™s cavalry had put the French to flight. Toward three o™clock the French attacks ceased. On the faces of all who came from the field of battle, and of those who stood around him, KutÃºzov noticed an expression of extreme tension. He was satisfied with the day™s success”a success exceeding his expectations, but the old man™s strength was failing him. Several times his head dropped low as if it were falling and he dozed off. Dinner was brought him. Adjutant General Wolzogen, the man who when riding past Prince Andrew had said, the war should be extended widely, and whom BagratiÃ³n so detested, rode up while KutÃºzov was at dinner. Wolzogen had come from Barclay de Tolly to report on the progress of affairs on the left flank. The sagacious Barclay de Tolly, seeing crowds of wounded men running back and the disordered rear of the army, weighed all the circumstances, concluded that the battle was lost, and sent his favorite officer to the commander in chief with that news. KutÃºzov was chewing a piece of roast chicken with difficulty and glanced at Wolzogen with eyes that brightened under their puckering lids. Wolzogen, nonchalantly stretching his legs, approached KutÃºzov with a half-contemptuous smile on his lips, scarcely touching the peak of his cap. He treated his Serene Highness with a somewhat affected nonchalance intended to show that, as a highly trained military man, he left it to Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom he was dealing with. Der alte Herr (as in their own set the Germans called KutÃºzov) is making himself very comfortable, thought Wolzogen, and looking severely at the dishes in front of KutÃºzov he began to report to the old gentleman the position of affairs on the left flank as Barclay had ordered him to and as he himself had seen and understood it. All the points of our position are in the enemy™s hands and we cannot dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is impossible to stop them, he reported. KutÃºzov ceased chewing and fixed an astonished gaze on Wolzogen, as if not understanding what was said to him. Wolzogen, noticing the old gentleman™s agitation, said with a smile: I have not considered it right to conceal from your Serene Highness what I have seen. The troops are in complete disorder.... You have seen? You have seen?... KutÃºzov shouted. Frowning and rising quickly, he went up to Wolzogen. How... how dare you!... he shouted, choking and making a threatening gesture with his trembling arms: How dare you, sir, say that to me? You know nothing about it. Tell General Barclay from me that his information is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to me, the commander in chief, than to him. Wolzogen was about to make a rejoinder, but KutÃºzov interrupted him. The enemy has been repulsed on the left and defeated on the right flank. If you have seen amiss, sir, do not allow yourself to say what you don™t know! Be so good as to ride to General Barclay and inform him of my firm intention to attack the enemy tomorrow, said KutÃºzov sternly. All were silent, and the only sound audible was the heavy breathing of the panting old general. They are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave army! The enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred soil of Russia, said KutÃºzov crossing himself, and he suddenly sobbed as his eyes filled with tears. Wolzogen, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently aside, marveling at the old gentleman™s conceited stupidity. Ah, here he is, my hero! said KutÃºzov to a portly, handsome, dark-haired general who was just ascending the knoll. This was RaÃ©vski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part of the field of BorodinÃ³. RaÃ©vski reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and that the French no longer ventured to attack. After hearing him, KutÃºzov said in French: Then you do not think, like some others, that we must retreat? On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always the most stubborn who remain victors, replied RaÃ©vski, and in my opinion... KaysÃ¡rov! KutÃºzov called to his adjutant. Sit down and write out the order of the day for tomorrow. And you, he continued, addressing another, ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack. While KutÃºzov was talking to RaÃ©vski and dictating the order of the day, Wolzogen returned from Barclay and said that General Barclay wished to have written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given. KutÃºzov, without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to be written out which the former commander in chief, to avoid personal responsibility, very judiciously wished to receive. And by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains throughout an army one and the same temper, known as the spirit of the army, and which constitutes the sinew of war, KutÃºzov™s words, his order for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of the army to the other. It was far from being the same words or the same order that reached the farthest links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth at different ends of the army did not even resemble what KutÃºzov had said, but the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was not the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in the commander in chief™s soul as in that of every Russian. And on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe, the exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited. CHAPTER XXXVI Prince Andrew™s regiment was among the reserves which till after one o™clock were stationed inactive behind SemÃ«novsk, under heavy artillery fire. Toward two o™clock the regiment, having already lost more than two hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap between SemÃ«novsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished that day and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred enemy guns was directed between one and two o™clock. Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here lost another third of its men. From in front and especially from the right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious domain of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing cannon balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as if to allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which the cannon balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men were torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually being dragged away and the wounded carried off. With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those not yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same mood. All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful shot and the cry of stretchers! was heard. Most of the time, by their officers™ order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his shako, carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight again; another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished his bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put his boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when rows of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when great masses of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any attention to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or some of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval were heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was as if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in everyday, commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a trace. Hey, look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She™ll fall.... Ah, they don™t see it! came identical shouts from the ranks all along the regiment. Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown dog, coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner in front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell fell close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But such distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men had been inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale and gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier. Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up and down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the meadow beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back. There was nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything went on of itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded carried away, and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the rear they returned immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew, considering it his duty to rouse the courage of the men and to set them an example, walked about among the ranks, but he soon became convinced that this was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach them. All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were unconsciously bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their situation. He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the grass, and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big strides trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by the mowers, then he counted his steps, calculating how often he must walk from one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped the flowers from the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut, rubbed them in his palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter scent. Nothing remained of the previous day™s thoughts. He thought of nothing. He listened with weary ears to the ever-recurring sounds, distinguishing the whistle of flying projectiles from the booming of the reports, glanced at the tiresomely familiar faces of the men of the first battalion, and waited. Here it comes... this one is coming our way again! he thought, listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke. One, another! Again! It has hit.... He stopped and looked at the ranks. No, it has gone over. But this one has hit! And again he started trying to reach the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five paces from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A chill ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many had been hit”a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion. Adjutant! he shouted. Order them not to crowd together. The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew. From the other side a battalion commander rode up. Look out! came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the battalion commander™s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and galloped aside. The horse™s terror infected the men. Lie down! cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground. Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and the meadow. Can this be death? thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new, envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke that curled up from the rotating black ball. I cannot, I do not wish to die. I love life”I love this grass, this earth, this air.... He thought this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him. It™s shameful, sir! he said to the adjutant. What... He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame, a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side, raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him. From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large stain on the grass. The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass, breathing heavily and noisily. What are you waiting for? Come along! The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again. Pick him up, lift him, it™s all the same! cried someone. They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher. Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My God!”voices among the officers were heard saying. It flew a hair™s breadth past my ear, said the adjutant. The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station. Keep in step! Ah... those peasants! shouted an officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher. Get into step, FÃ«dor... I say, FÃ«dor! said the foremost peasant. Now that™s right! said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into step. Your excellency! Eh, Prince! said the trembling voice of TimÃ³khin, who had run up and was looking down on the stretcher. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids drooped. The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to the dressing station by the wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood. In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating oats from their movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the grains that fell. Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch trees cawing impatiently. Around the tents, over more than five acres, bloodstained men in various garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded stood crowds of soldier stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive faces, whom the officers keeping order tried in vain to drive from the spot. Disregarding the officers™ orders, the soldiers stood leaning against their stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend the difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were to be brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside the tents groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for vodka. Some were delirious. Prince Andrew™s bearers, stepping over the wounded who had not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental commander, close up to one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and for a long time could not make out what was going on around him. He remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life. Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk, a crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered. We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed the King himself! cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered with fever. If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there wouldn™t have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely.... Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. But isn™t it all the same now? thought he. And what will be there, and what has there been here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in this life I did not and do not understand. CHAPTER XXXVII One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron, holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted a little respite. After turning his head from right to left for some time, he sighed and looked down. All right, immediately, he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent. Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting. It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a chance! remarked one. Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted him. All he saw about him merged into a general impression of naked, bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond beside the SmolÃ©nsk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same chair Ã canon, the sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a presentiment. There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied, and on the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he was left alone and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on the other two tables. On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a Cossack, judging by the uniform thrown down beside him. Four soldiers were holding him, and a spectacled doctor was cutting into his muscular brown back. Ooh, ooh, ooh! grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his swarthy snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white teeth, he began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing, ringing, and prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many people were crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back. His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head seemed strangely familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were pressing on his chest to hold him down. One large, white, plump leg twitched rapidly all the time with a feverish tremor. The man was sobbing and choking convulsively. Two doctors”one of whom was pale and trembling”were silently doing something to this man™s other, gory leg. When he had finished with the Tartar, whom they covered with an overcoat, the spectacled doctor came up to Prince Andrew, wiping his hands. He glanced at Prince Andrew™s face and quickly turned away. Undress him! What are you waiting for? he cried angrily to the dressers. His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to Prince Andrew™s mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began hastily to undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The doctor bent down over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he made a sign to someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused Prince Andrew to lose consciousness. When he came to himself the splintered portions of his thighbone had been extracted, the torn flesh cut away, and the wound bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on his face. As soon as Prince Andrew opened his eyes, the doctor bent over, kissed him silently on the lips, and hurried away. After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the best and happiest moments of his life”especially his earliest childhood, when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when leaning over him his nurse sang him to sleep and he, burying his head in the pillow, felt happy in the mere consciousness of life”returned to his memory, not merely as something past but as something present. The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of whose head seemed familiar to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him up and trying to quiet him. Show it to me.... Oh, ooh... Oh! Oh, ooh! his frightened moans could be heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs. Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted to weep. Whether because he was dying without glory, or because he was sorry to part with life, or because of those memories of a childhood that could not return, or because he was suffering and others were suffering and that man near him was groaning so piteously”he felt like weeping childlike, kindly, and almost happy tears. The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted blood and with the boot still on. Oh! Oh, ooh! he sobbed, like a woman. The doctor who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince Andrew from seeing his face, moved away. My God! What is this? Why is he here? said Prince Andrew to himself. In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been amputated, he recognized Anatole KurÃ¡gin. Men were supporting him in their arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling, swollen lips could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully. Yes, it is he! Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me, thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him. What is the connection of that man with my childhood and life? he asked himself without finding an answer. And suddenly a new unexpected memory from that realm of pure and loving childhood presented itself to him. He remembered NatÃ¡sha as he had seen her for the first time at the ball in 1810, with her slender neck and arms and with a frightened happy face ready for rapture, and love and tenderness for her, stronger and more vivid than ever, awoke in his soul. He now remembered the connection that existed between himself and this man who was dimly gazing at him through tears that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered everything, and ecstatic pity and love for that man overflowed his happy heart. Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender loving tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and their errors. Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for those who hate us, love of our enemies; yes, that love which God preached on earth and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not understand”that is what made me sorry to part with life, that is what remained for me had I lived. But now it is too late. I know it! CHAPTER XXXVIII The terrible spectacle of the battlefield covered with dead and wounded, together with the heaviness of his head and the news that some twenty generals he knew personally had been killed or wounded, and the consciousness of the impotence of his once mighty arm, produced an unexpected impression on Napoleon who usually liked to look at the killed and wounded, thereby, he considered, testing his strength of mind. This day the horrible appearance of the battlefield overcame that strength of mind which he thought constituted his merit and his greatness. He rode hurriedly from the battlefield and returned to the ShevÃ¡rdino knoll, where he sat on his campstool, his sallow face swollen and heavy, his eyes dim, his nose red, and his voice hoarse, involuntarily listening, with downcast eyes, to the sounds of firing. With painful dejection he awaited the end of this action, in which he regarded himself as a participant and which he was unable to arrest. A personal, human feeling for a brief moment got the better of the artificial phantasm of life he had served so long. He felt in his own person the sufferings and death he had witnessed on the battlefield. The heaviness of his head and chest reminded him of the possibility of suffering and death for himself. At that moment he did not desire Moscow, or victory, or glory (what need had he for any more glory?). The one thing he wished for was rest, tranquillity, and freedom. But when he had been on the SemÃ«novsk heights the artillery commander had proposed to him to bring several batteries of artillery up to those heights to strengthen the fire on the Russian troops crowded in front of KnyazkÃ³vo. Napoleon had assented and had given orders that news should be brought to him of the effect those batteries produced. An adjutant came now to inform him that the fire of two hundred guns had been concentrated on the Russians, as he had ordered, but that they still held their ground. Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on, said the adjutant. They want more!... said Napoleon in a hoarse voice. Sire? asked the adjutant who had not heard the remark. They want more! croaked Napoleon frowning. Let them have it! Even before he gave that order the thing he did not desire, and for which he gave the order only because he thought it was expected of him, was being done. And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary greatness, and again”as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is doing something for itself”he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad, gloomy, and inhuman role predestined for him. And not for that day and hour alone were the mind and conscience darkened of this man on whom the responsibility for what was happening lay more than on all the others who took part in it. Never to the end of his life could he understand goodness, beauty, or truth, or the significance of his actions which were too contrary to goodness and truth, too remote from everything human, for him ever to be able to grasp their meaning. He could not disavow his actions, belauded as they were by half the world, and so he had to repudiate truth, goodness, and all humanity. Not only on that day, as he rode over the battlefield strewn with men killed and maimed (by his will as he believed), did he reckon as he looked at them how many Russians there were for each Frenchman and, deceiving himself, find reason for rejoicing in the calculation that there were five Russians for every Frenchman. Not on that day alone did he write in a letter to Paris that the battle field was superb, because fifty thousand corpses lay there, but even on the island of St. Helena in the peaceful solitude where he said he intended to devote his leisure to an account of the great deeds he had done, he wrote: The Russian war should have been the most popular war of modern times: it was a war of good sense, for real interests, for the tranquillity and security of all; it was purely pacific and conservative. It was a war for a great cause, the end of uncertainties and the beginning of security. A new horizon and new labors were opening out, full of well-being and prosperity for all. The European system was already founded; all that remained was to organize it. Satisfied on these great points and with tranquility everywhere, I too should have had my Congress and my Holy Alliance. Those ideas were stolen from me. In that reunion of great sovereigns we should have discussed our interests like one family, and have rendered account to the peoples as clerk to master. Europe would in this way soon have been, in fact, but one people, and anyone who traveled anywhere would have found himself always in the common fatherland. I should have demanded the freedom of all navigable rivers for everybody, that the seas should be common to all, and that the great standing armies should be reduced henceforth to mere guards for the sovereigns. On returning to France, to the bosom of the great, strong, magnificent, peaceful, and glorious fatherland, I should have proclaimed her frontiers immutable; all future wars purely defensive, all aggrandizement antinational. I should have associated my son in the Empire; my dictatorship would have been finished, and his constitutional reign would have begun. Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy of the nations! My leisure then, and my old age, would have been devoted, in company with the Empress and during the royal apprenticeship of my son, to leisurely visiting, with our own horses and like a true country couple, every corner of the Empire, receiving complaints, redressing wrongs, and scattering public buildings and benefactions on all sides and everywhere. Napoleon, predestined by Providence for the gloomy role of executioner of the peoples, assured himself that the aim of his actions had been the peoples™ welfare and that he could control the fate of millions and by the employment of power confer benefactions. Of four hundred thousand who crossed the Vistula, he wrote further of the Russian war, half were Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Poles, Bavarians, WÃ¼rttembergers, Mecklenburgers, Spaniards, Italians, and Neapolitans. The Imperial army, strictly speaking, was one third composed of Dutch, Belgians, men from the borders of the Rhine, Piedmontese, Swiss, Genevese, Tuscans, Romans, inhabitants of the Thirty-second Military Division, of Bremen, of Hamburg, and so on: it included scarcely a hundred and forty thousand who spoke French. The Russian expedition actually cost France less than fifty thousand men; the Russian army in its retreat from VÃlna to Moscow lost in the various battles four times more men than the French army; the burning of Moscow cost the lives of a hundred thousand Russians who died of cold and want in the woods; finally, in its march from Moscow to the Oder the Russian army also suffered from the severity of the season; so that by the time it reached VÃlna it numbered only fifty thousand, and at KÃ¡lisch less than eighteen thousand. He imagined that the war with Russia came about by his will, and the horrors that occurred did not stagger his soul. He boldly took the whole responsibility for what happened, and his darkened mind found justification in the belief that among the hundreds of thousands who perished there were fewer Frenchmen than Hessians and Bavarians. CHAPTER XXXIX Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the DavÃ½dov family and to the crown serfs”those fields and meadows where for hundreds of years the peasants of BorodinÃ³, GÃ³rki, ShevÃ¡rdino, and SemÃ«novsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the dressing stations the grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space of some three acres around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and unwounded, with frightened faces, dragged themselves back to MozhÃ¡ysk from the one army and back to ValÃºevo from the other. Other crowds, exhausted and hungry, went forward led by their officers. Others held their ground and continued to fire. Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the glitter of bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood. Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded, on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: Enough, men! Enough! Cease... bethink yourselves! What are you doing? To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest, it began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to slaughter one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the question arose in every soul: For what, for whom, must I kill and be killed?... You may go and kill whom you please, but I don™t want to do so any more! By evening this thought had ripened in every soul. At any moment these men might have been seized with horror at what they were doing and might have thrown up everything and run away anywhere. But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off, some incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and they still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match, though only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though they stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood and powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both sides, crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done by the will of a man but at the will of Him who governs men and worlds continued. Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out. The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking the French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the way to Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the beginning. But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French from their positions, they could not have made this last effort, for all the Russian troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian army that had not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their positions they had lost ONE HALF of their army. The French, with the memory of all their former victories during fifteen years, with the assurance of Napoleon™s invincibility, with the consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had lost only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact, twenty thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French who had attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position ought to have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to block the road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had not been attained and all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French did not make that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have been won. To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring. It could not be. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not want to, but because it could not be done. All the generals, officers, and soldiers of the French army knew it could not be done, because the flagging spirit of the troops would not permit it. It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling of the mighty arm being stricken powerless, but all the generals and soldiers of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not, after all their experience of previous battles”when after one tenth of such efforts the enemy had fled”experienced a similar feeling of terror before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly at the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the Russians at BorodinÃ³. The French invaders, like an infuriated animal that has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker by one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal wound it had received at BorodinÃ³. The direct consequence of the battle of BorodinÃ³ was Napoleon™s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat along the old SmolÃ©nsk road, the destruction of the invading army of five hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on which at BorodinÃ³ for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger spirit had been laid. BOOK ELEVEN: 1812 CHAPTER I Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind. Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the same time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary division of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a well-known, so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that Achilles could never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite of the fact that he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By the time Achilles has covered the distance that separated him from the tortoise, the tortoise has covered one tenth of that distance ahead of him: when Achilles has covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered another one hundredth, and so on forever. This problem seemed to the ancients insoluble. The absurd answer (that Achilles could never overtake the tortoise) resulted from this: that motion was arbitrarily divided into discontinuous elements, whereas the motion both of Achilles and of the tortoise was continuous. By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem. A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with the infinitely small can now yield solutions in other more complex problems of motion which used to appear insoluble. This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small, and so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity) and thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot avoid when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of examining continuous motion. In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens. The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary human wills, is continuous. To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of history. But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all those human wills, man™s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected units. The first method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected series of continuous events and examine it apart from others, though there is and can be no beginning to any event, for one event always flows uninterruptedly from another. The second method is to consider the actions of some one man”a king or a commander”as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills; whereas the sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of a single historic personage. Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others, or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of many men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is in itself false. It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or smaller unit as the subject of observation”as criticism has every right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be arbitrarily selected. Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history. The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave their customary pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man. The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling these sayings and doings the Revolution; then they give a detailed biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him; tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that is why this movement took place and those are its laws. But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of human wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of those wills first tolerated and then destroyed them. But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors; every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been great men, says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of a war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my watch and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is caused by the position of the hands of the watch. Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the movement of the engine. The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak is budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a coincidence of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of life, and I see that however much and however carefully I observe the hands of the watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the oak, I shall not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine moving, or of the winds of spring. To that I must entirely change my point of view and study the laws of the movement of steam, of the bells, and of the wind. History must do the same. And attempts in this direction have already been made. To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of our observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and study the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are moved. No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance in this way toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is evident that only along that path does the possibility of discovering the laws of history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much mental effort has been applied in this direction by historians as has been devoted to describing the actions of various kings, commanders, and ministers and propounding the historians™ own reflections concerning these actions. CHAPTER II The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian army and people avoided a collision till SmolÃ©nsk was reached, and again from SmolÃ©nsk to BorodinÃ³. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its goal, its impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind it were seven hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead were a few dozen miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in Napoleon™s army felt this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum. The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and consolidated. At BorodinÃ³ a collision took place. Neither army was broken up, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the collision as inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another having a greater momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball of invasion that had advanced with such momentum rolled on for some distance, though the collision had deprived it of all its force. The Russians retreated eighty miles”to beyond Moscow”and the French reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after that there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a bleeding, mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in Moscow for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back: they made a dash for the KalÃºga road, and (after a victory”for at MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back to SmolÃ©nsk, beyond SmolÃ©nsk, beyond the BerÃ«zina, beyond VÃlna, and farther still. On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, KutÃºzov and the whole Russian army were convinced that the battle of BorodinÃ³ was a victory. KutÃºzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a fresh conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone, but because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken part in the battle knew it. But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another of unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle proved physically impossible. It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected, the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished, the slain reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been killed, and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the very next morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now seemingly increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from its aim. KutÃºzov™s wish was to attack next day, and the whole army desired to do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that possibility did not exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day™s march, and then in the same way it was impossible not to retreat another and a third day™s march, and at last, on the first of September when the army drew near Moscow”despite the strength of the feeling that had arisen in all ranks”the force of circumstances compelled it to retire beyond Moscow. And the troops retired one more, last, day™s march, and abandoned Moscow to the enemy. For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are made by generals”as anyone of us sitting over a map in his study may imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle”the questions present themselves: Why did KutÃºzov during the retreat not do this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching FilÃ? Why did he not retire at once by the KalÃºga road, abandoning Moscow? and so on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know, the inevitable conditions which always limit the activities of any commander in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not at all resemble the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at ease in our studies examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of troops on this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our plans from some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with the beginning of any event”the position from which we always contemplate it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of shifting events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous, uninterrupted shaping of events the commander in chief is in the midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies, authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him, which constantly conflict with one another. Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that KutÃºzov should have moved his army to the KalÃºga road long before reaching FilÃ, and that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander in chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not one proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based on strategics and tactics, contradict each other. A commander in chief™s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one of these projects. But even that he cannot do. Events and time do not wait. For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the KalÃºga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from MilorÃ¡dovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire. An order must be given him at once, that instant. And the order to retreat carries us past the turn to the KalÃºga road. And after the adjutant comes the commissary general asking where the stores are to be taken, and the chief of the hospitals asks where the wounded are to go, and a courier from Petersburg brings a letter from the sovereign which does not admit of the possibility of abandoning Moscow, and the commander in chief™s rival, the man who is undermining him (and there are always not merely one but several such), presents a new project diametrically opposed to that of turning to the KalÃºga road, and the commander in chief himself needs sleep and refreshment to maintain his energy and a respectable general who has been overlooked in the distribution of rewards comes to complain, and the inhabitants of the district pray to be defended, and an officer sent to inspect the locality comes in and gives a report quite contrary to what was said by the officer previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a general who has been on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the enemy™s army differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these inevitable conditions of a commander in chief™s actions describe to us, for instance, the position of the army at FilÃ and assume that the commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had that question been settled? At Drissa and at SmolÃ©nsk and most palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at ShevÃ¡rdino and on the twenty-sixth at BorodinÃ³, and each day and hour and minute of the retreat from BorodinÃ³ to FilÃ. CHAPTER III When ErmÃ³lov, having been sent by KutÃºzov to inspect the position, told the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow and that they must retreat, KutÃºzov looked at him in silence. Give me your hand, said he and, turning it over so as to feel the pulse, added: You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are saying! KutÃºzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow without a battle. On the PoklÃ³nny Hill, four miles from the DorogomÃlov gate of Moscow, KutÃºzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside. A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count RostopchÃn, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated into several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the situation of Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had not been summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they all felt that this was really a council of war. The conversations all dealt with public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal news, it was done in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general matters. No jokes, or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all these men. They evidently all made an effort to hold themselves at the height the situation demanded. And all these groups, while talking among themselves, tried to keep near the commander in chief (whose bench formed the center of the gathering) and to speak so that he might overhear them. The commander in chief listened to what was being said and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned away with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count RostopchÃn was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and that had he known it sooner things would have been different.... A fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions, discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group was talking absolute nonsense. KutÃºzov™s expression grew more and more preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue. This KutÃºzov knew well. Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian patriotism (KutÃºzov could not listen to this without wincing) by insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight to KutÃºzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on KutÃºzov who had brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this intrigue did not now occupy the old man™s mind. One terrible question absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The question for him now was: Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been yesterday when I ordered PlÃ¡tov to retreat, or was it the evening before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must be given. To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince ProzorÃ³vski, under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against the Emperor™s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear, and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which were assuming too free a character must be stopped. He called the most important generals to him. My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself, said he, rising from the bench, and he rode to FilÃ where his carriages were waiting. CHAPTER IV The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the better and roomier part of Andrew SavostyÃ¡nov™s hut. The men, women, and children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across the passage. Only MalÃ¡sha, Andrew™s six-year-old granddaughter whom his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the larger room. MalÃ¡sha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner under the icons. Granddad himself, as MalÃ¡sha in her own mind called KutÃºzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant KaysÃ¡rov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing KutÃºzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and KaysÃ¡rov understood that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen. Round the peasant™s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another bench and put it beside the table. ErmÃ³lov, KaysÃ¡rov, and Toll, who had just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into his bald crown. He had a St. George™s Cross round his neck and looked pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering and in pain. Beside him sat UvÃ¡rov, who with rapid gesticulations was giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did. Chubby little DokhtÃºrov was listening attentively with eyebrows raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count Ostermann-TolstÃ³y, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand. RaÃ©vski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his habit, glanced now at KutÃºzov and now at the door with a look of impatience. KonovnÃtsyn™s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by a tender, sly smile. His glance met MalÃ¡sha™s, and the expression of his eyes caused the little girl to smile. They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from four till six o™clock and did not begin their deliberations all that time but talked in low tones of other matters. Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did KutÃºzov leave his corner and draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been placed there to light up his face. Bennigsen opened the council with the question: Are we to abandon Russia™s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to defend it? A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown on every face and only KutÃºzov™s angry grunts and occasional cough broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. MalÃ¡sha too looked at Granddad. She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he seemed about to cry, but this did not last long. Russia™s ancient and sacred capital! he suddenly said, repeating Bennigsen™s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the false note in them. Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that question has no meaning for a Russian. (He lurched his heavy body forward.) Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one. The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion, and he sank back in his chair. The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost. Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at FilÃ was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank during the night and attack the French right flank the following day. Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that project. ErmÃ³lov, DokhtÃºrov, and RaÃ©vski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat. MalÃ¡sha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her, understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that it was only a personal struggle between Granddad and Long-coat as she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to one another, and in her heart she sided with Granddad. In the midst of the conversation she noticed Granddad give Bennigsen a quick, subtle glance, and then to her joys she saw that Granddad said something to Long-coat which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was KutÃºzov™s calm and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen™s proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to attack the French right wing. Gentlemen, said KutÃºzov, I cannot approve of the count™s plan. Moving troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military history supports that view. For instance... KutÃºzov seemed to reflect, searching for an example, then with a clear, naÃ¯ve look at Bennigsen he added: Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our troops were rearranged too near the enemy.... There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all. The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all felt that there was no more to be said. During one of these pauses KutÃºzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to speak. They all looked at him. Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken crockery, said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. Gentlemen, I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I, he paused, by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country, order a retreat. After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral. Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to their commander in chief. MalÃ¡sha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted out of the room. When he had dismissed the generals KutÃºzov sat a long time with his elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question: When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was that done which settled the matter? And who was to blame for it? I did not expect this, said he to his adjutant Schneider when the latter came in late that night. I did not expect this! I did not think this would happen. You should take some rest, your Serene Highness, replied Schneider. But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks! exclaimed KutÃºzov without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. They shall too, if only... CHAPTER V At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow, RostopchÃn, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that event, acted in an altogether different manner from KutÃºzov. After the battle of BorodinÃ³ the abandonment and burning of Moscow was as inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting. Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the feeling implanted in each of us and in our fathers. The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns and villages on Russian soil beginning with SmolÃ©nsk, without the participation of Count RostopchÃn and his broadsheets. The people awaited the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear anyone to pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to find what it should do at that most difficult moment. And as soon as the enemy drew near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property, while the poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left. The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and is present in the heart of every Russian. And a consciousness of this, and a foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian Moscow society in 1812. Those who had quitted Moscow already in July and at the beginning of August showed that they expected this. Those who went away, taking what they could and abandoning their houses and half their belongings, did so from the latent patriotism which expresses itself not by phrases or by giving one™s children to save the fatherland and similar unnatural exploits, but unobtrusively, simply, organically, and therefore in the way that always produces the most powerful results. It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running away from Moscow, they were told. In his broadsheets RostopchÃn impressed on them that to leave Moscow was shameful. They were ashamed to be called cowards, ashamed to leave, but still they left, knowing it had to be done. Why did they go? It is impossible to suppose that RostopchÃn had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had committed in conquered countries. The first people to go away were the rich educated people who knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had remained intact and that during Napoleon™s occupation the inhabitants had spent their time pleasantly in the company of the charming Frenchmen whom the Russians, and especially the Russian ladies, then liked so much. They went away because for Russians there could be no question as to whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was out of the question to be under French rule, it would be the worst thing that could happen. They went away even before the battle of BorodinÃ³ and still more rapidly after it, despite RostopchÃn™s calls to defend Moscow or the announcement of his intention to take the wonder-working icon of the Iberian Mother of God and go to fight, or of the balloons that were to destroy the French, and despite all the nonsense RostopchÃn wrote in his broadsheets. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that if it could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house serfs to the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that they must go away, sorry as they were to abandon their property to destruction. They went away without thinking of the tremendous significance of that immense and wealthy city being given over to destruction, for a great city with wooden buildings was certain when abandoned by its inhabitants to be burned. They went away each on his own account, and yet it was only in consequence of their going away that the momentous event was accomplished that will always remain the greatest glory of the Russian people. The lady who, afraid of being stopped by Count RostopchÃn™s orders, had already in June moved with her Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her SarÃ¡tov estate, with a vague consciousness that she was not Bonaparte™s servant, was really, simply, and truly carrying out the great work which saved Russia. But Count RostopchÃn, who now taunted those who left Moscow and now had the government offices removed; now distributed quite useless weapons to the drunken rabble; now had processions displaying the icons, and now forbade Father Augustin to remove icons or the relics of saints; now seized all the private carts in Moscow and on one hundred and thirty-six of them removed the balloon that was being constructed by Leppich; now hinted that he would burn Moscow and related how he had set fire to his own house; now wrote a proclamation to the French solemnly upbraiding them for having destroyed his Orphanage; now claimed the glory of having hinted that he would burn Moscow and now repudiated the deed; now ordered the people to catch all spies and bring them to him, and now reproached them for doing so; now expelled all the French residents from Moscow, and now allowed Madame Aubert-ChalmÃ© (the center of the whole French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old postmaster KlyucharÃ«v to be arrested and exiled for no particular offense; now assembled the people at the Three Hills to fight the French and now, to get rid of them, handed over to them a man to be killed and himself drove away by a back gate; now declared that he would not survive the fall of Moscow, and now wrote French verses in albums concerning his share in the affair”this man did not understand the meaning of what was happening but merely wanted to do something himself that would astonish people, to perform some patriotically heroic feat; and like a child he made sport of the momentous, and unavoidable event”the abandonment and burning of Moscow”and tried with his puny hand now to speed and now to stay the enormous, popular tide that bore him along with it. CHAPTER VI HÃ©lÃ¨ne, having returned with the court from VÃlna to Petersburg, found herself in a difficult position. In Petersburg she had enjoyed the special protection of a grandee who occupied one of the highest posts in the Empire. In VÃlna she had formed an intimacy with a young foreign prince. When she returned to Petersburg both the magnate and the prince were there, and both claimed their rights. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was faced by a new problem”how to preserve her intimacy with both without offending either. What would have seemed difficult or even impossible to another woman did not cause the least embarrassment to Countess BezÃºkhova, who evidently deserved her reputation of being a very clever woman. Had she attempted concealment, or tried to extricate herself from her awkward position by cunning, she would have spoiled her case by acknowledging herself guilty. But HÃ©lÃ¨ne, like a really great man who can do whatever he pleases, at once assumed her own position to be correct, as she sincerely believed it to be, and that everyone else was to blame. The first time the young foreigner allowed himself to reproach her, she lifted her beautiful head and, half turning to him, said firmly: That™s just like a man”selfish and cruel! I expected nothing else. A woman sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward! What right have you, monseigneur, to demand an account of my attachments and friendships? He is a man who has been more than a father to me! The prince was about to say something, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne interrupted him. Well, yes, said she, it may be that he has other sentiments for me than those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door on him. I am not a man, that I should repay kindness with ingratitude! Know, monseigneur, that in all that relates to my intimate feelings I render account only to God and to my conscience, she concluded, laying her hand on her beautiful, fully expanded bosom and looking up to heaven. But for heaven™s sake listen to me! Marry me, and I will be your slave! But that™s impossible. You won™t deign to demean yourself by marrying me, you... said HÃ©lÃ¨ne, beginning to cry. The prince tried to comfort her, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne, as if quite distraught, said through her tears that there was nothing to prevent her marrying, that there were precedents (there were up to that time very few, but she mentioned Napoleon and some other exalted personages), that she had never been her husband™s wife, and that she had been sacrificed. But the law, religion... said the prince, already yielding. The law, religion... What have they been invented for if they can™t arrange that? said HÃ©lÃ¨ne. The prince was surprised that so simple an idea had not occurred to him, and he applied for advice to the holy brethren of the Society of Jesus, with whom he was on intimate terms. A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which HÃ©lÃ¨ne gave at her country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert, a man no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes, a Jesuit Ã robe courte * was presented to her, and in the garden by the light of the illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a long time of the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the consolations the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and the next. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes and to those of Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance, for which her partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with her future directeur de conscience, but the next evening Monsieur de Jobert came to see HÃ©lÃ¨ne when she was alone, and after that often came again. * Lay member of the Society of Jesus. One day he took the countess to a Roman Catholic church, where she knelt down before the altar to which she was led. The enchanting, middle-aged Frenchman laid his hands on her head and, as she herself afterward described it, she felt something like a fresh breeze wafted into her soul. It was explained to her that this was la grÃ¢ce. After that a long-frocked abbÃ© was brought to her. She confessed to him, and he absolved her from her sins. Next day she received a box containing the Sacred Host, which was left at her house for her to partake of. A few days later HÃ©lÃ¨ne learned with pleasure that she had now been admitted to the true Catholic Church and that in a few days the Pope himself would hear of her and would send her a certain document. All that was done around her and to her at this time, all the attention devoted to her by so many clever men and expressed in such pleasant, refined ways, and the state of dove-like purity she was now in (she wore only white dresses and white ribbons all that time) gave her pleasure, but her pleasure did not cause her for a moment to forget her aim. And as it always happens in contests of cunning that a stupid person gets the better of cleverer ones, HÃ©lÃ¨ne”having realized that the main object of all these words and all this trouble was, after converting her to Catholicism, to obtain money from her for Jesuit institutions (as to which she received indications)”before parting with her money insisted that the various operations necessary to free her from her husband should be performed. In her view the aim of every religion was merely to preserve certain proprieties while affording satisfaction to human desires. And with this aim, in one of her talks with her Father Confessor, she insisted on an answer to the question, in how far was she bound by her marriage? They were sitting in the twilight by a window in the drawing room. The scent of flowers came in at the window. HÃ©lÃ¨ne was wearing a white dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbÃ©, a well-fed man with a plump, clean-shaven chin, a pleasant firm mouth, and white hands meekly folded on his knees, sat close to HÃ©lÃ¨ne and, with a subtle smile on his lips and a peaceful look of delight at her beauty, occasionally glanced at her face as he explained his opinion on the subject. HÃ©lÃ¨ne with an uneasy smile looked at his curly hair and his plump, clean-shaven, blackish cheeks and every moment expected the conversation to take a fresh turn. But the abbÃ©, though he evidently enjoyed the beauty of his companion, was absorbed in his mastery of the matter. The course of the Father Confessor™s arguments ran as follows: Ignorant of the import of what you were undertaking, you made a vow of conjugal fidelity to a man who on his part, by entering the married state without faith in the religious significance of marriage, committed an act of sacrilege. That marriage lacked the dual significance it should have had. Yet in spite of this your vow was binding. You swerved from it. What did you commit by so acting? A venial, or a mortal, sin? A venial sin, for you acted without evil intention. If now you married again with the object of bearing children, your sin might be forgiven. But the question is again a twofold one: firstly... But suddenly HÃ©lÃ¨ne, who was getting bored, said with one of her bewitching smiles: But I think that having espoused the true religion I cannot be bound by what a false religion laid upon me. The director of her conscience was astounded at having the case presented to him thus with the simplicity of Columbus™ egg. He was delighted at the unexpected rapidity of his pupil™s progress, but could not abandon the edifice of argument he had laboriously constructed. Let us understand one another, Countess, said he with a smile, and began refuting his spiritual daughter™s arguments. CHAPTER VII HÃ©lÃ¨ne understood that the question was very simple and easy from the ecclesiastical point of view, and that her directors were making difficulties only because they were apprehensive as to how the matter would be regarded by the secular authorities. So she decided that it was necessary to prepare the opinion of society. She provoked the jealousy of the elderly magnate and told him what she had told her other suitor; that is, she put the matter so that the only way for him to obtain a right over her was to marry her. The elderly magnate was at first as much taken aback by this suggestion of marriage with a woman whose husband was alive, as the younger man had been, but HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as marrying a maiden had its effect on him too. Had HÃ©lÃ¨ne herself shown the least sign of hesitation, shame, or secrecy, her cause would certainly have been lost; but not only did she show no signs of secrecy or shame, on the contrary, with good-natured naÃ¯vetÃ© she told her intimate friends (and these were all Petersburg) that both the prince and the magnate had proposed to her and that she loved both and was afraid of grieving either. A rumor immediately spread in Petersburg, not that HÃ©lÃ¨ne wanted to be divorced from her husband (had such a report spread many would have opposed so illegal an intention) but simply that the unfortunate and interesting HÃ©lÃ¨ne was in doubt which of the two men she should marry. The question was no longer whether this was possible, but only which was the better match and how the matter would be regarded at court. There were, it is true, some rigid individuals unable to rise to the height of such a question, who saw in the project a desecration of the sacrament of marriage, but there were not many such and they remained silent, while the majority were interested in HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s good fortune and in the question which match would be the more advantageous. Whether it was right or wrong to remarry while one had a husband living they did not discuss, for that question had evidently been settled by people wiser than you or me, as they said, and to doubt the correctness of that decision would be to risk exposing one™s stupidity and incapacity to live in society. Only MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna AkhrosÃmova, who had come to Petersburg that summer to see one of her sons, allowed herself plainly to express an opinion contrary to the general one. Meeting HÃ©lÃ¨ne at a ball she stopped her in the middle of the room and, amid general silence, said in her gruff voice: So wives of living men have started marrying again! Perhaps you think you have invented a novelty? You have been forestalled, my dear! It was thought of long ago. It is done in all the brothels, and with these words MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna, turning up her wide sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round, moved across the room. Though people were afraid of MÃ¡rya DmÃtrievna she was regarded in Petersburg as a buffoon, and so of what she had said they only noticed, and repeated in a whisper, the one coarse word she had used, supposing the whole sting of her remark to lie in that word. Prince VasÃli, who of late very often forgot what he had said and repeated one and the same thing a hundred times, remarked to his daughter whenever he chanced to see her: HÃ©lÃ¨ne, I have a word to say to you, and he would lead her aside, drawing her hand downward. I have heard of certain projects concerning... you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father™s heart rejoices to know that you... You have suffered so much.... But, my dear child, consult only your own heart. That is all I have to say, and concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his daughter™s and move away. BilÃbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man, and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as HÃ©lÃ¨ne always has”men friends who can never change into lovers”once gave her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering. Listen, BilÃbin, said HÃ©lÃ¨ne (she always called friends of that sort by their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white, beringed fingers. Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do. Which of the two? BilÃbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a smile on his lips. You are not taking me unawares, you know, said he. As a true friend, I have thought and thought again about your affair. You see, if you marry the prince”he meant the younger man”and he crooked one finger, you forever lose the chance of marrying the other, and you will displease the court besides. (You know there is some kind of connection.) But if you marry the old count you will make his last days happy, and as widow of the Grand... the prince would no longer be making a mÃ©salliance by marrying you, and BilÃbin smoothed out his forehead. That™s a true friend! said HÃ©lÃ¨ne beaming, and again touching BilÃbin™s sleeve. But I love them, you know, and don™t want to distress either of them. I would give my life for the happiness of them both. BilÃbin shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that not even he could help in that difficulty. Une maÃ®tresse-femme! * That™s what is called putting things squarely. She would like to be married to all three at the same time, thought he. * A masterly woman. But tell me, how will your husband look at the matter? BilÃbin asked, his reputation being so well established that he did not fear to ask so naÃ¯ve a question. Will he agree? Oh, he loves me so! said HÃ©lÃ¨ne, who for some reason imagined that Pierre too loved her. He will do anything for me. BilÃbin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty. Even divorce you? said he. HÃ©lÃ¨ne laughed. Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed marriage was HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s mother, Princess KurÃ¡gina. She was continually tormented by jealousy of her daughter, and now that jealousy concerned a subject near to her own heart, she could not reconcile herself to the idea. She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce and remarriage during a husband™s lifetime, and the priest told her that it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband is alive. Armed with these arguments, which appeared to her unanswerable, she drove to her daughter™s early one morning so as to find her alone. Having listened to her mother™s objections, HÃ©lÃ¨ne smiled blandly and ironically. But it says plainly: ˜Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced...™ said the old princess. Ah, Maman, ne dites pas de bÃªtises. Vous ne comprenez rien. Dans ma position j™ai des devoirs, * said HÃ©lÃ¨ne changing from Russian, in which language she always felt that her case did not sound quite clear, into French which suited it better. * Oh, Mamma, don™t talk nonsense! You don™t understand anything. In my position I have obligations. But, my dear.... Oh, Mamma, how is it you don™t understand that the Holy Father, who has the right to grant dispensations... Just then the lady companion who lived with HÃ©lÃ¨ne came in to announce that His Highness was in the ballroom and wished to see her. Non, dites-lui que je ne veux pas le voir, que je suis furieuse contre lui, parce qu™il m™a manquÃ© parole. * * No, tell him I don™t wish to see him, I am furious with him for not keeping his word to me. Comtesse, Ã tout pÃ©chÃ© misÃ©ricorde, * said a fair-haired young man with a long face and nose, as he entered the room. * Countess, there is mercy for every sin. The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied. The young man who had entered took no notice of her. The princess nodded to her daughter and sidled out of the room. Yes, she is right, thought the old princess, all her convictions dissipated by the appearance of His Highness. She is right, but how is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it? Yet it is so simple, she thought as she got into her carriage. By the beginning of August HÃ©lÃ¨ne™s affairs were clearly defined and she wrote a letter to her husband”who, as she imagined, loved her very much”informing him of her intention to marry N.N. and of her having embraced the one true faith, and asking him to carry out all the formalities necessary for a divorce, which would be explained to him by the bearer of the letter. And so I pray God to have you, my friend, in His holy and powerful keeping”Your friend HÃ©lÃ¨ne. This letter was brought to Pierre™s house when he was on the field of BorodinÃ³. CHAPTER VIII Toward the end of the battle of BorodinÃ³, Pierre, having run down from RaÃ©vski™s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to KnyazkÃ³vo with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and seeing blood and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in the crowds of soldiers. The one thing he now desired with his whole soul was to get away quickly from the terrible sensations amid which he had lived that day and return to ordinary conditions of life and sleep quietly in a room in his own bed. He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he be able to understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But such ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found. Though shells and bullets did not whistle over the road along which he was going, still on all sides there was what there had been on the field of battle. There were still the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers™ overcoats, the same sounds of firing which, though distant now, still aroused terror, and besides this there were the foul air and the dust. Having gone a couple of miles along the MozhÃ¡ysk road, Pierre sat down by the roadside. Dusk had fallen, and the roar of guns died away. Pierre lay leaning on his elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in the darkness. He was continually imagining that a cannon ball was flying toward him with a terrific whizz, and then he shuddered and sat up. He had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night three soldiers, having brought some firewood, settled down near him and began lighting a fire. The soldiers, who threw sidelong glances at Pierre, got the fire to burn and placed an iron pot on it into which they broke some dried bread and put a little dripping. The pleasant odor of greasy viands mingled with the smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The three soldiers were eating and talking among themselves, taking no notice of him. And who may you be? one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently meaning what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: If you want to eat we™ll give you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest man. I, I... said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and better understood by them. By rights I am a militia officer, but my men are not here. I came to the battle and have lost them. There now! said one of the soldiers. Another shook his head. Would you like a little mash? the first soldier asked, and handed Pierre a wooden spoon after licking it clean. Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called the food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food he had ever tasted. As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself to large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by the fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence. Where have you to go to? Tell us! said one of them. To MozhÃ¡ysk. You™re a gentleman, aren™t you? Yes. And what™s your name? Peter KirÃlych. Well then, Peter KirÃlych, come along with us, we™ll take you there. In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to MozhÃ¡ysk. By the time they got near MozhÃ¡ysk and began ascending the steep hill into the town, the cocks were already crowing. Pierre went on with the soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill and that he had already passed it. He would not soon have remembered this, such was his state of forgetfulness, had he not halfway up the hill stumbled upon his groom, who had been to look for him in the town and was returning to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre in the darkness by his white hat. Your excellency! he said. Why, we were beginning to despair! How is it you are on foot? And where are you going, please? Oh, yes! said Pierre. The soldiers stopped. So you™ve found your folk? said one of them. Well, good-by, Peter KirÃlych”isn™t it? Good-by, Peter KirÃlych! Pierre heard the other voices repeat. Good-by! he said and turned with his groom toward the inn. I ought to give them something! he thought, and felt in his pocket. No, better not! said another, inner voice. There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied. Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay down in his carriage. CHAPTER IX Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality, he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and dread of death seized him. Filled with fright he opened his eyes and lifted his head from under his cloak. All was tranquil in the yard. Only someone™s orderly passed through the gateway, splashing through the mud, and talked to the innkeeper. Above Pierre™s head some pigeons, disturbed by the movement he had made in sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof of the penthouse. The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful smell of stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see the clear starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses. Thank God, there is no more of that! he thought, covering up his head again. Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded to it! But they... they were steady and calm all the time, to the end... thought he. They, in Pierre™s mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before the icon. They, those strange men he had not previously known, stood out clearly and sharply from everyone else. To be a soldier, just a soldier! thought Pierre as he fell asleep, to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what they are. But how to cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my outer man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could have run away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent to serve as a soldier after the duel with DÃ³lokhov. And the memory of the dinner at the English Club when he had challenged DÃ³lokhov flashed through Pierre™s mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at TorzhÃ³k. And now a picture of a solemn meeting of the lodge presented itself to his mind. It was taking place at the English Club and someone near and dear to him sat at the end of the table. Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor. But he died! thought Pierre. Yes, he died, and I did not know he was alive. How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive again! On one side of the table sat Anatole, DÃ³lokhov, NesvÃtski, DenÃsov, and others like them (in his dream the category to which these men belonged was as clearly defined in his mind as the category of those he termed they), and he heard those people, Anatole and DÃ³lokhov, shouting and singing loudly; yet through their shouting the voice of his benefactor was heard speaking all the time and the sound of his words was as weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what his benefactor was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the possibility of being what they were. And they with their simple, kind, firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But though they were kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him. Wishing to speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at that moment his legs grew cold and bare. He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his cloak had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but now they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew. It is dawn, thought Pierre. But that™s not what I want. I want to hear and understand my benefactor™s words. Again he covered himself up with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there. There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating. Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think and express his thoughts like that when awake. To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man™s freedom to the law of God, the voice had said. Simplicity is submission to the will of God; you cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden. Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to unite the meaning of all. To unite all? he asked himself. No, not to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts together is what we need! Yes, one must harness them, must harness them! he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these words and they alone expressed what he wanted to say and solved the question that tormented him. Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness. Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency! some voice was repeating. We must harness, it is time to harness.... It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone straight into Pierre™s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the middle of which soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump while carts were passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat. No, I don™t want that, I don™t want to see and understand that. I want to understand what was revealing itself to me in my dream. One second more and I should have understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness, but how can I harness everything? and Pierre felt with horror that the meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed. The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer had come with news that the French were already near MozhÃ¡ysk and that our men were leaving it. Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on foot through the town. The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind them. There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and the streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that were to take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could be heard. Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of that of Prince Andrew. CHAPTER X On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of the city he was met by Count RostopchÃn™s adjutant. We have been looking for you everywhere, said the adjutant. The count wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a very important matter. Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow commander in chief. Count RostopchÃn had only that morning returned to town from his summer villa at SokÃ³lniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house were full of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders. VasÃlchikov and PlÃ¡tov had already seen the count and explained to him that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be surrendered. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants, the officials”the heads of the various government departments”knew that Moscow would soon be in the enemy™s hands, just as Count RostopchÃn himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various departments. As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came out of RostopchÃn™s private room. In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room. While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there. They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their conversation. If they™re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm, but as things are now one can™t answer for anything. But you see what he writes... said another, pointing to a printed sheet he held in his hand. That™s another matter. That™s necessary for the people, said the first. What is it? asked Pierre. Oh, it™s a fresh broadsheet. Pierre took it and began reading. His Serene Highness has passed through MozhÃ¡ysk in order to join up with the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed; things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I, too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout with both. But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the town, said Pierre, and that the position... Well, of course! That™s what we were saying, replied the first speaker. And what does he mean by ˜One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout with both™? asked Pierre. The count had a sty, replied the adjutant smiling, and was very much upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with him. By the by, Count, he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a smile, we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess, your wife... I have heard nothing, Pierre replied unconcernedly. But what have you heard? Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I heard. But what did you hear? Well, they say, continued the adjutant with the same smile, that the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it™s nonsense.... Possibly, remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. And who is that? he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face. He? That™s a tradesman, that is to say, he™s the restaurant keeper, VereshchÃ¡gin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the proclamation. Oh, so that is VereshchÃ¡gin! said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor. That™s not he himself, that™s the father of the fellow who wrote the proclamation, said the adjutant. The young man is in prison and I expect it will go hard with him. An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a cross round his neck, approached the speaker. It™s a complicated story, you know, said the adjutant. That proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel IvÃ¡novich here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly sixty-three hands. He asked one, ˜From whom did you get it?™ ˜From so-and-so.™ He went to the next one. ˜From whom did you get it?™ and so on till he reached VereshchÃ¡gin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ˜a pet of a trader,™ said the adjutant smiling. They asked him, ˜Who gave it you?™ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to some understanding. He replied: ˜From no one; I made it up myself.™ They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ˜I made it up myself.™ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man. ˜From whom did you get the proclamation?™ ˜I wrote it myself.™ Well, you know the count, said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride, he flared up dreadfully”and just think of the fellow™s audacity, lying, and obstinacy! And the count wanted him to say it was from KlyucharÃ«v? I understand! said Pierre. Not at all, rejoined the adjutant in dismay. KlyucharÃ«v had his own sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished. But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ˜How could you have written it yourself?™ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that was lying on the table. ˜Here it is! You did not write it yourself but translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don™t even know French, you fool.™ And what do you think? ˜No,™ said he, ˜I have not read any papers, I made it up myself.™ ˜If that™s so, you™re a traitor and I™ll have you tried, and you™ll be hanged! Say from whom you had it.™ ˜I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.™ And that was the end of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it. He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the father has come to intercede for him. But he™s a good-for-nothing lad! You know that sort of tradesman™s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match for him. That™s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other. Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do? He found some scoundrel of a painter... CHAPTER XI In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in chief. When he entered the private room Count RostopchÃn, puckering his face, was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out. Ah, how do you do, great warrior? said RostopchÃn as soon as the short man had left the room. We have heard of your prowess. But that™s not the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons? he went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. I am well informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to ruin Russia. Yes, I am a Mason, Pierre replied. There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. SperÃ¡nski and MagnÃtski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. KlyucharÃ«v has been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from him for safe custody. I like you and don™t wish you any harm and”as you are only half my age”I advise you, as a father would, to cease all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as possible. But what did KlyucharÃ«v do wrong, Count? asked Pierre. That is for me to know, but not for you to ask, shouted RostopchÃn. If he is accused of circulating Napoleon™s proclamation it is not proved that he did so, said Pierre without looking at RostopchÃn, and VereshchÃ¡gin... There we are! RostopchÃn shouted at Pierre louder than before, frowning suddenly. VereshchÃ¡gin is a renegade and a traitor who will be punished as he deserves, said he with the vindictive heat with which people speak when recalling an insult. But I did not summon you to discuss my actions, but to give you advice”or an order if you prefer it. I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such men as KlyucharÃ«v. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody”but probably realizing that he was shouting at BezÃºkhov who so far was not guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre™s hand in a friendly manner, We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven™t time to be polite to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl. Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally? Why, nothing, answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the thoughtful expression of his face. The count frowned. A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that™s all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear fellow. Oh, by the by! he shouted through the doorway after Pierre, is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy fathers of the Society of Jesus? Pierre did not answer and left RostopchÃn™s room more sullen and angry than he had ever before shown himself. When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners. They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone at last he opened and read his wife™s letter. They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One must forget and understand... And going to his bed he threw himself on it without undressing and immediately fell asleep. When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count RostopchÃn to know whether Count BezÃºkhov had left or was leaving the town. A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see them, went to the back porch and out through the gate. From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of BezÃºkhov™s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again or knew where he was. CHAPTER XII The RostÃ³vs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is, till the eve of the enemy™s entry into the city. After PÃ©tya had joined ObolÃ©nski™s regiment of Cossacks and left for BÃ©laya TsÃ©rkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck her that summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to get Nicholas back and wished to go herself to join PÃ©tya, or to get him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved possible. PÃ©tya could not return unless his regiment did so or unless he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas was somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter, in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess Mary. The countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep dreamed that she saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her. He got PÃ©tya transferred from ObolÃ©nski™s regiment to BezÃºkhov™s, which was in training near Moscow. Though PÃ©tya would remain in the service, this transfer would give the countess the consolation of seeing at least one of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her PÃ©tya so as not to let him go again, but always get him appointed to places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long as Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed PÃ©tya with his merry black eyes and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show”when he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it”then his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other children. The nearer the time came for PÃ©tya to return, the more uneasy grew the countess. She began to think she would never live to see such happiness. The presence of SÃ³nya, of her beloved NatÃ¡sha, or even of her husband irritated her. What do I want with them? I want no one but PÃ©tya, she thought. At the end of August the RostÃ³vs received another letter from Nicholas. He wrote from the province of VorÃ³nezh where he had been sent to procure remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about PÃ©tya. Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the RostÃ³vs™ acquaintances had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before her treasure, her adored PÃ©tya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August he arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him did not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from him her intention of keeping him under her wing, PÃ©tya guessed her designs, and instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion when with her”might become womanish as he termed it to himself”he treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached himself exclusively to NatÃ¡sha for whom he had always had a particularly brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like. Owing to the count™s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to come from their RyazÃ¡n and Moscow estates to remove their household belongings did not arrive till the thirtieth. From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at BorodinÃ³ were brought in by the DorogomÃlov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow, and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions out by the other gates. In spite of RostopchÃn™s broadsheets, or because of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory rumors were current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed to leave the city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave. Some said there had been another battle after BorodinÃ³ at which the French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the Russian army had been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia which, preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others whispered that Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had been seized, that the peasants were rioting and robbing people on their way from Moscow, and so on. But all this was only talk; in reality (though the Council of FilÃ, at which it was decided to abandon Moscow, had not yet been held) both those who went away and those who remained behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow would certainly be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as possible and save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly break up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so. As a criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die immediately, but yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily continued its wonted life, though it knew that the time of its destruction was near when the conditions of life to which its people were accustomed to submit would be completely upset. During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole RostÃ³v family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the family, Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v, continually drove about the city collecting the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders at home about the preparations for their departure. The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with everything, was constantly in pursuit of PÃ©tya who was always running away from her, and was jealous of NatÃ¡sha with whom he spent all his time. SÃ³nya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting things packed. But of late SÃ³nya had been particularly sad and silent. Nicholas™ letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in her presence, joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention of Providence in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas. I was never pleased at BolkÃ³nski™s engagement to NatÃ¡sha, said the countess, but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be! SÃ³nya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving the RostÃ³vs™ affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite her grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they had any orders to give. PÃ©tya and NatÃ¡sha on the contrary, far from helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause for gaiety and laughter to them. PÃ©tya was in high spirits because having left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine young man, because he was at home, because he had left BÃ©laya TsÃ©rkov where there was no hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to Moscow where there was to be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because NatÃ¡sha, whose lead he always followed, was in high spirits. NatÃ¡sha was gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely”and PÃ©tya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being given out, everybody was escaping”going away somewhere, and in general something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting, especially to the young. CHAPTER XIII On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the RostÃ³vs™ house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up, others still empty. The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head. PÃ©tya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. SÃ³nya was in the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. NatÃ¡sha was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons, and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which she had worn at her first Petersburg ball. NatÃ¡sha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside SÃ³nya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull. DunyÃ¡sha, you pack! You will, won™t you, dear? And when DunyÃ¡sha willingly promised to do it all for her, NatÃ¡sha sat down on the floor, took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. NatÃ¡sha got up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of wounded men had stopped in the street. The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen, postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded. NatÃ¡sha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding an end of it in each hand, went out into the street. The former housekeeper, old MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, had stepped out of the crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside. NatÃ¡sha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying. Then you have nobody in Moscow? she was saying. You would be more comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family are leaving. I don™t know if it would be allowed, replied the officer in a weak voice. Here is our commanding officer... ask him, and he pointed to a stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts. NatÃ¡sha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer and at once went to meet the major. May the wounded men stay in our house? she asked. The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile. Which one do you want, Ma™am™selle? said he, screwing up his eyes and smiling. NatÃ¡sha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection”as if considering in how far the thing was possible”replied in the affirmative. Oh yes, why not? They may, he said. With a slight inclination of her head, NatÃ¡sha stepped back quickly to MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer. They may. He says they may! whispered NatÃ¡sha. The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the RostÃ³vs™ yard, and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the houses in PovarskÃ¡ya Street. NatÃ¡sha was evidently pleased to be dealing with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their yard. Your Papa must be told, though, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house. There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we put them into the wing, the men™s room, or the nurse™s room, we must ask permission. Well, I™ll ask. NatÃ¡sha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman™s drops. Are you asleep, Mamma? Oh, what sleep”? said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping into a doze. Mamma darling! said NatÃ¡sha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her face close to her mother™s, I am sorry, forgive me, I™ll never do it again; I woke you up! MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna has sent me: they have brought some wounded here”officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to go. I knew you™d let them come! she said quickly all in one breath. What officers? Whom have they brought? I don™t understand anything about it, said the countess. NatÃ¡sha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly. I knew you™d give permission... so I™ll tell them, and, having kissed her mother, NatÃ¡sha got up and went to the door. In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news. We™ve stayed too long! said the count with involuntary vexation. The Club is closed and the police are leaving. Papa, is it all right”I™ve invited some of the wounded into the house? said NatÃ¡sha. Of course it is, he answered absently. That™s not the point. I beg you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we must go, go, go!... And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants. At dinner PÃ©tya having returned home told them the news he had heard. He said the people had been getting arms in the KrÃ©mlin, and that though RostopchÃn™s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big battle there. The countess looked with timid horror at her son™s eager, excited face as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the fatherland”something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so, hoping to arrange to leave before then and take PÃ©tya with her as their protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly, that very night if possible. With a woman™s involuntary loving cunning she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she was now afraid of everything. CHAPTER XIV Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the countess™ fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit dealer™s in MyasnÃtski Street. When returning by that street she had been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the cabman had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at the drink store, having received orders to do so. After dinner the whole RostÃ³v household set to work with enthusiastic haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying people, and flurrying them still more. PÃ©tya directed things in the yard. SÃ³nya, owing to the count™s contradictory orders, lost her head and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house and yard, shouting and disputing. NatÃ¡sha, with the ardor characteristic of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her intervention in the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody expected some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her. Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When NatÃ¡sha set to work two cases were standing open in the ballroom, one almost full up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in from the storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it. SÃ³nya, wait a bit”we™ll pack everything into these, said NatÃ¡sha. You can™t, Miss, we have tried to, said the butler™s assistant. No, wait a minute, please. And NatÃ¡sha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates wrapped in paper. The dishes must go in here among the carpets, said she. Why, it™s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases, said the butler™s assistant. Oh, wait, please! And NatÃ¡sha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the things. These aren™t needed, said she, putting aside some plates of Kiev ware. These”yes, these must go among the carpets, she said, referring to the Saxony china dishes. Don™t, NatÃ¡sha! Leave it alone! We™ll get it all packed, urged SÃ³nya reproachfully. What a young lady she is! remarked the major-domo. But NatÃ¡sha would not give in. She turned everything out and began quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had been taken out of the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned out that when the cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few more things might have been taken out, but NatÃ¡sha insisted on having her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler™s assistant and PÃ©tya”whom she had drawn into the business of packing”press on the lid, and made desperate efforts herself. That™s enough, NatÃ¡sha, said SÃ³nya. I see you were right, but just take out the top one. I won™t! cried NatÃ¡sha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the carpets. Now press, PÃ©tya! Press, VasÃlich, press hard! she cried. The carpets yielded and the lid closed; NatÃ¡sha, clapping her hands, screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that NatÃ¡sha had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might be corded up. Thanks to NatÃ¡sha™s directions the work now went on expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable packed as compactly as possible. But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count, having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed. SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha slept in the sitting room without undressing. That night another wounded man was driven down the PovarskÃ¡ya, and MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the RostÃ³vs™ yard. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna concluded that he was a very important man. He was being conveyed in a calÃ¨che with a raised hood, and was quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a cart. Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house will be empty, said the old woman to the old attendant. Well, perhaps, said he with a sigh. We don™t expect to get him home alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it™s a long way from here, and there™s nobody living in it. Do us the honor to come in, there™s plenty of everything in the master™s house. Come in, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. Is he very ill? she asked. The attendant made a hopeless gesture. We don™t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor. And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart. All right! said the doctor. The old servant returned to the calÃ¨che, looked into it, shook his head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped beside MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna. O, Lord Jesus Christ! she murmured. She invited them to take the wounded man into the house. The masters won™t object... she said. But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss™. This wounded man was Prince Andrew BolkÃ³nski. CHAPTER XV Moscow™s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday. The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city. Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow”the rabble, that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials, seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to the Three Hills. Having waited there for RostopchÃn who did not turn up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being given away for nothing. In the RostÃ³vs™ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants sent by wounded officers came to the RostÃ³vs™ and wounded men dragged themselves there from the RostÃ³vs™ and from neighboring houses where they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused, saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and one™s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one™s own family. So thought the major-domo on his master™s behalf. On waking up that morning Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³v left his bedroom softly, so as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning, and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch. The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away. Well, VasÃlich, is everything ready? asked the count, and stroking his bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.) We can harness at once, your excellency. Well, that™s right. As soon as the countess wakes we™ll be off, God willing! What is it, gentlemen? he added, turning to the officer. Are you staying in my house? The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson. Count, be so good as to allow me... for God™s sake, to get into some corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be all right on a loaded cart.... Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same request on behalf of his master. Oh, yes, yes, yes! said the count hastily. I shall be very pleased, very pleased. VasÃlich, you™ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts. Well, what of it... do what™s necessary... said the count, muttering some indefinite order. But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer™s face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and moving toward the porch. Please step into the gallery, your excellency, said the major-domo. What are your orders about the pictures? The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to refuse the wounded who asked for a lift. Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded, he added in a soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard. At nine o™clock the countess woke up, and MatrÃ«na TimofÃ©evna, who had been her lady™s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of chief gendarme™s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much offended and the young ladies™ summer dresses could not be left behind. On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband. What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded. You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to them!... Really now, in our own yard”we asked them in ourselves and there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them be taken... where™s the hurry? The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters. The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of something detrimental to the children™s interests, such as the building of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so. She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband: Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our”all the children™s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand rubles™ worth of things in the house. I don™t consent, my dear, I don™t! Do as you please! It™s the government™s business to look after the wounded; they know that. Look at the LopukhÃns opposite, they cleared out everything two days ago. That™s what other people do. It™s only we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the children. Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without replying. Papa, what are you doing that for? asked NatÃ¡sha, who had followed him into her mother™s room. Nothing! What business is it of yours? muttered the count angrily. But I heard, said NatÃ¡sha. Why does Mamma object? What business is it of yours? cried the count. NatÃ¡sha stepped up to the window and pondered. Papa! Here™s Berg coming to see us, said she, looking out of the window. CHAPTER XVI Berg, the RostÃ³vs™ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders of VladÃmir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the first division of the Second Army. On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army. He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there. So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and domestic reasons. Berg drove up to his father-in-law™s house in his spruce little trap with a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it. From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of NatÃ¡sha and SÃ³nya, and hastened to inquire after Mamma™s health. Health, at a time like this? said the count. Come, tell us the news! Is the army retreating or will there be another battle? God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa, said Berg. The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly antique valor of the Russian army, which they”which it (he corrected himself) has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth”there are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa (he smote himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the words Russian army), I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly restrain those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor, he went on rapidly. General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a hillside. You can imagine! And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had heard those days. NatÃ¡sha watched him with an intent gaze that confused him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some question. Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors cannot be imagined or adequately praised! said Berg, glancing round at NatÃ¡sha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent look with a smile. ˜Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of her sons!™ Isn™t it so, Papa? said he. Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand, asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to express sympathy, remained standing beside her. Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get away.... I can™t think what the servants are about, said the countess, turning to her husband. I have just been told that nothing is ready yet. Somebody after all must see to things. One misses MÃtenka at such times. There won™t be any end to it. The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself. He got up from his chair and went to the door. At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose and, seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and significantly. And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa, said he. Hm... said the count, and stopped. I was driving past YusÃºpov™s house just now, said Berg with a laugh, when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn™t buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear VÃ©ra wanted a chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it. (At the mention of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) And it™s such a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know! And dear VÃ©ra has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me have one, I will pay the man well, and... The count frowned and coughed. Ask the countess, I don™t give orders. If it™s inconvenient, please don™t, said Berg. Only I so wanted it, for dear VÃ©ra™s sake. Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil... cried the old count. My head™s in a whirl! And he left the room. The countess began to cry. Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times! said Berg. NatÃ¡sha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs. PÃ©tya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the yard. Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing into one of them helped by an orderly. Do you know what it™s about? PÃ©tya asked NatÃ¡sha. She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about. She did not answer. It™s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded, said PÃ©tya. VasÃlich told me. I consider... I consider, NatÃ¡sha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to PÃ©tya, I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don™t know what. Are we despicable Germans? Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed headlong up the stairs. Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down the room, when NatÃ¡sha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps. It™s horrid! It™s abominable! she screamed. You can™t possibly have ordered it! Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count stood still at the window and listened. Mamma, it™s impossible: see what is going on in the yard! she cried. They will be left!... What™s the matter with you? Who are ˜they™? What do you want? Why, the wounded! It™s impossible, Mamma. It™s monstrous!... No, Mamma darling, it™s not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the yard... Mamma!... It™s impossible! The count stood by the window and listened without turning round. Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window. The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn to look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted. Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone? she said, not surrendering at once. Mamma, darling, forgive me! But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband. My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don™t understand about it, said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly. The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen, muttered the count through tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of shame on his breast. Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?... asked NatÃ¡sha. We will still take all the most necessary things. The count nodded affirmatively, and NatÃ¡sha, at the rapid pace at which she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the anteroom and downstairs into the yard. The servants gathered round NatÃ¡sha, but could not believe the strange order she brought them until the count himself, in his wife™s name, confirmed the order to give up all the carts to the wounded and take the trunks to the storerooms. When they understood that order the servants set to work at this new task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed strange to them but on the contrary it seemed the only thing that could be done, just as a quarter of an hour before it had not seemed strange to anyone that the wounded should be left behind and the goods carted away but that had seemed the only thing to do. The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread to the neighboring houses, from which wounded men began to come into the RostÃ³vs™ yard. Many of the wounded asked them not to unload the carts but only to let them sit on the top of the things. But the work of unloading, once started, could not be arrested. It seemed not to matter whether all or only half the things were left behind. Cases full of china, bronzes, pictures, and mirrors that had been so carefully packed the night before now lay about the yard, and still they went on searching for and finding possibilities of unloading this or that and letting the wounded have another and yet another cart. We can take four more men, said the steward. They can have my trap, or else what is to become of them? Let them have my wardrobe cart, said the countess. DunyÃ¡sha can go with me in the carriage. They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was bright and animated. NatÃ¡sha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she had not known for a long time. What could we fasten this onto? asked the servants, trying to fix a trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. We must keep at least one cart. What™s in it? asked NatÃ¡sha. The count™s books. Leave it, VasÃlich will put it away. It™s not wanted. The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count Peter could sit. On the box. You™ll sit on the box, won™t you, PÃ©tya? cried NatÃ¡sha. SÃ³nya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was quite different from NatÃ¡sha™s. She was putting away the things that had to be left behind and making a list of them as the countess wished, and she tried to get as much taken away with them as possible. CHAPTER XVII Before two o™clock in the afternoon the RostÃ³vs™ four carriages, packed full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door. One by one the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard. The calÃ¨che in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted SÃ³nya™s attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she was arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at the entrance. Whose calÃ¨che is that? she inquired, leaning out of the carriage window. Why, didn™t you know, Miss? replied the maid. The wounded prince: he spent the night in our house and is going with us. But who is it? What™s his name? It™s our intended that was”Prince BolkÃ³nski himself! They say he is dying, replied the maid with a sigh. SÃ³nya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess, tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey, was pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting. NatÃ¡sha was not in the room. Mamma, said SÃ³nya, Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is going with us. The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing SÃ³nya™s arm, glanced around. NatÃ¡sha? she murmured. At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them. They knew their NatÃ¡sha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard this news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked. NatÃ¡sha does not know yet, but he is going with us, said SÃ³nya. You say he is dying? SÃ³nya nodded. The countess put her arms around SÃ³nya and began to cry. The ways of God are past finding out! she thought, feeling that the Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was now taking place. Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What™s the matter? asked NatÃ¡sha, as with animated face she ran into the room. Nothing, answered the countess. If everything is ready let us start. And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. SÃ³nya embraced NatÃ¡sha and kissed her. NatÃ¡sha looked at her inquiringly. What is it? What has happened? Nothing... No... Is it something very bad for me? What is it? persisted NatÃ¡sha with her quick intuition. SÃ³nya sighed and made no reply. The count, PÃ©tya, Madame Schoss, MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, and VasÃlich came into the drawing room and, having closed the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments silently seated without looking at one another. The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna and VasÃlich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The countess went into the oratory and there SÃ³nya found her on her knees before the icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall. (The most precious ones, with which some family tradition was connected, were being taken with them.) In the porch and in the yard the men whom PÃ©tya had armed with swords and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts and girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind. As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the countess in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house to the carriages, the calÃ¨che, the phaeton, and back again. They always will forget everything! said the countess. Don™t you know I can™t sit like that? And DunyÃ¡sha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an aggrieved look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange the seat. Oh, those servants! said the count, swaying his head. EfÃm, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance round at what was going on behind him. From thirty years™ experience he knew it would be some time yet before the order, Be off, in God™s name! would be given him: and he knew that even when it was said he would be stopped once or twice more while they sent back to fetch something that had been forgotten, and even after that he would again be stopped and the countess herself would lean out of the window and beg him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the hill. He knew all this and therefore waited calmly for what would happen, with more patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon, who was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut, somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out and said what she had to say. Then EfÃm deliberately doffed his hat and began crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants did the same. Off, in God™s name! said EfÃm, putting on his hat. Start! The postilion started the horses, the off pole horse tugged at his collar, the high springs creaked, and the body of the coach swayed. The footman sprang onto the box of the moving coach which jolted as it passed out of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the other vehicles jolted in their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In the carriages, the calÃ¨che, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as they passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off. Rarely had NatÃ¡sha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned out of the carriage window and looked back and then forward at the long train of wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line she could see the raised hood of Prince Andrew™s calÃ¨che. She did not know who was in it, but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that calÃ¨che. She knew it was right in front. In KÃºdrino, from the NikÃtski, PrÃ©snya, and PodnovÃnsk Streets came several other trains of vehicles similar to the RostÃ³vs™, and as they passed along the SadÃ³vaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows abreast. As they were going round the SÃºkharev water tower NatÃ¡sha, who was inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise: Dear me! Mamma, SÃ³nya, look, it™s he! Who? Who? Look! Yes, on my word, it™s BezÃºkhov! said NatÃ¡sha, putting her head out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman™s long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the SÃºkharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man in a frieze coat. Yes, it really is BezÃºkhov in a coachman™s coat, with a queer-looking old boy. Really, said NatÃ¡sha, look, look! No, it™s not he. How can you talk such nonsense? Mamma, screamed NatÃ¡sha, I™ll stake my head it™s he! I assure you! Stop, stop! she cried to the coachman. But the coachman could not stop, for from the MeshchÃ¡nski Street came more carts and carriages, and the RostÃ³vs were being shouted at to move on and not block the way. In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the RostÃ³vs all saw Pierre”or someone extraordinarily like him”in a coachman™s coat, going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small, beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, and respectfully touching Pierre™s elbow said something to him and pointed to the carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first understand him. At length when he had understood and looked in the direction the old man indicated, he recognized NatÃ¡sha, and following his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped. NatÃ¡sha™s face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical kindliness. Peter KirÃlovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is wonderful! she cried, holding out her hand to him. What are you doing? Why are you like this? Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked along beside her while the coach still moved on. What is the matter, Count? asked the countess in a surprised and commiserating tone. What? What? Why? Don™t ask me, said Pierre, and looked round at NatÃ¡sha whose radiant, happy expression”of which he was conscious without looking at her”filled him with enchantment. Are you remaining in Moscow, then? Pierre hesitated. In Moscow? he said in a questioning tone. Yes, in Moscow. Good-by! Ah, if only I were a man! I™d certainly stay with you. How splendid! said NatÃ¡sha. Mamma, if you™ll let me, I™ll stay! Pierre glanced absently at NatÃ¡sha and was about to say something, but the countess interrupted him. You were at the battle, we heard. Yes, I was, Pierre answered. There will be another battle tomorrow... he began, but NatÃ¡sha interrupted him. But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself.... Oh, don™t ask me, don™t ask me! I don™t know myself. Tomorrow... But no! Good-by, good-by! he muttered. It™s an awful time! and dropping behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement. NatÃ¡sha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile. CHAPTER XVIII For the last two days, ever since leaving home, Pierre had been living in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, BazdÃ©ev. This is how it happened. When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his interview with Count RostopchÃn, he could not for some time make out where he was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that among others awaiting him in his reception room there was a Frenchman who had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess HÃ©lÃ¨ne, he felt suddenly overcome by that sense of confusion and hopelessness to which he was apt to succumb. He felt that everything was now at an end, all was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or wrong, the future held nothing, and there was no escape from this position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he first sat down on the sofa in an attitude of despair, then rose, went to the door of the reception room and peeped through the crack, returned flourishing his arms, and took up a book. His major-domo came in a second time to say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess was very anxious to see him if only for a minute, and that someone from BazdÃ©ev™s widow had called to ask Pierre to take charge of her husband™s books, as she herself was leaving for the country. Oh, yes, in a minute; wait... or no! No, of course... go and say I will come directly, Pierre replied to the major-domo. But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which was lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door. There was no one in the passage. He went along the whole length of this passage to the stairs and, frowning and rubbing his forehead with both hands, went down as far as the first landing. The hall porter was standing at the front door. From the landing where Pierre stood there was a second staircase leading to the back entrance. He went down that staircase and out into the yard. No one had seen him. But there were some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate the coachmen and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to him. When he felt he was being looked at he behaved like an ostrich which hides its head in a bush in order not to be seen: he hung his head and quickening his pace went down the street. Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph BazdÃ©ev™s books and papers appeared to him the most necessary. He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the Patriarch™s Ponds, where the widow BazdÃ©ev™s house was. Continually turning round to look at the rows of loaded carts that were making their way from all sides out of Moscow, and balancing his bulky body so as not to slip out of the ramshackle old vehicle, Pierre, experiencing the joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to talk to his driver. The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the KrÃ©mlin and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills gates and a great battle would be fought there. Having reached the Patriarch™s Ponds Pierre found the BazdÃ©evs™ house, where he had not been for a long time past. He went up to the gate. GerÃ¡sim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at TorzhÃ³k five years before with Joseph BazdÃ©ev, came out in answer to his knock. At home? asked Pierre. Owing to the present state of things Sophia DanÃlovna has gone to the TorzhÃ³k estate with the children, your excellency. I will come in all the same, I have to look through the books, said Pierre. Be so good as to step in. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, the brother of my late master”may the kingdom of heaven be his”has remained here, but he is in a weak state as you know, said the old servant. Pierre knew that MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was Joseph BazdÃ©ev™s half-insane brother and a hard drinker. Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in... said Pierre and entered the house. A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose, wearing a dressing gown and with galoshes on his bare feet, stood in the anteroom. On seeing Pierre he muttered something angrily and went away along the passage. He was a very clever man but has now grown quite feeble, as your honor sees, said GerÃ¡sim. Will you step into the study? Pierre nodded. As it was sealed up so it has remained, but Sophia DanÃlovna gave orders that if anyone should come from you they were to have the books. Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such trepidation in his benefactor™s lifetime. The room, dusty and untouched since the death of Joseph BazdÃ©ev was now even gloomier. GerÃ¡sim opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre went round the study, approached the cupboard in which the manuscripts were kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important, the holy of holies of the order. This was the authentic Scotch Acts with BazdÃ©ev™s notes and explanations. He sat down at the dusty writing table, and, having laid the manuscripts before him, opened them out, closed them, finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand sank into meditation. GerÃ¡sim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre always sitting in the same attitude. More than two hours passed and GerÃ¡sim took the liberty of making a slight noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not hear him. Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor? Oh yes! said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly. Look here, he added, taking GerÃ¡sim by a button of his coat and looking down at the old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, I say, do you know that there is going to be a battle tomorrow? We heard so, replied the man. I beg you not to tell anyone who I am, and to do what I ask you. Yes, your excellency, replied GerÃ¡sim. Will you have something to eat? No, but I want something else. I want peasant clothes and a pistol, said Pierre, unexpectedly blushing. Yes, your excellency, said GerÃ¡sim after thinking for a moment. All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor™s study, and GerÃ¡sim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and talking to himself. And he spent the night on a bed made up for him there. GerÃ¡sim, being a servant who in his time had seen many strange things, accepted Pierre™s taking up his residence in the house without surprise, and seemed pleased to have someone to wait on. That same evening”without even asking himself what they were wanted for”he procured a coachman™s coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich came twice that evening shuffling along in his galoshes as far as the door and stopped and looked ingratiatingly at Pierre. But as soon as Pierre turned toward him he wrapped his dressing gown around him with a shamefaced and angry look and hurried away. It was when Pierre (wearing the coachman™s coat which GerÃ¡sim had procured for him and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man to buy the pistol at the SÃºkharev market that he met the RostÃ³vs. CHAPTER XIX KutÃºzov™s order to retreat through Moscow to the RyazÃ¡n road was issued at night on the first of September. The first troops started at once, and during the night they marched slowly and steadily without hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing the town at the DorogomÃlov bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers crowding and hurrying across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side and blocking the streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were bearing down on them from behind, and an unreasoning hurry and alarm overcame them. They all rushed forward to the bridge, onto it, and to the fords and the boats. KutÃºzov himself had driven round by side streets to the other side of Moscow. By ten o™clock in the morning of the second of September, only the rear guard remained in the DorogomÃlov suburb, where they had ample room. The main army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it. At that very time, at ten in the morning of the second of September, Napoleon was standing among his troops on the PoklÃ³nny Hill looking at the panorama spread out before him. From the twenty-sixth of August to the second of September, that is from the battle of BorodinÃ³ to the entry of the French into Moscow, during the whole of that agitating, memorable week, there had been the extraordinary autumn weather that always comes as a surprise, when the sun hangs low and gives more heat than in spring, when everything shines so brightly in the rare clear atmosphere that the eyes smart, when the lungs are strengthened and refreshed by inhaling the aromatic autumn air, when even the nights are warm, and when in those dark warm nights, golden stars startle and delight us continually by falling from the sky. At ten in the morning of the second of September this weather still held. The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow seen from the PoklÃ³nny Hill lay spaciously spread out with her river, her gardens, and her churches, and she seemed to be living her usual life, her cupolas glittering like stars in the sunlight. The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as he had never seen before, filled Napoleon with the rather envious and uneasy curiosity men feel when they see an alien form of life that has no knowledge of them. This city was evidently living with the full force of its own life. By the indefinite signs which, even at a distance, distinguish a living body from a dead one, Napoleon from the PoklÃ³nny Hill perceived the throb of life in the town and felt, as it were, the breathing of that great and beautiful body. Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the mother city, must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it. Cette ville asiatique aux innombrables Ã©glises, Moscou la sainte. La voilÃ donc enfin, cette fameuse ville! Il Ã©tait temps, * said he, and dismounting he ordered a plan of Moscow to be spread out before him, and summoned Lelorgne d™Ideville, the interpreter. * That Asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy Moscow! Here it is then at last, that famous city. It was high time. A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her honor, thought he (he had said so to TÃºchkov at SmolÃ©nsk). From that point of view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable, had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance of possessing it agitated and awed him. But could it be otherwise? he thought. Here is this capital at my feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange, beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what light must I appear to them! thought he, thinking of his troops. Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men, he reflected, glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and forming up. One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But no, it can™t be true that I am in Moscow, he suddenly thought. Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great words of justice and mercy.... It is just this which Alexander will feel most painfully, I know him. (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between himself and Alexander.) From the height of the KrÃ©mlin”yes, there is the KrÃ©mlin, yes”I will give them just laws; I will teach them the meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not, and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people. I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored monarch. ˜Boyars,™ I will say to them, ˜I do not desire war, I desire the peace and welfare of all my subjects.™ However, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do: clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there she lies. Qu™on m™amÃ¨ne les boyars, * said he to his suite. * Bring the boyars to me. A general with a brilliant suite galloped off at once to fetch the boyars. Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched and was again standing in the same place on the PoklÃ³nny Hill awaiting the deputation. His speech to the boyars had already taken definite shape in his imagination. That speech was full of dignity and greatness as Napoleon understood it. He was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to adopt toward Moscow. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would mingle. He mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the hearts of the people. Having learned that there were many charitable institutions in Moscow he mentally decided that he would shower favors on them all. He thought that, as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be beneficent like the Tsars. And in order finally to touch the hearts of the Russians”and being like all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference to ma chÃ¨re, ma tendre, ma pauvre mÃ¨re * ”he decided that he would place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters: This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother. Or no, it should be simply: Maison de ma MÃ¨re, *(2) he concluded. But am I really in Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the city so long in appearing? he wondered. * My dear, my tender, my poor mother. * (2) House of my Mother. Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to fetch the deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty, that everyone had left it. The faces of those who were not conferring together were pale and perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor”without putting him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous”that he had been awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort must be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then told the truth. He will have to be told, all the same, said some gentlemen of the suite. But, gentlemen... The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile. But it™s impossible... declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word”le ridicule.... At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor™s instinct suggesting to him that the sublime moment having been too long drawn out was beginning to lose its sublimity, gave a sign with his hand. A single report of a signaling gun followed, and the troops, who were already spread out on different sides of Moscow, moved into the city through the Tver, KalÃºga, and DorogomÃlov gates. Faster and faster, vying with one another, they moved at the double or at a trot, vanishing amid the clouds of dust they raised and making the air ring with a deafening roar of mingling shouts. Drawn on by the movement of his troops Napoleon rode with them as far as the DorogomÃlov gate, but there again stopped and, dismounting from his horse, paced for a long time by the KÃ¡mmer-KollÃ©zski rampart, awaiting the deputation. CHAPTER XX Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps a fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty. It was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty. In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it seems as much alive as other hives. The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday sun as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance it smells of honey like the others, and bees fly in and out in the same way. But one has only to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any life in it. The bees do not fly in the same way, the smell and the sound that meet the beekeeper are not the same. To the beekeeper™s tap on the wall of the sick hive, instead of the former instant unanimous humming of tens of thousands of bees with their abdomens threateningly compressed, and producing by the rapid vibration of their wings an aerial living sound, the only reply is a disconnected buzzing from different parts of the deserted hive. From the alighting board, instead of the former spirituous fragrant smell of honey and venom, and the warm whiffs of crowded life, comes an odor of emptiness and decay mingling with the smell of honey. There are no longer sentinels sounding the alarm with their abdomens raised, and ready to die in defense of the hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing activity, like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds of disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with honey fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from danger. Formerly only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and they flew out empty; now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower part of the hive and peers in. Instead of black, glossy bees”tamed by toil, clinging to one another™s legs and drawing out the wax, with a ceaseless hum of labor”that used to hang in long clusters down to the floor of the hive, drowsy shriveled bees crawl about separately in various directions on the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of a neatly glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings, there is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees scarcely moving their legs, and dead ones that have not been cleared away. The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super. Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the combs, but no longer in their former state of purity. All is neglected and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about the combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers, having lost all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps, and butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of the hive in their flight. Here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey an angry buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of bees, by force of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells, with efforts beyond their strength laboriously drag away a dead bee or bumblebee without knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees are languidly fighting, or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another, without themselves knowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile intent. In a third place a crowd of bees, crushing one another, attack some victim and fight and smother it, and the victim, enfeebled or killed, drops from above slowly and lightly as a feather, among the heap of corpses. The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine the brood cells. In place of the former close dark circles formed by thousands of bees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery of generation, he sees hundreds of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of bees. They have almost all died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they had guarded and which is now no more. They reek of decay and death. Only a few of them still move, rise, and feebly fly to settle on the enemy™s hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging him; the rest are dead and fall as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes the hive, chalks a mark on it, and when he has time tears out its contents and burns it clean. So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy, and morose, paced up and down in front of the KÃ¡mmer-KollÃ©zski rampart, awaiting what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal, observance of the proprieties”a deputation. In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they were doing. When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was empty, he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently continued to walk to and fro. My carriage! he said. He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove into the suburb. Moscow deserted! he said to himself. What an incredible event! He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in the DorogomÃlov suburb. The coup de thÃ©Ã¢tre had not come off. CHAPTER XXI The Russian troops were passing through Moscow from two o™clock at night till two in the afternoon and bore away with them the wounded and the last of the inhabitants who were leaving. The greatest crush during the movement of the troops took place at the Stone, MoskvÃ¡, and YaÃºza bridges. While the troops, dividing into two parts when passing around the KrÃ©mlin, were thronging the MoskvÃ¡ and the Stone bridges, a great many soldiers, taking advantage of the stoppage and congestion, turned back from the bridges and slipped stealthily and silently past the church of VasÃli the Beatified and under the BorovÃtski gate, back up the hill to the Red Square where some instinct told them they could easily take things not belonging to them. Crowds of the kind seen at cheap sales filled all the passages and alleys of the Bazaar. But there were no dealers with voices of ingratiating affability inviting customers to enter; there were no hawkers, nor the usual motley crowd of female purchasers”but only soldiers, in uniforms and overcoats though without muskets, entering the Bazaar empty-handed and silently making their way out through its passages with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants (of whom there were but few) moved about among the soldiers quite bewildered. They unlocked their shops and locked them up again, and themselves carried goods away with the help of their assistants. On the square in front of the Bazaar were drummers beating the muster call. But the roll of the drums did not make the looting soldiers run in the direction of the drum as formerly, but made them, on the contrary, run farther away. Among the soldiers in the shops and passages some men were to be seen in gray coats, with closely shaven heads. Two officers, one with a scarf over his uniform and mounted on a lean, dark-gray horse, the other in an overcoat and on foot, stood at the corner of IlyÃnka Street, talking. A third officer galloped up to them. The general orders them all to be driven out at once, without fail. This is outrageous! Half the men have dispersed. Where are you off to?... Where?... he shouted to three infantrymen without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats, were slipping past him into the Bazaar passage. Stop, you rascals! But how are you going to stop them? replied another officer. There is no getting them together. The army should push on before the rest bolt, that™s all! How can one push on? They are stuck there, wedged on the bridge, and don™t move. Shouldn™t we put a cordon round to prevent the rest from running away? Come, go in there and drive them out! shouted the senior officer. The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer, and went with him into the arcade. Some soldiers started running away in a group. A shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheeks near the nose, and a calm, persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms. Your honor! said he. Be so good as to protect us! We won™t grudge trifles, you are welcome to anything”we shall be delighted! Pray!... I™ll fetch a piece of cloth at once for such an honorable gentleman, or even two pieces with pleasure. For we feel how it is; but what™s all this”sheer robbery! If you please, could not guards be placed if only to let us close the shop.... Several shopkeepers crowded round the officer. Eh, what twaddle! said one of them, a thin, stern-looking man. When one™s head is gone one doesn™t weep for one™s hair! Take what any of you like! And flourishing his arm energetically he turned sideways to the officer. It™s all very well for you, IvÃ¡n SidÃ³rych, to talk, said the first tradesman angrily. Please step inside, your honor! Talk indeed! cried the thin one. In my three shops here I have a hundred thousand rubles™ worth of goods. Can they be saved when the army has gone? Eh, what people! ˜Against God™s might our hands can™t fight.™ Come inside, your honor! repeated the tradesman, bowing. The officer stood perplexed and his face showed indecision. It™s not my business! he exclaimed, and strode on quickly down one of the passages. From one open shop came the sound of blows and vituperation, and just as the officer came up to it a man in a gray coat with a shaven head was flung out violently. This man, bent double, rushed past the tradesman and the officer. The officer pounced on the soldiers who were in the shops, but at that moment fearful screams reached them from the huge crowd on the MoskvÃ¡ bridge and the officer ran out into the square. What is it? What is it? he asked, but his comrade was already galloping off past VasÃli the Beatified in the direction from which the screams came. The officer mounted his horse and rode after him. When he reached the bridge he saw two unlimbered guns, the infantry crossing the bridge, several overturned carts, and frightened and laughing faces among the troops. Beside the cannon a cart was standing to which two horses were harnessed. Four borzois with collars were pressing close to the wheels. The cart was loaded high, and at the very top, beside a child™s chair with its legs in the air, sat a peasant woman uttering piercing and desperate shrieks. He was told by his fellow officers that the screams of the crowd and the shrieks of the woman were due to the fact that General ErmÃ³lov, coming up to the crowd and learning that soldiers were dispersing among the shops while crowds of civilians blocked the bridge, had ordered two guns to be unlimbered and made a show of firing at the bridge. The crowd, crushing one another, upsetting carts, and shouting and squeezing desperately, had cleared off the bridge and the troops were now moving forward. CHAPTER XXII Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only here and there round the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody drove through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The PovarskÃ¡ya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the RostÃ³vs™ house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing room of the house, which had been left with all it contained, were two people. They were the yard porter IgnÃ¡t, and the page boy MÃshka, VasÃlich™s grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather. MÃshka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with satisfaction before the large mirror. Isn™t it fine, eh, Uncle IgnÃ¡t? said the boy, suddenly beginning to strike the keyboard with both hands. Only fancy! answered IgnÃ¡t, surprised at the broadening grin on his face in the mirror. Impudence! Impudence! they heard behind them the voice of MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna who had entered silently. How he™s grinning, the fat mug! Is that what you™re here for? Nothing™s cleared away down there and VasÃlich is worn out. Just you wait a bit! IgnÃ¡t left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with meekly downcast eyes. Aunt, I did it gently, said the boy. I™ll give you something gently, you monkey you! cried MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna, raising her arm threateningly. Go and get the samovar to boil for your grandfather. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door. Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go next”to drink tea in the servants™ wing with VasÃlich, or into the storeroom to put away what still lay about. She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna went to the gate. Who do you want? The count”Count IlyÃ¡ AndrÃ©evich RostÃ³v. And who are you? An officer, I have to see him, came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred Russian voice. MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the round face of a RostÃ³v, entered the yard. They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime, said MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna cordially. The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to enter or not, clicked his tongue. Ah, how annoying! he muttered. I should have come yesterday.... Ah, what a pity. Meanwhile, MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna was attentively and sympathetically examining the familiar RostÃ³v features of the young man™s face, his tattered coat and trodden-down boots. What did you want to see the count for? she asked. Oh well... it can™t be helped! said he in a tone of vexation and placed his hand on the gate as if to leave. He again paused in indecision. You see, he suddenly said, I am a kinsman of the count™s and he has been very kind to me. As you see (he glanced with an amused air and good-natured smile at his coat and boots) my things are worn out and I have no money, so I was going to ask the count... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna did not let him finish. Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment, said she. And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned and, hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard to the servants™ quarters. While MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna was running to her room the officer walked about the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint smile on his lips. What a pity I™ve missed Uncle! What a nice old woman! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the RogÃ³zhski gate? thought he. Just then MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna appeared from behind the corner of the house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a rolled-up check kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from the officer she unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white twenty-five-ruble assignat and hastily handed it to him. If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he would of course... but as it is... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did not decline, but took the note quietly and thanked her. If the count had been at home... MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna went on apologetically. Christ be with you, sir! May God preserve you! said she, bowing as she saw him out. Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the officer ran almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward the YaÃºza bridge to overtake his regiment. But MÃ¡vra KuzmÃnichna stood at the closed gate for some time with moist eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer. CHAPTER XXIII From an unfinished house on the VarvÃ¡rka, the ground floor of which was a dramshop, came drunken shouts and songs. On benches round the tables in a dirty little room sat some ten factory hands. Tipsy and perspiring, with dim eyes and wide-open mouths, they were all laboriously singing some song or other. They were singing discordantly, arduously, and with great effort, evidently not because they wished to sing, but because they wanted to show they were drunk and on a spree. One, a tall, fair-haired lad in a clean blue coat, was standing over the others. His face with its fine straight nose would have been handsome had it not been for his thin, compressed, twitching lips and dull, gloomy, fixed eyes. Evidently possessed by some idea, he stood over those who were singing, and solemnly and jerkily flourished above their heads his white arm with the sleeve turned up to the elbow, trying unnaturally to spread out his dirty fingers. The sleeve of his coat kept slipping down and he always carefully rolled it up again with his left hand, as if it were most important that the sinewy white arm he was flourishing should be bare. In the midst of the song cries were heard, and fighting and blows in the passage and porch. The tall lad waved his arm. Stop it! he exclaimed peremptorily. There™s a fight, lads! And, still rolling up his sleeve, he went out to the porch. The factory hands followed him. These men, who under the leadership of the tall lad were drinking in the dramshop that morning, had brought the publican some skins from the factory and for this had had drink served them. The blacksmiths from a neighboring smithy, hearing the sounds of revelry in the tavern and supposing it to have been broken into, wished to force their way in too and a fight in the porch had resulted. The publican was fighting one of the smiths at the door, and when the workmen came out the smith, wrenching himself free from the tavern keeper, fell face downward on the pavement. Another smith tried to enter the doorway, pressing against the publican with his chest. The lad with the turned-up sleeve gave the smith a blow in the face and cried wildly: They™re fighting us, lads! At that moment the first smith got up and, scratching his bruised face to make it bleed, shouted in a tearful voice: Police! Murder!... They™ve killed a man, lads! Oh, gracious me, a man beaten to death”killed!... screamed a woman coming out of a gate close by. A crowd gathered round the bloodstained smith. Haven™t you robbed people enough”taking their last shirts? said a voice addressing the publican. What have you killed a man for, you thief? The tall lad, standing in the porch, turned his bleared eyes from the publican to the smith and back again as if considering whom he ought to fight now. Murderer! he shouted suddenly to the publican. Bind him, lads! I daresay you would like to bind me! shouted the publican, pushing away the men advancing on him, and snatching his cap from his head he flung it on the ground. As if this action had some mysterious and menacing significance, the workmen surrounding the publican paused in indecision. I know the law very well, mates! I™ll take the matter to the captain of police. You think I won™t get to him? Robbery is not permitted to anybody nowadays! shouted the publican, picking up his cap. Come along then! Come along then! the publican and the tall young fellow repeated one after the other, and they moved up the street together. The bloodstained smith went beside them. The factory hands and others followed behind, talking and shouting. At the corner of the MorosÃ©yka, opposite a large house with closed shutters and bearing a bootmaker™s signboard, stood a score of thin, worn-out, gloomy-faced bootmakers, wearing overalls and long tattered coats. He should pay folks off properly, a thin workingman, with frowning brows and a straggly beard, was saying. But he™s sucked our blood and now he thinks he™s quit of us. He™s been misleading us all the week and now that he™s brought us to this pass he™s made off. On seeing the crowd and the bloodstained man the workman ceased speaking, and with eager curiosity all the bootmakers joined the moving crowd. Where are all the folks going? Why, to the police, of course! I say, is it true that we have been beaten? And what did you think? Look what folks are saying. Questions and answers were heard. The publican, taking advantage of the increased crowd, dropped behind and returned to his tavern. The tall youth, not noticing the disappearance of his foe, waved his bare arm and went on talking incessantly, attracting general attention to himself. It was around him that the people chiefly crowded, expecting answers from him to the questions that occupied all their minds. He must keep order, keep the law, that™s what the government is there for. Am I not right, good Christians? said the tall youth, with a scarcely perceptible smile. He thinks there™s no government! How can one do without government? Or else there would be plenty who™d rob us. Why talk nonsense? rejoined voices in the crowd. Will they give up Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it! Aren™t there plenty of troops on the march? Let him in, indeed! That™s what the government is for. You™d better listen to what people are saying, said some of the mob pointing to the tall youth. By the wall of China-Town a smaller group of people were gathered round a man in a frieze coat who held a paper in his hand. An ukÃ¡se, they are reading an ukÃ¡se! Reading an ukÃ¡se! cried voices in the crowd, and the people rushed toward the reader. The man in the frieze coat was reading the broadsheet of August 31. When the crowd collected round him he seemed confused, but at the demand of the tall lad who had pushed his way up to him, he began in a rather tremulous voice to read the sheet from the beginning. Early tomorrow I shall go to his Serene Highness, he read (Sirin Highness, said the tall fellow with a triumphant smile on his lips and a frown on his brow), to consult with him to act, and to aid the army to exterminate these scoundrels. We too will take part... the reader went on, and then paused (Do you see, shouted the youth victoriously, he™s going to clear up the whole affair for you....), in destroying them, and will send these visitors to the devil. I will come back to dinner, and we™ll set to work. We will do, completely do, and undo these scoundrels. The last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. The tall lad hung his head gloomily. It was evident that no one had understood the last part. In particular, the words I will come back to dinner, evidently displeased both reader and audience. The people™s minds were tuned to a high pitch and this was too simple and needlessly comprehensible”it was what any one of them might have said and therefore was what an ukÃ¡se emanating from the highest authority should not say. They all stood despondent and silent. The tall youth moved his lips and swayed from side to side. We should ask him... that™s he himself?... Yes, ask him indeed!... Why not? He™ll explain... voices in the rear of the crowd were suddenly heard saying, and the general attention turned to the police superintendent™s trap which drove into the square attended by two mounted dragoons. The superintendent of police, who had gone that morning by Count RostopchÃn™s orders to burn the barges and had in connection with that matter acquired a large sum of money which was at that moment in his pocket, on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him told his coachman to stop. What people are these? he shouted to the men, who were moving singly and timidly in the direction of his trap. What people are these? he shouted again, receiving no answer. Your honor... replied the shopman in the frieze coat, your honor, in accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of riot, but as his highest excellence said... The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued concerning you, said the superintendent of police. Go on! he ordered his coachman. The crowd halted, pressing around those who had heard what the superintendent had said, and looking at the departing trap. The superintendent of police turned round at that moment with a scared look, said something to his coachman, and his horses increased their speed. It™s a fraud, lads! Lead the way to him, himself! shouted the tall youth. Don™t let him go, lads! Let him answer us! Keep him! shouted different people and the people dashed in pursuit of the trap. Following the superintendent of police and talking loudly the crowd went in the direction of the LubyÃ¡nka Street. There now, the gentry and merchants have gone away and left us to perish. Do they think we™re dogs? voices in the crowd were heard saying more and more frequently. CHAPTER XXIV On the evening of the first of September, after his interview with KutÃºzov, Count RostopchÃn had returned to Moscow mortified and offended because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and because KutÃºzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the defense of the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him at the camp, which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its patriotic fervor as not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and unimportant matters. Distressed, offended, and surprised by all this, RostopchÃn had returned to Moscow. After supper he lay down on a sofa without undressing, and was awakened soon after midnight by a courier bringing him a letter from KutÃºzov. This letter requested the count to send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army was retreating to the RyazÃ¡n road beyond Moscow. This was not news to RostopchÃn. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since his interview the previous day with KutÃºzov on the PoklÃ³nny Hill but ever since the battle of BorodinÃ³, for all the generals who came to Moscow after that battle had said unanimously that it was impossible to fight another battle, and since then the government property had been removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city with RostopchÃn™s own permission. Yet all the same this information astonished and irritated the count, coming as it did in the form of a simple note with an order from KutÃºzov, and received at night, breaking in on his beauty sleep. When later on in his memoirs Count RostopchÃn explained his actions at this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this twofold aim all RostopchÃn™s actions appear irreproachable. Why were the holy relics, the arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why were thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would not be given up”and thereby ruined? To preserve the tranquillity of the city, explains Count RostopchÃn. Why were bundles of useless papers from the government offices, and Leppich™s balloon and other articles removed? To leave the town empty, explains Count RostopchÃn. One need only admit that public tranquillity is in danger and any action finds a justification. All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for public tranquillity. On what, then, was Count RostopchÃn™s fear for the tranquillity of Moscow based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability of an uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it and the retreating troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to riot? Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than ten thousand people were still in Moscow on the first and second of September, and except for a mob in the governor™s courtyard, assembled there at his bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would have been even less reason to expect a disturbance among the people if after the battle of BorodinÃ³, when the surrender of Moscow became certain or at least probable, RostopchÃn instead of exciting the people by distributing arms and broadsheets had taken steps to remove all the holy relics, the gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the population plainly that the town would be abandoned. RostopchÃn, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to be guiding. Ever since the enemy™s entry into SmolÃ©nsk he had in imagination been playing the role of director of the popular feeling of the heart of Russia. Not only did it seem to him (as to all administrators) that he controlled the external actions of Moscow™s inhabitants, but he also thought he controlled their mental attitude by means of his broadsheets and posters, written in a coarse tone which the people despise in their own class and do not understand from those in authority. RostopchÃn was so pleased with the fine role of leader of popular feeling, and had grown so used to it, that the necessity of relinquishing that role and abandoning Moscow without any heroic display took him unawares and he suddenly felt the ground slip away from under his feet, so that he positively did not know what to do. Though he knew it was coming, he did not till the last moment wholeheartedly believe that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not prepare for it. The inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government offices were removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the count yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had created for himself. As is often the case with those gifted with an ardent imagination, though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned he knew it only with his intellect, he did not believe it in his heart and did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs. All his painstaking and energetic activity (in how far it was useful and had any effect on the people is another question) had been simply directed toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic hatred of the French. But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not even possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when self-confidence was of no avail in relation to the one question before Moscow, when the whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man, abandoning their belongings and proving by that negative action all the depth of their national feeling, then the role chosen by RostopchÃn suddenly appeared senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous, weak, and alone, with no ground to stand on. When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note from KutÃºzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself to blame. All that he had been specially put in charge of, the state property which he should have removed, was still in Moscow and it was no longer possible to take the whole of it away. Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass? he ruminated. Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow firmly in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains! Traitors! he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and traitors were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever they might be who were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in which he found himself. All that night Count RostopchÃn issued orders, for which people came to him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count so morose and irritable. Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar™s Department has sent for instructions.... From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent... asking for information.... What are your orders about the Fire Brigade? From the governor of the prison... from the superintendent of the lunatic asylum... All night long such announcements were continually being received by the count. To all these inquiries he gave brief and angry replies indicating that orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen. Oh, tell that blockhead, he said in reply to the question from the Registrar™s Department, that he should remain to guard his documents. Now why are you asking silly questions about the Fire Brigade? They have horses, let them be off to VladÃmir, and not leave them to the French. Your excellency, the superintendent of the lunatic asylum has come: what are your commands? My commands? Let them go away, that™s all.... And let the lunatics out into the town. When lunatics command our armies God evidently means these other madmen to be free. In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count RostopchÃn shouted angrily at the governor: Do you expect me to give you two battalions”which we have not got”for a convoy? Release them, that™s all about it! Your excellency, there are some political prisoners, MeshkÃ³v, VereshchÃ¡gin... VereshchÃ¡gin! Hasn™t he been hanged yet? shouted RostopchÃn. Bring him to me! CHAPTER XXV Toward nine o™clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving through Moscow, nobody came to the count any more for instructions. Those who were able to get away were going of their own accord, those who remained behind decided for themselves what they must do. The count ordered his carriage that he might drive to SokÃ³lniki, and sat in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn. In quiet and untroubled times it seems to every administrator that it is only by his efforts that the whole population under his rule is kept going, and in this consciousness of being indispensable every administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts. While the sea of history remains calm the ruler-administrator in his frail bark, holding on with a boat hook to the ship of the people and himself moving, naturally imagines that his efforts move the ship he is holding on to. But as soon as a storm arises and the sea begins to heave and the ship to move, such a delusion is no longer possible. The ship moves independently with its own enormous motion, the boat hook no longer reaches the moving vessel, and suddenly the administrator, instead of appearing a ruler and a source of power, becomes an insignificant, useless, feeble man. RostopchÃn felt this, and it was this which exasperated him. The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to see him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the horses were harnessed. They were both pale, and the superintendent of police, after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had received, informed the count that an immense crowd had collected in the courtyard and wished to see him. Without saying a word RostopchÃn rose and walked hastily to his light, luxurious drawing room, went to the balcony door, took hold of the handle, let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a better view of the whole crowd. The tall lad was standing in front, flourishing his arm and saying something with a stern look. The blood-stained smith stood beside him with a gloomy face. A drone of voices was audible through the closed window. Is my carriage ready? asked RostopchÃn, stepping back from the window. It is, your excellency, replied the adjutant. RostopchÃn went again to the balcony door. But what do they want? he asked the superintendent of police. Your excellency, they say they have got ready, according to your orders, to go against the French, and they shouted something about treachery. But it is a turbulent crowd, your excellency”I hardly managed to get away from it. Your excellency, I venture to suggest... You may go. I don™t need you to tell me what to do! exclaimed RostopchÃn angrily. He stood by the balcony door looking at the crowd. This is what they have done with Russia! This is what they have done with me! thought he, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up within him against the someone to whom what was happening might be attributed. As often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by anger but was still seeking an object on which to vent it. Here is that mob, the dregs of the people, he thought as he gazed at the crowd: this rabble they have roused by their folly! They want a victim, he thought as he looked at the tall lad flourishing his arm. And this thought occurred to him just because he himself desired a victim, something on which to vent his rage. Is the carriage ready? he asked again. Yes, your excellency. What are your orders about VereshchÃ¡gin? He is waiting at the porch, said the adjutant. Ah! exclaimed RostopchÃn, as if struck by an unexpected recollection. And rapidly opening the door he went resolutely out onto the balcony. The talking instantly ceased, hats and caps were doffed, and all eyes were raised to the count. Good morning, lads! said the count briskly and loudly. Thank you for coming. I™ll come out to you in a moment, but we must first settle with the villain. We must punish the villain who has caused the ruin of Moscow. Wait for me! And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door behind him. A murmur of approbation and satisfaction ran through the crowd. He™ll settle with all the villains, you™ll see! And you said the French... He™ll show you what law is! the mob were saying as if reproving one another for their lack of confidence. A few minutes later an officer came hurriedly out of the front door, gave an order, and the dragoons formed up in line. The crowd moved eagerly from the balcony toward the porch. RostopchÃn, coming out there with quick angry steps, looked hastily around as if seeking someone. Where is he? he inquired. And as he spoke he saw a young man coming round the corner of the house between two dragoons. He had a long thin neck, and his head, that had been half shaved, was again covered by short hair. This young man was dressed in a threadbare blue cloth coat lined with fox fur, that had once been smart, and dirty hempen convict trousers, over which were pulled his thin, dirty, trodden-down boots. On his thin, weak legs were heavy chains which hampered his irresolute movements. Ah! said RostopchÃn, hurriedly turning away his eyes from the young man in the fur-lined coat and pointing to the bottom step of the porch. Put him there. The young man in his clattering chains stepped clumsily to the spot indicated, holding away with one finger the coat collar which chafed his neck, turned his long neck twice this way and that, sighed, and submissively folded before him his thin hands, unused to work. For several seconds while the young man was taking his place on the step the silence continued. Only among the back rows of the people, who were all pressing toward the one spot, could sighs, groans, and the shuffling of feet be heard. While waiting for the young man to take his place on the step RostopchÃn stood frowning and rubbing his face with his hand. Lads! said he, with a metallic ring in his voice. This man, VereshchÃ¡gin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing. The young man in the fur-lined coat, stooping a little, stood in a submissive attitude, his fingers clasped before him. His emaciated young face, disfigured by the half-shaven head, hung down hopelessly. At the count™s first words he raised it slowly and looked up at him as if wishing to say something or at least to meet his eye. But RostopchÃn did not look at him. A vein in the young man™s long thin neck swelled like a cord and went blue behind the ear, and suddenly his face flushed. All eyes were fixed on him. He looked at the crowd, and rendered more hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there, he smiled sadly and timidly, and lowering his head shifted his feet on the step. He has betrayed his Tsar and his country, he has gone over to Bonaparte. He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name, he has caused Moscow to perish, said RostopchÃn in a sharp, even voice, but suddenly he glanced down at VereshchÃ¡gin who continued to stand in the same submissive attitude. As if inflamed by the sight, he raised his arm and addressed the people, almost shouting: Deal with him as you think fit! I hand him over to you. The crowd remained silent and only pressed closer and closer to one another. To keep one another back, to breathe in that stifling atmosphere, to be unable to stir, and to await something unknown, uncomprehended, and terrible, was becoming unbearable. Those standing in front, who had seen and heard what had taken place before them, all stood with wide-open eyes and mouths, straining with all their strength, and held back the crowd that was pushing behind them. Beat him!... Let the traitor perish and not disgrace the Russian name! shouted RostopchÃn. Cut him down. I command it. Hearing not so much the words as the angry tone of RostopchÃn™s voice, the crowd moaned and heaved forward, but again paused. Count! exclaimed the timid yet theatrical voice of VereshchÃ¡gin in the midst of the momentary silence that ensued, Count! One God is above us both.... He lifted his head and again the thick vein in his thin neck filled with blood and the color rapidly came and went in his face. He did not finish what he wished to say. Cut him down! I command it... shouted RostopchÃn, suddenly growing pale like VereshchÃ¡gin. Draw sabers! cried the dragoon officer, drawing his own. Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd and reaching the front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood beside VereshchÃ¡gin. Saber him! the dragoon officer almost whispered. And one of the soldiers, his face all at once distorted with fury, struck VereshchÃ¡gin on the head with the blunt side of his saber. Ah! cried VereshchÃ¡gin in meek surprise, looking round with a frightened glance as if not understanding why this was done to him. A similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. O Lord! exclaimed a sorrowful voice. But after the exclamation of surprise that had escaped from VereshchÃ¡gin he uttered a plaintive cry of pain, and that cry was fatal. The barrier of human feeling, strained to the utmost, that had held the crowd in check suddenly broke. The crime had begun and must now be completed. The plaintive moan of reproach was drowned by the threatening and angry roar of the crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, that last irresistible wave burst from the rear and reached the front ranks, carrying them off their feet and engulfing them all. The dragoon was about to repeat his blow. VereshchÃ¡gin with a cry of horror, covering his head with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth, against whom he stumbled, seized his thin neck with his hands and, yelling wildly, fell with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling crowd. Some beat and tore at VereshchÃ¡gin, others at the tall youth. And the screams of those that were being trampled on and of those who tried to rescue the tall lad only increased the fury of the crowd. It was a long time before the dragoons could extricate the bleeding youth, beaten almost to death. And for a long time, despite the feverish haste with which the mob tried to end the work that had been begun, those who were hitting, throttling, and tearing at VereshchÃ¡gin were unable to kill him, for the crowd pressed from all sides, swaying as one mass with them in the center and rendering it impossible for them either to kill him or let him go. Hit him with an ax, eh!... Crushed?... Traitor, he sold Christ.... Still alive... tenacious... serves him right! Torture serves a thief right. Use the hatchet!... What”still alive? Only when the victim ceased to struggle and his cries changed to a long-drawn, measured death rattle did the crowd around his prostrate, bleeding corpse begin rapidly to change places. Each one came up, glanced at what had been done, and with horror, reproach, and astonishment pushed back again. O Lord! The people are like wild beasts! How could he be alive? voices in the crowd could be heard saying. Quite a young fellow too... must have been a merchant™s son. What men!... and they say he™s not the right one.... How not the right one?... O Lord! And there™s another has been beaten too”they say he™s nearly done for.... Oh, the people... Aren™t they afraid of sinning?... said the same mob now, looking with pained distress at the dead body with its long, thin, half-severed neck and its livid face stained with blood and dust. A painstaking police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in his excellency™s courtyard unseemly, told the dragoons to take it away. Two dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the ground. The gory, dust-stained, half-shaven head with its long neck trailed twisting along the ground. The crowd shrank back from it. At the moment when VereshchÃ¡gin fell and the crowd closed in with savage yells and swayed about him, RostopchÃn suddenly turned pale and, instead of going to the back entrance where his carriage awaited him, went with hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the passage leading to the rooms on the ground floor. The count™s face was white and he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw. This way, your excellency... Where are you going?... This way, please... said a trembling, frightened voice behind him. Count RostopchÃn was unable to reply and, turning obediently, went in the direction indicated. At the back entrance stood his calÃ¨che. The distant roar of the yelling crowd was audible even there. He hastily took his seat and told the coachman to drive him to his country house in SokÃ³lniki. When they reached the MyasnÃtski Street and could no longer hear the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He remembered with dissatisfaction the agitation and fear he had betrayed before his subordinates. The mob is terrible”disgusting, he said to himself in French. They are like wolves whom nothing but flesh can appease. Count! One God is above us both!”VereshchÃ¡gin™s words suddenly recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back. But this was only a momentary feeling and Count RostopchÃn smiled disdainfully at himself. I had other duties, thought he. The people had to be appeased. Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the public good”and he began thinking of his social duties to his family and to the city entrusted to him, and of himself”not himself as Theodore VasÃlyevich RostopchÃn (he fancied that Theodore VasÃlyevich RostopchÃn was sacrificing himself for the public good) but himself as governor, the representative of authority and of the Tsar. Had I been simply Theodore VasÃlyevich my course of action would have been quite different, but it was my duty to safeguard my life and dignity as commander in chief. Lightly swaying on the flexible springs of his carriage and no longer hearing the terrible sounds of the crowd, RostopchÃn grew physically calm and, as always happens, as soon as he became physically tranquil his mind devised reasons why he should be mentally tranquil too. The thought which tranquillized RostopchÃn was not a new one. Since the world began and men have killed one another no one has ever committed such a crime against his fellow man without comforting himself with this same idea. This idea is le bien public, the hypothetical welfare of other people. To a man not swayed by passion that welfare is never certain, but he who commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies. And RostopchÃn now knew it. Not only did his reason not reproach him for what he had done, but he even found cause for self-satisfaction in having so successfully contrived to avail himself of a convenient opportunity to punish a criminal and at the same time pacify the mob. VereshchÃ¡gin was tried and condemned to death, thought RostopchÃn (though the Senate had only condemned VereshchÃ¡gin to hard labor), he was a traitor and a spy. I could not let him go unpunished and so I have killed two birds with one stone: to appease the mob I gave them a victim and at the same time punished a miscreant. Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil. Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the SokÃ³lniki field, no longer thinking of what had occurred but considering what was to come. He was driving to the YaÃºza bridge where he had heard that KutÃºzov was. Count RostopchÃn was mentally preparing the angry and stinging reproaches he meant to address to KutÃºzov for his deception. He would make that foxy old courtier feel that the responsibility for all the calamities that would follow the abandonment of the city and the ruin of Russia (as RostopchÃn regarded it) would fall upon his doting old head. Planning beforehand what he would say to KutÃºzov, RostopchÃn turned angrily in his calÃ¨che and gazed sternly from side to side. The SokÃ³lniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front of the almshouse and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people in white and others like them walking singly across the field shouting and gesticulating. One of these was running to cross the path of Count RostopchÃn™s carriage, and the count himself, his coachman, and his dragoons looked with vague horror and curiosity at these released lunatics and especially at the one running toward them. Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on RostopchÃn, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him to stop. The lunatic™s solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow, with its beard growing in uneven tufts. His black, agate pupils with saffron-yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids. Stop! Pull up, I tell you! he cried in a piercing voice, and again shouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures. Coming abreast of the calÃ¨che he ran beside it. Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. They stoned me, crucified me... I shall rise... shall rise... shall rise. They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown... Thrice will I overthrow it and thrice re-establish it! he cried, raising his voice higher and higher. Count RostopchÃn suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed in on VereshchÃ¡gin. He turned away. Go fas... faster! he cried in a trembling voice to his coachman. The calÃ¨che flew over the ground as fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count RostopchÃn still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the distance, while his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened, bloodstained face of the traitor in the fur-lined coat. Recent as that mental picture was, RostopchÃn already felt that it had cut deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he felt clearly that the gory trace of that recollection would not pass with time, but that the terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell in his heart ever more cruelly and painfully to the end of his life. He seemed still to hear the sound of his own words: Cut him down! I command it.... Why did I utter those words? It was by some accident I said them.... I need not have said them, he thought. And then nothing would have happened. He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the fur-lined coat had turned upon him. But I did not do it for my own sake. I was bound to act that way.... The mob, the traitor... the public welfare, thought he. Troops were still crowding at the YaÃºza bridge. It was hot. KutÃºzov, dejected and frowning, sat on a bench by the bridge toying with his whip in the sand when a calÃ¨che dashed up noisily. A man in a general™s uniform with plumes in his hat went up to KutÃºzov and said something in French. It was Count RostopchÃn. He told KutÃºzov that he had come because Moscow, the capital, was no more and only the army remained. Things would have been different if your Serene Highness had not told me that you would not abandon Moscow without another battle; all this would not have happened, he said. KutÃºzov looked at RostopchÃn as if, not grasping what was said to him, he was trying to read something peculiar written at that moment on the face of the man addressing him. RostopchÃn grew confused and became silent. KutÃºzov slightly shook his head and not taking his penetrating gaze from RostopchÃn™s face muttered softly: No! I shall not give up Moscow without a battle! Whether KutÃºzov was thinking of something entirely different when he spoke those words, or uttered them purposely, knowing them to be meaningless, at any rate RostopchÃn made no reply and hastily left him. And strange to say, the Governor of Moscow, the proud Count RostopchÃn, took up a Cossack whip and went to the bridge where he began with shouts to drive on the carts that blocked the way. CHAPTER XXVI Toward four o™clock in the afternoon Murat™s troops were entering Moscow. In front rode a detachment of WÃ¼rttemberg hussars and behind them rode the King of Naples himself accompanied by a numerous suite. About the middle of the ArbÃ¡t Street, near the Church of the Miraculous Icon of St. Nicholas, Murat halted to await news from the advanced detachment as to the condition in which they had found the citadel, le Kremlin. Around Murat gathered a group of those who had remained in Moscow. They all stared in timid bewilderment at the strange, long-haired commander dressed up in feathers and gold. Is that their Tsar himself? He™s not bad! low voices could be heard saying. An interpreter rode up to the group. Take off your cap... your caps! These words went from one to another in the crowd. The interpreter addressed an old porter and asked if it was far to the KrÃ©mlin. The porter, listening in perplexity to the unfamiliar Polish accent and not realizing that the interpreter was speaking Russian, did not understand what was being said to him and slipped behind the others. Murat approached the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian army was. One of the Russians understood what was asked and several voices at once began answering the interpreter. A French officer, returning from the advanced detachment, rode up to Murat and reported that the gates of the citadel had been barricaded and that there was probably an ambuscade there. Good! said Murat and, turning to one of the gentlemen in his suite, ordered four light guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates. The guns emerged at a trot from the column following Murat and advanced up the ArbÃ¡t. When they reached the end of the VozdvÃzhenka Street they halted and drew in the Square. Several French officers superintended the placing of the guns and looked at the KrÃ©mlin through field glasses. The bells in the KrÃ©mlin were ringing for vespers, and this sound troubled the French. They imagined it to be a call to arms. A few infantrymen ran to the KutÃ¡fyev Gate. Beams and wooden screens had been put there, and two musket shots rang out from under the gate as soon as an officer and men began to run toward it. A general who was standing by the guns shouted some words of command to the officer, and the latter ran back again with his men. The sound of three more shots came from the gate. One shot struck a French soldier™s foot, and from behind the screens came the strange sound of a few voices shouting. Instantly as at a word of command the expression of cheerful serenity on the faces of the French general, officers, and men changed to one of determined concentrated readiness for strife and suffering. To all of them from the marshal to the least soldier, that place was not the VozdvÃzhenka, MokhavÃ¡ya, or KutÃ¡fyev Street, nor the TrÃ³itsa Gate (places familiar in Moscow), but a new battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary. And all made ready for that battle. The cries from the gates ceased. The guns were advanced, the artillerymen blew the ash off their linstocks, and an officer gave the word Fire! This was followed by two whistling sounds of canister shot, one after another. The shot rattled against the stone of the gate and upon the wooden beams and screens, and two wavering clouds of smoke rose over the Square. A few instants after the echo of the reports resounding over the stone-built KrÃ©mlin had died away the French heard a strange sound above their head. Thousands of crows rose above the walls and circled in the air, cawing and noisily flapping their wings. Together with that sound came a solitary human cry from the gateway and amid the smoke appeared the figure of a bareheaded man in a peasant™s coat. He grasped a musket and took aim at the French. Fire! repeated the officer once more, and the reports of a musket and of two cannon shots were heard simultaneously. The gate was again hidden by smoke. Nothing more stirred behind the screens and the French infantry soldiers and officers advanced to the gate. In the gateway lay three wounded and four dead. Two men in peasant coats ran away at the foot of the wall, toward the ZnÃ¡menka. Clear that away! said the officer, pointing to the beams and the corpses, and the French soldiers, after dispatching the wounded, threw the corpses over the parapet. Who these men were nobody knew. Clear that away! was all that was said of them, and they were thrown over the parapet and removed later on that they might not stink. Thiers alone dedicates a few eloquent lines to their memory: These wretches had occupied the sacred citadel, having supplied themselves with guns from the arsenal, and fired (the wretches) at the French. Some of them were sabered and the KrÃ©mlin was purged of their presence. Murat was informed that the way had been cleared. The French entered the gates and began pitching their camp in the Senate Square. Out of the windows of the Senate House the soldiers threw chairs into the Square for fuel and kindled fires there. Other detachments passed through the KrÃ©mlin and encamped along the MorosÃ©yka, the LubyÃ¡nka, and PokrÃ³vka Streets. Others quartered themselves along the VozdvÃzhenka, the NikÃ³lski, and the TverskÃ³y Streets. No masters of the houses being found anywhere, the French were not billeted on the inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as in a camp. Though tattered, hungry, worn out, and reduced to a third of their original number, the French entered Moscow in good marching order. It was a weary and famished, but still a fighting and menacing army. But it remained an army only until its soldiers had dispersed into their different lodgings. As soon as the men of the various regiments began to disperse among the wealthy and deserted houses, the army was lost forever and there came into being something nondescript, neither citizens nor soldiers but what are known as marauders. When five weeks later these same men left Moscow, they no longer formed an army. They were a mob of marauders, each carrying a quantity of articles which seemed to him valuable or useful. The aim of each man when he left Moscow was no longer, as it had been, to conquer, but merely to keep what he had acquired. Like a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow neck of a jug, and having seized a handful of nuts will not open its fist for fear of losing what it holds, and therefore perishes, the French when they left Moscow had inevitably to perish because they carried their loot with them, yet to abandon what they had stolen was as impossible for them as it is for the monkey to open its paw and let go of its nuts. Ten minutes after each regiment had entered a Moscow district, not a soldier or officer was left. Men in military uniforms and Hessian boots could be seen through the windows, laughing and walking through the rooms. In cellars and storerooms similar men were busy among the provisions, and in the yards unlocking or breaking open coach house and stable doors, lighting fires in kitchens and kneading and baking bread with rolled-up sleeves, and cooking; or frightening, amusing, or caressing women and children. There were many such men both in the shops and houses”but there was no army. Order after order was issued by the French commanders that day forbidding the men to disperse about the town, sternly forbidding any violence to the inhabitants or any looting, and announcing a roll call for that very evening. But despite all these measures the men, who had till then constituted an army, flowed all over the wealthy, deserted city with its comforts and plentiful supplies. As a hungry herd of cattle keeps well together when crossing a barren field, but gets out of hand and at once disperses uncontrollably as soon as it reaches rich pastures, so did the army disperse all over the wealthy city. No residents were left in Moscow, and the soldiers”like water percolating through sand”spread irresistibly through the city in all directions from the KrÃ©mlin into which they had first marched. The cavalry, on entering a merchant™s house that had been abandoned and finding there stabling more than sufficient for their horses, went on, all the same, to the next house which seemed to them better. Many of them appropriated several houses, chalked their names on them, and quarreled and even fought with other companies for them. Before they had had time to secure quarters the soldiers ran out into the streets to see the city and, hearing that everything had been abandoned, rushed to places where valuables were to be had for the taking. The officers followed to check the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into doing the same. In Carriage Row carriages had been left in the shops, and generals flocked there to select calÃ¨ches and coaches for themselves. The few inhabitants who had remained invited commanding officers to their houses, hoping thereby to secure themselves from being plundered. There were masses of wealth and there seemed no end to it. All around the quarters occupied by the French were other regions still unexplored and unoccupied where, they thought, yet greater riches might be found. And Moscow engulfed the army ever deeper and deeper. When water is spilled on dry ground both the dry ground and the water disappear and mud results; and in the same way the entry of the famished army into the rich and deserted city resulted in fires and looting and the destruction of both the army and the wealthy city. The French attributed the Fire of Moscow au patriotisme fÃ©roce de RostopchÃne, * the Russians to the barbarity of the French. In reality, however, it was not, and could not be, possible to explain the burning of Moscow by making any individual, or any group of people, responsible for it. Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which any town built of wood was bound to burn, quite apart from whether it had, or had not, a hundred and thirty inferior fire engines. Deserted Moscow had to burn as inevitably as a heap of shavings has to burn on which sparks continually fall for several days. A town built of wood, where scarcely a day passes without conflagrations when the house owners are in residence and a police force is present, cannot help burning when its inhabitants have left it and it is occupied by soldiers who smoke pipes, make campfires of the Senate chairs in the Senate Square, and cook themselves meals twice a day. In peacetime it is only necessary to billet troops in the villages of any district and the number of fires in that district immediately increases. How much then must the probability of fire be increased in an abandoned, wooden town where foreign troops are quartered. Le patriotisme fÃ©roce de RostopchÃne and the barbarity of the French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by the soldiers™ pipes, kitchens, and campfires, and by the carelessness of enemy soldiers occupying houses they did not own. Even if there was any arson (which is very doubtful, for no one had any reason to burn the houses”in any case a troublesome and dangerous thing to do), arson cannot be regarded as the cause, for the same thing would have happened without any incendiarism. * To RostopchÃn™s ferocious patriotism. However tempting it might be for the French to blame RostopchÃn™s ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte, or later on to place an heroic torch in the hands of their own people, it is impossible not to see that there could be no such direct cause of the fire, for Moscow had to burn as every village, factory, or house must burn which is left by its owners and in which strangers are allowed to live and cook their porridge. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, it is true, but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained in it. Moscow when occupied by the enemy did not remain intact like Berlin, Vienna, and other towns, simply because its inhabitants abandoned it and did not welcome the French with bread and salt, nor bring them the keys of the city. CHAPTER XXVII The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did, only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the second of September. After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances, Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completely obsessed by one persistent thought. He did not know how or when this thought had taken such possession of him, but he remembered nothing of the past, understood nothing of the present, and all he saw and heard appeared to him like a dream. He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life™s demands that enmeshed him, and which in his present condition he was unable to unravel. He had gone to Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s house, on the plea of sorting the deceased™s books and papers, only in search of rest from life™s turmoil, for in his mind the memory of Joseph AlexÃ©evich was connected with a world of eternal, solemn, and calm thoughts, quite contrary to the restless confusion into which he felt himself being drawn. He sought a quiet refuge, and in Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s study he really found it. When he sat with his elbows on the dusty writing table in the deathlike stillness of the study, calm and significant memories of the last few days rose one after another in his imagination, particularly of the battle of BorodinÃ³ and of that vague sense of his own insignificance and insincerity compared with the truth, simplicity, and strength of the class of men he mentally classed as they. When GerÃ¡sim roused him from his reverie the idea occurred to him of taking part in the popular defense of Moscow which he knew was projected. And with that object he had asked GerÃ¡sim to get him a peasant™s coat and a pistol, confiding to him his intentions of remaining in Joseph AlexÃ©evich™s house and keeping his name secret. Then during the first day spent in inaction and solitude (he tried several times to fix his attention on the Masonic manuscripts, but was unable to do so) the idea that had previously occurred to him of the cabalistic significance of his name in connection with Bonaparte™s more than once vaguely presented itself. But the idea that he, L™russe Besuhof, was destined to set a limit to the power of the Beast was as yet only one of the fancies that often passed through his mind and left no trace behind. When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the RostÃ³vs and NatÃ¡sha had said to him: Are you remaining in Moscow?... How splendid! the thought flashed into his mind that it really would be a good thing, even if Moscow were taken, for him to remain there and do what he was predestined to do. Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and not lagging in any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills gate. But when he returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable. He must remain in Moscow, concealing his name, and must meet Napoleon and kill him, and either perish or put an end to the misery of all Europe”which it seemed to him was solely due to Napoleon. Pierre knew all the details of the attempt on Bonaparte™s life in 1809 by a German student in Vienna, and knew that the student had been shot. And the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying out his design excited him still more. Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose. The first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice and suffering in view of the common calamity, the same feeling that had caused him to go to MozhÃ¡ysk on the twenty-fifth and to make his way to the very thick of the battle and had now caused him to run away from his home and, in place of the luxury and comfort to which he was accustomed, to sleep on a hard sofa without undressing and eat the same food as GerÃ¡sim. The other was that vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for everything conventional, artificial, and human”for everything the majority of men regard as the greatest good in the world. Pierre had first experienced this strange and fascinating feeling at the SlobÃ³da Palace, when he had suddenly felt that wealth, power, and life”all that men so painstakingly acquire and guard”if it has any worth has so only by reason of the joy with which it can all be renounced. It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses for no apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actions which from an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal power and strength, affirming the existence of a higher, nonhuman criterion of life. From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time at the SlobÃ³da Palace he had been continuously under its influence, but only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and his announcement to the RostÃ³vs that he would remain in Moscow would all become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to this Pierre was very sensitive. Pierre™s physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen, two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding”all this kept him in a state of excitement bordering on insanity. It was two o™clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his fancy he did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the blow or the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and melancholy enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance. Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish! he thought. Yes, I will approach... and then suddenly... with pistol or dagger? But that is all the same! ˜It is not I but the hand of Providence that punishes thee,™ I shall say, thought he, imagining what he would say when killing Napoleon. Well then, take me and execute me! he went on, speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression. While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, always so timid before but now quite transformed. His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He was obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but noticing embarrassment on Pierre™s face immediately grew bold and, staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room. They™re frightened, he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. I say I won™t surrender, I say... Am I not right, sir? He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor. GerÃ¡sim and the porter, who had followed MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, stopped him in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy old man. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, frowning with exertion, held on to the pistol and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head. To arms! Board them! No, you shan™t get it, he yelled. That will do, please, that will do. Have the goodness”please, sir, to let go! Please, sir... pleaded GerÃ¡sim, trying carefully to steer MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich by the elbows back to the door. Who are you? Bonaparte!... shouted MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich. That™s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to have the pistol. Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this? shouted MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich, brandishing the pistol. Board them! Catch hold! whispered GerÃ¡sim to the porter. They seized MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich by the arms and dragged him to the door. The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of a tipsy, hoarse voice. Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule. It™s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen! she cried. GerÃ¡sim and the porter let MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich go, and in the now silent corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be heard. CHAPTER XXVIII Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not retire”an irresistible curiosity kept him there. There were two of them. One was an officer”a tall, soldierly, handsome man”the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his mustache and lightly touched his hat. Bonjour, la compagnie! * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him. * Good day, everybody! No one gave any reply. Vous Ãªtes le bourgeois? * the officer asked GerÃ¡sim. * Are you the master here? GerÃ¡sim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look. Quartier, quartier, logement! said the officer, looking down at the little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. Les franÃ§ais sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fÃ¢chons pas, mon vieux! * added he, clapping the scared and silent GerÃ¡sim on the shoulder. Well, does no one speak French in this establishment? he asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre™s eyes. Pierre moved away from the door. * Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good fellows. What the devil! There, don™t let us be cross, old fellow! Again the officer turned to GerÃ¡sim and asked him to show him the rooms in the house. Master, not here”don™t understand... me, you... said GerÃ¡sim, trying to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them. Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before GerÃ¡sim™s nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved, limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With a madman™s cunning, MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich eyed the Frenchman, raised his pistol, and took aim. Board them! yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the pistol MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door. Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre, snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer and addressed him in French. You are not wounded? he asked. I think not, answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. But I have had a lucky escape this time, he added, pointing to the damaged plaster of the wall. Who is that man? said he, looking sternly at Pierre. Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred, said Pierre rapidly, quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. He is an unfortunate madman who did not know what he was doing. The officer went up to MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich and took him by the collar. MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall. Brigand! You shall pay for this, said the Frenchman, letting go of him. We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon traitors, he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic gesture. Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand. You have saved my life. You are French, said he. For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could perform a great deed, and to save his life”the life of M. Ramballe, captain of the 13th Light Regiment”was undoubtedly a very great deed. But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer™s conviction based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him. I am Russian, he said quickly. Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others, said the officer, waving his finger before his nose and smiling. You shall tell me all about that presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we to do with this man? he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a brother. Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer™s look and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who MakÃ¡r AlexÃ©evich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished. The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his arm. You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it you. Lead that man away! said he quickly and energetically, and taking the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his life, he went with him into the room. The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits, but the officer sternly checked them. You will be called in when you are wanted, he said. The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer. Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen, said he. Shall I serve them up? Yes, and some wine, answered the captain. CHAPTER XXIX When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite, amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in the parlor”the first room they entered. To Pierre™s assurances that he was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude for saving his life. Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre™s feelings were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man™s animated obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre. A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito, said the officer, looking at Pierre™s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger. I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That is all I can say. There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the word) in the officer™s voice, in the expression of his face and in his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the Frenchman™s smile, pressed the hand held out to him. Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September, he introduced himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under his mustache. Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance with that maniac™s bullet in my body? Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing, began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him. Oh, please! said he. I understand your reasons. You are an officer... a superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That™s not my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at your service. You belong to the gentry? he concluded with a shade of inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. Your baptismal name, if you please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say.... That™s all I want to know. When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man, munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking his lips, and repeating”Excellent! Delicious! His face grew red and was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass, taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known to the French and had been given a special name. They called it limonade de cochon (pig™s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de cochon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain still more lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner. Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for saving me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in my body already. Here is one I got at Wagram (he touched his side) and a second at SmolÃ©nsk”he showed a scar on his cheek”and this leg which as you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great battle of la Moskowa. SacrÃ© Dieu! It was splendid! That deluge of fire was worth seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may be proud of it! And on my honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it. I was there, said Pierre. Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The great redoubt held out well, by my pipe! continued the Frenchman. And you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times”sure as I sit here. Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your grenadiers were splendid, by heaven! I saw them close up their ranks six times in succession and march as if on parade. Fine fellows! Our King of Naples, who knows what™s what, cried ˜Bravo!™ Ha, ha! So you are one of us soldiers! he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. So much the better, so much the better, Monsieur Pierre! Terrible in battle... gallant... with the fair (he winked and smiled), that™s what the French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren™t they? The captain was so naÃ¯vely and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily at him. Probably the word gallant turned the captain™s thoughts to the state of Moscow. Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of? Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians entered it? asked Pierre. Ha, ha, ha! The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting Pierre on the shoulder. What a thing to say! he exclaimed. Paris?... But Paris, Paris... Paris”the capital of the world, Pierre finished his remark for him. The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindly eyes. Well, if you hadn™t told me you were Russian, I should have wagered that you were Parisian! You have that... I don™t know what, that... and having uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence. I have been in Paris. I spent years there, said Pierre. Oh yes, one sees that plainly. Paris!... A man who doesn™t know Paris is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Talma, la DuchÃ©nois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards, and noticing that his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly: There is only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have remained Russian. Well, I don™t esteem you the less for it. Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed talking with this cheerful and good-natured man. To return to your ladies”I hear they are lovely. What a wretched idea to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed! Your peasants, now”that™s another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to know us better than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all the world™s capitals.... We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to know. And then the Emperor... he began, but Pierre interrupted him. The Emperor, Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and embarrassed, is the Emperor...? The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius”that™s what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so.... I assure you I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count.... But that man has vanquished me. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has covered France. When I understood what he wanted”when I saw that he was preparing a bed of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: ˜That is a monarch,™ and I devoted myself to him! So there! Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest man of the ages past or future. Is he in Moscow? Pierre stammered with a guilty look. The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled. No, he will make his entry tomorrow, he replied, and continued his talk. Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at the gate and by Morel, who came to say that some WÃ¼rttemberg hussars had come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain™s horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly because the hussars did not understand what was said to them in French. The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a stern voice asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer, and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already occupied. The German who knew little French, answered the two first questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding officer, but in reply to the third question which he did not understand said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the quartermaster of the regiment and his commander had ordered him to occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German, translated what the German said to the captain and gave the captain™s reply to the WÃ¼rttemberg hussar in German. When he had understood what was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The captain went out into the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice. When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as that was it was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of wine he had drunk and the conversation with this good-natured man had destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last few days and which was essential for the execution of his design. The pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the town next day. Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not do it. He did not know why, but he felt a foreboding that he would not carry out his intention. He struggled against the confession of his weakness but dimly felt that he could not overcome it and that his former gloomy frame of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first man he met. The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling a tune. The Frenchman™s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesture with which he twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. I will go away immediately. I won™t say another word to him, thought Pierre. He thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of weakness tied him to the spot; he wished to get up and go away, but could not do so. The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and down the room twice. His eyes shone and his mustache twitched as if he were smiling to himself at some amusing thought. The colonel of those WÃ¼rttembergers is delightful, he suddenly said. He™s a German, but a nice fellow all the same.... But he™s a German. He sat down facing Pierre. By the way, you know German, then? Pierre looked at him in silence. What is the German for ˜shelter™? Shelter? Pierre repeated. The German for shelter is Unterkunft. How do you say it? the captain asked quickly and doubtfully. Unterkunft, Pierre repeated. Onterkoff, said the captain and looked at Pierre for some seconds with laughing eyes. These Germans are first-rate fools, don™t you think so, Monsieur Pierre? he concluded. Well, let™s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we? Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel! he called out gaily. Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression on his companion™s face. Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him. There now, we™re sad, said he, touching Pierre™s hand. Have I upset you? No, really, have you anything against me? he asked Pierre. Perhaps it™s the state of affairs? Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman™s eyes whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him. Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death. I say it with my hand on my heart! said he, striking his chest. Thank you, said Pierre. The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that shelter was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenly brightened. Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship! he cried gaily, filling two glasses with wine. Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his too, again pressed Pierre™s hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a pensive attitude. Yes, my dear friend, he began, such is fortune™s caprice. Who would have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I am in Moscow with him. I must tell you, mon cher, he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, that our name is one of the most ancient in France. And with a Frenchman™s easy and naÃ¯ve frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, ma pauvre mÃ¨re playing of course an important part in the story. But all that is only life™s setting, the real thing is love”love! Am I not right, Monsieur Pierre? said he, growing animated. Another glass? Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third. Oh, women, women! and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs. There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking at the officer™s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe™s love stories had the sensual character which Frenchmen regard as the special charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with such sincere conviction that he alone had experienced and known all the charm of love and he described women so alluringly that Pierre listened to him with curiosity. It was plain that l™amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was not that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for NatÃ¡sha. (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one he considered the love of clodhoppers and the other the love of simpletons.) L™amour which the Frenchman worshiped consisted principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a combination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling. Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming, innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise. The conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in the mother™s sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage to her lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of a distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played the part of the lover, and he”the lover”assumed the role of the husband, as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany, where shelter is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat sauerkraut and the young girls are too blonde. Finally, the latest episode in Poland still fresh in the captain™s memory, and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of life continually occurred in the captain™s stories) and the Pole had entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de cÅ“ur) while himself entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so: I have saved your life, and I save your honor! Having repeated these words the captain wiped his eyes and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection. Listening to the captain™s tales, Pierre”as often happens late in the evening and under the influence of wine”followed all that was told him, understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of personal memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While listening to these love stories his own love for NatÃ¡sha unexpectedly rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe™s tales. Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the SÃºkharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had not produced an effect upon him”he had not even once recalled it. But now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very important and poetic. Peter KirÃlovich, come here! We have recognized you, he now seemed to hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her smile, her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair... and there seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this. Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband. Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could never be his. Tiens! said the captain. Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name. Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in the world, and especially therefore above himself. When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he understood that. The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand it he begged Pierre to continue. PlatÃ³nic love, clouds... he muttered. Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together, something loosened Pierre™s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his marriage, NatÃ¡sha™s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe™s questions he also told what he had at first concealed”his own position and even his name. More than anything else in Pierre™s story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station. When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the PokrÃ³vka a fire glowed”the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre™s heart with his love. At the gate stood GerÃ¡sim, the cook, and two Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the town. There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense city. Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. There now, how good it is, what more does one need? thought he. And suddenly remembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned against the fence to save himself from falling. Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep. CHAPTER XXX The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was watched from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the retreating troops, with many different feelings. The RostÃ³v party spent the night at MytÃshchi, fourteen miles from Moscow. They had started so late on the first of September, the road had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been forgotten for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning they woke late and were again delayed so often that they only got as far as Great MytÃshchi. At ten o™clock that evening the RostÃ³v family and the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and huts of that large village. The RostÃ³vs™ servants and coachmen and the orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches. In a neighboring hut lay RaÃ©vski™s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had spent the first night in the same yard as the RostÃ³vs. The countess said she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at MytÃshchi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the wounded man. In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another fire. One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was Little MytÃshchi burning”set on fire by MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks. But look here, brothers, there™s another fire! remarked an orderly. All turned their attention to the glow. But they told us Little MytÃshchi had been set on fire by MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks. But that™s not MytÃshchi, it™s farther away. Look, it must be in Moscow! Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down on its steps. It™s more to the left, why, Little MytÃshchi is over there, and this is right on the other side. Several men joined the first two. See how it™s flaring, said one. That™s a fire in Moscow: either in the SushchÃ©vski or the RogÃ³zhski quarter. No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance. Old Daniel TerÃ©ntich, the count™s valet (as he was called), came up to the group and shouted at MÃshka. What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?... The count will be calling and there™s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together. I only ran out to get some water, said MÃshka. But what do you think, Daniel TerÃ©ntich? Doesn™t it look as if that glow were in Moscow? remarked one of the footmen. Daniel TerÃ©ntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still. God have mercy.... It™s windy and dry... said another voice. Just look! See what it™s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners! They™ll put it out, no fear! Who™s to put it out? Daniel TerÃ©ntich, who had hitherto been silent, was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. Moscow it is, brothers, said he. Mother Moscow, the white... his voice faltered, and he gave way to an old man™s sob. And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard, words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count™s old valet. CHAPTER XXXI The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. SÃ³nya and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only NatÃ¡sha and the countess remained in the room. PÃ©tya was no longer with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for TrÃ³itsa. The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. NatÃ¡sha, pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father™s words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three houses off. Oh, how terrible, said SÃ³nya returning from the yard chilled and frightened. I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there™s an awful glow! NatÃ¡sha, do look! You can see it from the window, she said to her cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind. But NatÃ¡sha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in this condition of stupor since the morning, when SÃ³nya, to the surprise and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found it necessary to tell NatÃ¡sha of Prince Andrew™s wound and of his being with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as she was with SÃ³nya. SÃ³nya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now, as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her cousin. Look, NatÃ¡sha, how dreadfully it is burning! said she. What™s burning? asked NatÃ¡sha. Oh, yes, Moscow. And as if in order not to offend SÃ³nya and to get rid of her, she turned her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former attitude. But you didn™t see it! Yes, really I did, NatÃ¡sha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left in peace. Both the countess and SÃ³nya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to NatÃ¡sha. The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she was wont to do when NatÃ¡sha was ill, then touched her forehead with her lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her. You are cold. You are trembling all over. You™d better lie down, said the countess. Lie down? All right, I will. I™ll lie down at once, said NatÃ¡sha. When NatÃ¡sha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see him, that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger, she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving what they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the countess knew so well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same way on the bench where she had seated herself on arriving. She was planning something and either deciding or had already decided something in her mind. The countess knew this, but what it might be she did not know, and this alarmed and tormented her. NatÃ¡sha, undress, darling; lie down on my bed. A bed had been made on a bedstead for the countess only. Madame Schoss and the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor. No, Mamma, I will lie down here on the floor, NatÃ¡sha replied irritably and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open window the moans of the adjutant could be heard more distinctly. She put her head out into the damp night air, and the countess saw her slim neck shaking with sobs and throbbing against the window frame. NatÃ¡sha knew it was not Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in the same yard as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage; but this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The countess exchanged a look with SÃ³nya. Lie down, darling; lie down, my pet, said the countess, softly touching NatÃ¡sha™s shoulders. Come, lie down. Oh, yes... I™ll lie down at once, said NatÃ¡sha, and began hurriedly undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat. When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat down with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the floor, jerked her thin and rather short plait of hair to the front, and began replaiting it. Her long, thin, practiced fingers rapidly unplaited, replaited, and tied up her plait. Her head moved from side to side from habit, but her eyes, feverishly wide, looked fixedly before her. When her toilet for the night was finished she sank gently onto the sheet spread over the hay on the side nearest the door. NatÃ¡sha, you™d better lie in the middle, said SÃ³nya. I™ll stay here, muttered NatÃ¡sha. Do lie down, she added crossly, and buried her face in the pillow. The countess, Madame Schoss, and SÃ³nya undressed hastily and lay down. The small lamp in front of the icons was the only light left in the room. But in the yard there was a light from the fire at Little MytÃshchi a mile and a half away, and through the night came the noise of people shouting at a tavern MamÃ³nov™s Cossacks had set up across the street, and the adjutant™s unceasing moans could still be heard. For a long time NatÃ¡sha listened attentively to the sounds that reached her from inside and outside the room and did not move. First she heard her mother praying and sighing and the creaking of her bed under her, then Madame Schoss™ familiar whistling snore and SÃ³nya™s gentle breathing. Then the countess called to NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha did not answer. I think she™s asleep, Mamma, said SÃ³nya softly. After a short silence the countess spoke again but this time no one replied. Soon after that NatÃ¡sha heard her mother™s even breathing. NatÃ¡sha did not move, though her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt, was growing cold on the bare floor. As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a crack in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied near by. The shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the adjutant was heard. NatÃ¡sha sat up. SÃ³nya, are you asleep? Mamma? she whispered. No one replied. NatÃ¡sha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim, supple, bare feet. The boards of the floor creaked. Stepping cautiously from one foot to the other she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and grasped the cold door handle. It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against all the walls of the room: it was her own heart, sinking with alarm and terror and overflowing with love. She opened the door and stepped across the threshold and onto the cold, damp earthen floor of the passage. The cold she felt refreshed her. With her bare feet she touched a sleeping man, stepped over him, and opened the door into the part of the hut where Prince Andrew lay. It was dark in there. In the farthest corner, on a bench beside a bed on which something was lying, stood a tallow candle with a long, thick, and smoldering wick. From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew™s wound and his presence there, NatÃ¡sha had resolved to see him. She did not know why she had to, she knew the meeting would be painful, but felt the more convinced that it was necessary. All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night. But now that the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might see. How was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant moaning of the adjutant™s? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her imagination he was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an indistinct shape in the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there, and stood still in terror. But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the middle of a small room containing baggage. Another man”TimÃ³khin”was lying in a corner on the benches beneath the icons, and two others”the doctor and a valet”lay on the floor. The valet sat up and whispered something. TimÃ³khin, kept awake by the pain in his wounded leg, gazed with wide-open eyes at this strange apparition of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket, and nightcap. The valet™s sleepy, frightened exclamation, What do you want? What™s the matter? made NatÃ¡sha approach more swiftly to what was lying in the corner. Horribly unlike a man as that body looked, she must see him. She passed the valet, the snuff fell from the candle wick, and she saw Prince Andrew clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she had always seen him. He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck, delicate as a child™s, revealed by the turn-down collar of his shirt, gave him a peculiarly innocent, childlike look, such as she had never seen on him before. She went up to him and with a swift, flexible, youthful movement dropped on her knees. He smiled and held out his hand to her. CHAPTER XXXII Seven days had passed since Prince Andrew found himself in the ambulance station on the field of BorodinÃ³. His feverish state and the inflammation of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor™s opinion sure to carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his temperature was lower. He had regained consciousness that morning. The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had remained in the calÃ¨che, but at MytÃshchi the wounded man himself asked to be taken out and given some tea. The pain caused by his removal into the hut had made him groan aloud and again lose consciousness. When he had been placed on his camp bed he lay for a long time motionless with closed eyes. Then he opened them and whispered softly: And the tea? His remembering such a small detail of everyday life astonished the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew™s pulse, and to his surprise and dissatisfaction found it had improved. He was dissatisfied because he knew by experience that if his patient did not die now, he would do so a little later with greater suffering. TimÃ³khin, the red-nosed major of Prince Andrew™s regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of BorodinÃ³. They were accompanied by a doctor, Prince Andrew™s valet, his coachman, and two orderlies. They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with feverish eyes at the door in front of him as if trying to understand and remember something. I don™t want any more. Is TimÃ³khin here? he asked. TimÃ³khin crept along the bench to him. I am here, your excellency. How™s your wound? Mine, sir? All right. But how about you? Prince Andrew again pondered as if trying to remember something. Couldn™t one get a book? he asked. What book? The Gospels. I haven™t one. The doctor promised to procure it for him and began to ask how he was feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak with which he was covered and, making wry faces at the noisome smell of mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful place. The doctor was very much displeased about something and made a change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking them to get him the book and put it under him. What trouble would it be to you? he said. I have not got one. Please get it for me and put it under for a moment, he pleaded in a piteous voice. The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands. You fellows have no conscience, said he to the valet who was pouring water over his hands. For just one moment I didn™t look after you... It™s such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it. By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him! said the valet. The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked to be carried into the hut after his calÃ¨che had stopped at MytÃshchi. After growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut he again regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled all that had happened to him, and above all vividly remembered the moment at the ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of a man he disliked, those new thoughts had come to him which promised him happiness. And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again possessed his soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of happiness and that this happiness had something to do with the Gospels. That was why he asked for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in which they had put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts, and when he came to himself a third time it was in the complete stillness of the night. Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket chirped from across the passage; someone was shouting and singing in the street; cockroaches rustled on the table, on the icons, and on the walls, and a big fly flopped at the head of the bed and around the candle beside him, the wick of which was charred and had shaped itself like a mushroom. His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of, feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the power and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to fix his whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the deepest reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in and can then return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew™s mind was not in a normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most diverse thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his brain suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had never reached when he was in health, but suddenly in the midst of its work it would turn to some unexpected idea and he had not the strength to turn it back again. Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be deprived, he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut, gazing fixedly before him with feverish wide open eyes. A happiness lying beyond material forces, outside the material influences that act on man”a happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man can understand it, but to conceive it and enjoin it was possible only for God. But how did God enjoin that law? And why was the Son...? And suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off, and Prince Andrew heard (without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality) a soft whispering voice incessantly and rhythmically repeating piti-piti-piti, and then titi, and then again piti-piti-piti, and ti-ti once more. At the same time he felt that above his face, above the very middle of it, some strange airy structure was being erected out of slender needles or splinters, to the sound of this whispered music. He felt that he had to balance carefully (though it was difficult) so that this airy structure should not collapse; but nevertheless it kept collapsing and again slowly rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic music”it stretches, stretches, spreading out and stretching, said Prince Andrew to himself. While listening to this whispering and feeling the sensation of this drawing out and the construction of this edifice of needles, he also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and heard the rustle of the cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that flopped against his pillow and his face. Each time the fly touched his face it gave him a burning sensation and yet to his surprise it did not destroy the structure, though it knocked against the very region of his face where it was rising. But besides this there was something else of importance. It was something white by the door”the statue of a sphinx, which also oppressed him. But perhaps that™s my shirt on the table, he thought, and that™s my legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing itself out, and ˜piti-piti-piti™ and ˜ti-ti™ and ˜piti-piti-piti™...? That™s enough, please leave off! Prince Andrew painfully entreated someone. And suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of his mind with peculiar clearness and force. Yes”love, he thought again quite clearly. But not love which loves for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason, but the love which I”while dying”first experienced when I saw my enemy and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love which is the very essence of the soul and does not require an object. Now again I feel that bliss. To love one™s neighbors, to love one™s enemies, to love everything, to love God in all His manifestations. It is possible to love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive?... When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but divine love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can destroy it. It is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have I hated in my life? And of them all, I loved and hated none as I did her. And he vividly pictured to himself NatÃ¡sha, not as he had done in the past with nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for the first time picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her feelings, her sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the first time all the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his rupture with her. If only it were possible for me to see her once more! Just once, looking into those eyes to say... Piti-piti-piti and ti-ti and piti-piti-piti boom! flopped the fly.... And his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world of reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall, something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo was still burning, and the same shirtlike sphinx lay near the door; but besides all this something creaked, there was a whiff of fresh air, and a new white sphinx appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had the pale face and shining eyes of the very NatÃ¡sha of whom he had just been thinking. Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is, thought Prince Andrew, trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew wished to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not, and delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft whispering voice continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched out, and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all his strength in an effort to recover his senses, he moved a little, and suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to himself, NatÃ¡sha, that same living NatÃ¡sha whom of all people he most longed to love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to him, was kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living NatÃ¡sha, and he was not surprised but quietly happy. NatÃ¡sha, motionless on her knees (she was unable to stir), with frightened eyes riveted on him, was restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid. Only in the lower part of it something quivered. Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand. You? he said. How fortunate! With a rapid but careful movement NatÃ¡sha drew nearer to him on her knees and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began kissing it, just touching it lightly with her lips. Forgive me! she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him. Forgive me! I love you, said Prince Andrew. Forgive...! Forgive what? he asked. Forgive me for what I ha-ve do-ne! faltered NatÃ¡sha in a scarcely audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just touching it with her lips. I love you more, better than before, said Prince Andrew, lifting her face with his hand so as to look into her eyes. Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly, compassionately, and with joyous love. NatÃ¡sha™s thin pale face, with its swollen lips, was more than plain”it was dreadful. But Prince Andrew did not see that, he saw her shining eyes which were beautiful. They heard the sound of voices behind them. Peter the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor. TimÃ³khin, who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had long been watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare body with the sheet as he huddled up on his bench. What™s this? said the doctor, rising from his bed. Please go away, madam! At that moment a maid sent by the countess, who had noticed her daughter™s absence, knocked at the door. Like a somnambulist aroused from her sleep NatÃ¡sha went out of the room and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed. From that time, during all the rest of the RostÃ³vs™ journey, at every halting place and wherever they spent a night, NatÃ¡sha never left the wounded BolkÃ³nski, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a wounded man. Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die in her daughter™s arms during the journey”as, judging by what the doctor said, it seemed might easily happen”she could not oppose NatÃ¡sha. Though with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and NatÃ¡sha the thought occurred that should he recover their former engagement would be renewed, no one”least of all NatÃ¡sha and Prince Andrew”spoke of this: the unsettled question of life and death, which hung not only over BolkÃ³nski but over all Russia, shut out all other considerations. CHAPTER XXXIII On the third of September Pierre awoke late. His head was aching, the clothes in which he had slept without undressing felt uncomfortable on his body, and his mind had a dim consciousness of something shameful he had done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday™s conversation with Captain Ramballe. It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors. Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved stock which GerÃ¡sim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered where he was and what lay before him that very day. Am I not too late? he thought. No, probably he won™t make his entry into Moscow before noon. Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but hastened to act. After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out. But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could not carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult to hide such a big pistol even under his wide coat. He could not carry it unnoticed in his belt or under his arm. Besides, it had been discharged, and he had not had time to reload it. No matter, the dagger will do, he said to himself, though when planning his design he had more than once come to the conclusion that the chief mistake made by the student in 1809 had been to try to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But as his chief aim consisted not in carrying out his design, but in proving to himself that he would not abandon his intention and was doing all he could to achieve it, Pierre hastily took the blunt jagged dagger in a green sheath which he had bought at the SÃºkharev market with the pistol, and hid it under his waistcoat. Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head, Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting the captain, and passed out into the street. The conflagration, at which he had looked with so much indifference the evening before, had greatly increased during the night. Moscow was on fire in several places. The buildings in Carriage Row, across the river, in the Bazaar and the PovarskÃ³y, as well as the barges on the MoskvÃ¡ River and the timber yards by the DorogomÃlov Bridge, were all ablaze. Pierre™s way led through side streets to the PovarskÃ³y and from there to the church of St. Nicholas on the ArbÃ¡t, where he had long before decided that the deed should be done. The gates of most of the houses were locked and the shutters up. The streets and lanes were deserted. The air was full of smoke and the smell of burning. Now and then he met Russians with anxious and timid faces, and Frenchmen with an air not of the city but of the camp, walking in the middle of the streets. Both the Russians and the French looked at Pierre with surprise. Besides his height and stoutness, and the strange morose look of suffering in his face and whole figure, the Russians stared at Pierre because they could not make out to what class he could belong. The French followed him with astonishment in their eyes chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the other Russians who gazed at the French with fear and curiosity, paid no attention to them. At the gate of one house three Frenchmen, who were explaining something to some Russians who did not understand them, stopped Pierre asking if he did not know French. Pierre shook his head and went on. In another side street a sentinel standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man™s musket as he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side of the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing of what went on around him. He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night™s experience, he was afraid of losing it. But he was not destined to bring his mood safely to his destination. And even had he not been hindered by anything on the way, his intention could not now have been carried out, for Napoleon had passed the ArbÃ¡t more than four hours previously on his way from the DorogomÃlov suburb to the KrÃ©mlin, and was now sitting in a very gloomy frame of mind in a royal study in the KrÃ©mlin, giving detailed and exact orders as to measures to be taken immediately to extinguish the fire, to prevent looting, and to reassure the inhabitants. But Pierre did not know this; he was entirely absorbed in what lay before him, and was tortured”as those are who obstinately undertake a task that is impossible for them not because of its difficulty but because of its incompatibility with their natures”by the fear of weakening at the decisive moment and so losing his self-esteem. Though he heard and saw nothing around him he found his way by instinct and did not go wrong in the side streets that led to the PovarskÃ³y. As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser”he even felt the heat of the fire. Occasionally curly tongues of flame rose from under the roofs of the houses. He met more people in the streets and they were more excited. But Pierre, though he felt that something unusual was happening around him, did not realize that he was approaching the fire. As he was going along a footpath across a wide-open space adjoining the PovarskÃ³y on one side and the gardens of Prince GruzÃnski™s house on the other, Pierre suddenly heard the desperate weeping of a woman close to him. He stopped as if awakening from a dream and lifted his head. By the side of the path, on the dusty dry grass, all sorts of household goods lay in a heap: featherbeds, a samovar, icons, and trunks. On the ground, beside the trunks, sat a thin woman no longer young, with long, prominent upper teeth, and wearing a black cloak and cap. This woman, swaying to and fro and muttering something, was choking with sobs. Two girls of about ten and twelve, dressed in dirty short frocks and cloaks, were staring at their mother with a look of stupefaction on their pale frightened faces. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, who wore an overcoat and an immense cap evidently not his own, was crying in his old nurse™s arms. A dirty, barefooted maid was sitting on a trunk, and, having undone her pale-colored plait, was pulling it straight and sniffing at her singed hair. The woman™s husband, a short, round-shouldered man in the undress uniform of a civilian official, with sausage-shaped whiskers and showing under his square-set cap the hair smoothly brushed forward over his temples, with expressionless face was moving the trunks, which were placed one on another, and was dragging some garments from under them. As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet. Dear people, good Christians, save me, help me, dear friends... help us, somebody, she muttered between her sobs. My girl... My daughter! My youngest daughter is left behind. She™s burned! Ooh! Was it for this I nursed you.... Ooh! Don™t, Mary NikolÃ¡evna! said her husband to her in a low voice, evidently only to justify himself before the stranger. Sister must have taken her, or else where can she be? he added. Monster! Villain! shouted the woman angrily, suddenly ceasing to weep. You have no heart, you don™t feel for your own child! Another man would have rescued her from the fire. But this is a monster and neither a man nor a father! You, honored sir, are a noble man, she went on, addressing Pierre rapidly between her sobs. The fire broke out alongside, and blew our way, the maid called out ˜Fire!™ and we rushed to collect our things. We ran out just as we were.... This is what we have brought away.... The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost. We seized the children. But not Katie! Ooh! O Lord!... and again she began to sob. My child, my dear one! Burned, burned! But where was she left? asked Pierre. From the expression of his animated face the woman saw that this man might help her. Oh, dear sir! she cried, seizing him by the legs. My benefactor, set my heart at ease.... AnÃska, go, you horrid girl, show him the way! she cried to the maid, angrily opening her mouth and still farther exposing her long teeth. Show me the way, show me, I... I™ll do it, gasped Pierre rapidly. The dirty maidservant stepped from behind the trunk, put up her plait, sighed, and went on her short, bare feet along the path. Pierre felt as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon. He held his head higher, his eyes shone with the light of life, and with swift steps he followed the maid, overtook her, and came out on the PovarskÃ³y. The whole street was full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame here and there broke through that cloud. A great number of people crowded in front of the conflagration. In the middle of the street stood a French general saying something to those around him. Pierre, accompanied by the maid, was advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French soldiers stopped him. On ne passe pas! * cried a voice. * You can™t pass! This way, uncle, cried the girl. We™ll pass through the side street, by the NikÃºlins™! Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her. She ran across the street, turned down a side street to the left, and, passing three houses, turned into a yard on the right. It™s here, close by, said she and, running across the yard, opened a gate in a wooden fence and, stopping, pointed out to him a small wooden wing of the house, which was burning brightly and fiercely. One of its sides had fallen in, another was on fire, and bright flames issued from the openings of the windows and from under the roof. As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and involuntarily stopped. morning, and then immediately fell asleep behind a partition in a corner BorÃs had given up to him. Which is it? Which is your house? he asked. Ooh! wailed the girl, pointing to the wing. Thats it, that was our lodging. Youve burned to death, our treasure, Katie, my precious little missy! Ooh! lamented AnÃska, who at the sight of the fire felt that she too must give expression to her feelings. Pierre rushed to the wing, but the heat was so great that he involuntarily passed round in a curve and came upon the large house that was as yet burning only at one end, just below the roof, and around which swarmed a crowd of Frenchmen. At first Pierre did not realize what these men, who were dragging something out, were about; but seeing before him a Frenchman hitting a peasant with a blunt saber and trying to take from him a fox-fur coat, he vaguely understood that looting was going on there, but he had no time to dwell on that idea. The sounds of crackling and the din of falling walls and ceilings, the whistle and hiss of the flames, the excited shouts of the people, and the sight of the swaying smoke, now gathering into thick black clouds and now soaring up with glittering sparks, with here and there dense sheaves of flame (now red and now like golden fish scales creeping along the walls), and the heat and smoke and rapidity of motion, produced on Pierre the usual animating effects of a conflagration. It had a peculiarly strong effect on him because at the sight of the fire he felt himself suddenly freed from the ideas that had weighed him down. He felt young, bright, adroit, and resolute. He ran round to the other side of the lodge and was about to dash into that part of it which was still standing, when just above his head he heard several voices shouting and then a cracking sound and the ring of something heavy falling close beside him. Pierre looked up and saw at a window of the large house some Frenchmen who had just thrown out the drawer of a chest, filled with metal articles. Other French soldiers standing below went up to the drawer. What does this fellow want? shouted one of them referring to Pierre. Theres a child in that house. Havent you seen a child? cried Pierre. Whats he talking about? Get along! said several voices, and one of the soldiers, evidently afraid that Pierre might want to take from them some of the plate and bronzes that were in the drawer, moved threateningly toward him. A child? shouted a Frenchman from above. I did hear something squealing in the garden. Perhaps its his brat that the fellow is looking for. After all, one must be human, you know.... Where is it? Where? said Pierre. There! There! shouted the Frenchman at the window, pointing to the garden at the back of the house. Wait a bit”Im coming down. And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the garden. Hurry up, you others! he called out to his comrades. Its getting hot. When they reached a gravel path behind the house the Frenchman pulled Pierre by the arm and pointed to a round, graveled space where a three-year-old girl in a pink dress was lying under a seat. There is your child! Oh, a girl, so much the better! said the Frenchman. Good-by, Fatty. We must be human, we are all mortal you know! and the Frenchman with the spot on his cheek ran back to his comrades. Breathless with joy, Pierre ran to the little girl and was going to take her in his arms. But seeing a stranger the sickly, scrofulous-looking child, unattractively like her mother, began to yell and run away. Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms. She screamed desperately and angrily and tried with her little hands to pull Pierres hands away and to bite them with her slobbering mouth. Pierre was seized by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when touching some nasty little animal. But he made an effort not to throw the child down and ran with her to the large house. It was now, however, impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, AnÃska, was no longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran with her through the garden seeking another way out. CHAPTER XXXIV Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back with his little burden to the GruzÃnski garden at the corner of the PovarskÃ³y. He did not at first recognize the place from which he had set out to look for the child, so crowded was it now with people and goods that had been dragged out of the houses. Besides Russian families who had taken refuge here from the fire with their belongings, there were several French soldiers in a variety of clothing. Pierre took no notice of them. He hurried to find the family of that civil servant in order to restore the daughter to her mother and go to save someone else. Pierre felt that he had still much to do and to do quickly. Glowing with the heat and from running, he felt at that moment more strongly than ever the sense of youth, animation, and determination that had come on him when he ran to save the child. She had now become quiet and, clinging with her little hands to Pierres coat, sat on his arm gazing about her like some little wild animal. He glanced at her occasionally with a slight smile. He fancied he saw something pathetically innocent in that frightened, sickly little face. He did not find the civil servant or his wife where he had left them. He walked among the crowd with rapid steps, scanning the various faces he met. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family consisting of a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new, cloth-covered, sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar type, and a young woman. That very young woman seemed to Pierre the perfection of Oriental beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched, black eyebrows and the extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long, beautiful, expressionless face. Amid the scattered property and the crowd on the open space, she, in her rich satin cloak with a bright lilac shawl on her head, suggested a delicate exotic plant thrown out onto the snow. She was sitting on some bundles a little behind the old woman, and looked from under her long lashes with motionless, large, almond-shaped eyes at the ground before her. Evidently she was aware of her beauty and fearful because of it. Her face struck Pierre and, hurrying along by the fence, he turned several times to look at her. When he had reached the fence, still without finding those he sought, he stopped and looked about him. With the child in his arms his figure was now more conspicuous than before, and a group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him. Have you lost anyone, my dear fellow? Youre of the gentry yourself, arent you? Whose child is it? they asked him. Pierre replied that the child belonged to a woman in a black coat who had been sitting there with her other children, and he asked whether anyone knew where she had gone. Why, that must be the AnfÃ©rovs, said an old deacon, addressing a pockmarked peasant woman. Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy! he added in his customary bass. The AnfÃ©rovs? No, said the woman. They left in the morning. That must be either Mary NikolÃ¡evnas or the IvÃ¡novs! He says ˜a woman, and Mary NikolÃ¡evna is a lady, remarked a house serf. Do you know her? Shes thin, with long teeth, said Pierre. Thats Mary NikolÃ¡evna! They went inside the garden when these wolves swooped down, said the woman, pointing to the French soldiers. O Lord, have mercy! added the deacon. Go over that way, theyre there. Its she! She kept on lamenting and crying, continued the woman. Its she. Here, this way! But Pierre was not listening to the woman. He had for some seconds been intently watching what was going on a few steps away. He was looking at the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them. One of these, a nimble little man, was wearing a blue coat tied round the waist with a rope. He had a nightcap on his head and his feet were bare. The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a long, lank, round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements and with an idiotic expression of face. He wore a womans loose gown of frieze, blue trousers, and large torn Hessian boots. The little barefooted Frenchman in the blue coat went up to the Armenians and, saying something, immediately seized the old man by his legs and the old man at once began pulling off his boots. The other in the frieze gown stopped in front of the beautiful Armenian girl and with his hands in his pockets stood staring at her, motionless and silent. Here, take the child! said Pierre peremptorily and hurriedly to the woman, handing the little girl to her. Give her back to them, give her back! he almost shouted, putting the child, who began screaming, on the ground, and again looking at the Frenchman and the Armenian family. The old man was already sitting barefoot. The little Frenchman had secured his second boot and was slapping one boot against the other. The old man was saying something in a voice broken by sobs, but Pierre caught but a glimpse of this, his whole attention was directed to the Frenchman in the frieze gown who meanwhile, swaying slowly from side to side, had drawn nearer to the young woman and taking his hands from his pockets had seized her by the neck. The beautiful Armenian still sat motionless and in the same attitude, with her long lashes drooping as if she did not see or feel what the soldier was doing to her. While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing from her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young woman, clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly. Let that woman alone! exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice, seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside. The soldier fell, got up, and ran away. But his comrade, throwing down the boots and drawing his sword, moved threateningly toward Pierre. Voyons, pas de bÃªtises! * he cried. * Look here, no nonsense! Pierre was in such a transport of rage that he remembered nothing and his strength increased tenfold. He rushed at the barefooted Frenchman and, before the latter had time to draw his sword, knocked him off his feet and hammered him with his fists. Shouts of approval were heard from the crowd around, and at the same moment a mounted patrol of French Uhlans appeared from round the corner. The Uhlans came up at a trot to Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them. Pierre remembered nothing of what happened after that. He only remembered beating someone and being beaten and finally feeling that his hands were bound and that a crowd of French soldiers stood around him and were searching him. Lieutenant, he has a dagger, were the first words Pierre understood. Ah, a weapon? said the officer and turned to the barefooted soldier who had been arrested with Pierre. All right, you can tell all about it at the court-martial. Then he turned to Pierre. Do you speak French? Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply. His face probably looked very terrible, for the officer said something in a whisper and four more Uhlans left the ranks and placed themselves on both sides of Pierre. Do you speak French? the officer asked again, keeping at a distance from Pierre. Call the interpreter. A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a French salesman from one of the Moscow shops. He does not look like a common man, said the interpreter, after a searching look at Pierre. Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary, remarked the officer. And ask him who he is, he added. Who are you? asked the interpreter in poor Russian. You must answer the chief. I will not tell you who I am. I am your prisoner”take me! Pierre suddenly replied in French. Ah, ah! muttered the officer with a frown. Well then, march! A crowd had collected round the Uhlans. Nearest to Pierre stood the pockmarked peasant woman with the little girl, and when the patrol started she moved forward. Where are they taking you to, you poor dear? said she. And the little girl, the little girl, what am I to do with her if shes not theirs? said the woman. What does that woman want? asked the officer. Pierre was as if intoxicated. His elation increased at the sight of the little girl he had saved. What does she want? he murmured. She is bringing me my daughter whom I have just saved from the flames, said he. Good-by! And without knowing how this aimless lie had escaped him, he went along with resolute and triumphant steps between the French soldiers. The French patrol was one of those sent out through the various streets of Moscow by Durosnels order to put a stop to the pillage, and especially to catch the incendiaries who, according to the general opinion which had that day originated among the higher French officers, were the cause of the conflagrations. After marching through a number of streets the patrol arrested five more Russian suspects: a small shopkeeper, two seminary students, a peasant, and a house serf, besides several looters. But of all these various suspected characters, Pierre was considered to be the most suspicious of all. When they had all been brought for the night to a large house on the ZÃºbov Rampart that was being used as a guardhouse, Pierre was placed apart under strict guard. BOOK TWELVE: 1812 CHAPTER I In Petersburg at that time a complicated struggle was being carried on with greater heat than ever in the highest circles, between the parties of RumyÃ¡ntsev, the French, MÃ¡rya FÃ«dorovna, the TsarÃ©vich, and others, drowned as usual by the buzzing of the court drones. But the calm, luxurious life of Petersburg, concerned only about phantoms and reflections of real life, went on in its old way and made it hard, except by a great effort, to realize the danger and the difficult position of the Russian people. There were the same receptions and balls, the same French theater, the same court interests and service interests and intrigues as usual. Only in the very highest circles were attempts made to keep in mind the difficulties of the actual position. Stories were whispered of how differently the two Empresses behaved in these difficult circumstances. The Empress MÃ¡rya, concerned for the welfare of the charitable and educational institutions under her patronage, had given directions that they should all be removed to KazÃ¡n, and the things belonging to these institutions had already been packed up. The Empress Elisabeth, however, when asked what instructions she would be pleased to give”with her characteristic Russian patriotism had replied that she could give no directions about state institutions for that was the affair of the sovereign, but as far as she personally was concerned she would be the last to quit Petersburg. At Anna PÃ¡vlovnas on the twenty-sixth of August, the very day of the battle of BorodinÃ³, there was a soiree, the chief feature of which was to be the reading of a letter from His Lordship the Bishop when sending the Emperor an icon of the Venerable Sergius. It was regarded as a model of ecclesiastical, patriotic eloquence. Prince VasÃli himself, famed for his elocution, was to read it. (He used to read at the Empress.) The art of his reading was supposed to lie in rolling out the words, quite independently of their meaning, in a loud and singsong voice alternating between a despairing wail and a tender murmur, so that the wail fell quite at random on one word and the murmur on another. This reading, as was always the case at Anna PÃ¡vlovnas soirees, had a political significance. That evening she expected several important personages who had to be made ashamed of their visits to the French theater and aroused to a patriotic temper. A good many people had already arrived, but Anna PÃ¡vlovna, not yet seeing all those whom she wanted in her drawing room, did not let the reading begin but wound up the springs of a general conversation. The news of the day in Petersburg was the illness of Countess BezÃºkhova. She had fallen ill unexpectedly a few days previously, had missed several gatherings of which she was usually the ornament, and was said to be receiving no one, and instead of the celebrated Petersburg doctors who usually attended her had entrusted herself to some Italian doctor who was treating her in some new and unusual way. They all knew very well that the enchanting countess illness arose from an inconvenience resulting from marrying two husbands at the same time, and that the Italians cure consisted in removing such inconvenience; but in Anna PÃ¡vlovnas presence no one dared to think of this or even appear to know it. They say the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it is angina pectoris. Angina? Oh, thats a terrible illness! They say that the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angina... and the word angina was repeated with great satisfaction. The count is pathetic, they say. He cried like a child when the doctor told him the case was dangerous. Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman. You are speaking of the poor countess? said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, coming up just then. I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little better. Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world, she went on, with a smile at her own enthusiasm. We belong to different camps, but that does not prevent my esteeming her as she deserves. She is very unfortunate! added Anna PÃ¡vlovna. Supposing that by these words Anna PÃ¡vlovna was somewhat lifting the veil from the secret of the countess malady, an unwary young man ventured to express surprise that well-known doctors had not been called in and that the countess was being attended by a charlatan who might employ dangerous remedies. Your information may be better than mine, Anna PÃ¡vlovna suddenly and venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, but I know on good authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man. He is private physician to the Queen of Spain. And having thus demolished the young man, Anna PÃ¡vlovna turned to another group where BilÃbin was talking about the Austrians: having wrinkled up his face he was evidently preparing to smooth it out again and utter one of his mots. I think it is delightful, he said, referring to a diplomatic note that had been sent to Vienna with some Austrian banners captured from the French by Wittgenstein, the hero of Petropol as he was then called in Petersburg. What? Whats that? asked Anna PÃ¡vlovna, securing silence for the mot, which she had heard before. And BilÃbin repeated the actual words of the diplomatic dispatch, which he had himself composed. The Emperor returns these Austrian banners, said BilÃbin, friendly banners gone astray and found on a wrong path, and his brow became smooth again. Charming, charming! observed Prince VasÃli. The path to Warsaw, perhaps, Prince Hippolyte remarked loudly and unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him, understanding what he meant. Prince Hippolyte himself glanced around with amused surprise. He knew no more than the others what his words meant. During his diplomatic career he had more than once noticed that such utterances were received as very witty, and at every opportunity he uttered in that way the first words that entered his head. It may turn out very well, he thought, but if not, theyll know how to arrange matters. And really, during the awkward silence that ensued, that insufficiently patriotic person entered whom Anna PÃ¡vlovna had been waiting for and wished to convert, and she, smiling and shaking a finger at Hippolyte, invited Prince VasÃli to the table and bringing him two candles and the manuscript begged him to begin. Everyone became silent. Most Gracious Sovereign and Emperor! Prince VasÃli sternly declaimed, looking round at his audience as if to inquire whether anyone had anything to say to the contrary. But no one said anything. Moscow, our ancient capital, the New Jerusalem, receives her Christ”he placed a sudden emphasis on the word her”as a mother receives her zealous sons into her arms, and through the gathering mists, foreseeing the brilliant glory of thy rule, sings in exultation, ˜Hosanna, blessed is he that cometh! Prince VasÃli pronounced these last words in a tearful voice. BilÃbin attentively examined his nails, and many of those present appeared intimidated, as if asking in what they were to blame. Anna PÃ¡vlovna whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman muttering the prayer at Communion: Let the bold and insolent Goliath... she whispered. Prince VasÃli continued. Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty pride. This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and zealous champion of old of our countrys weal, is offered to Your Imperial Majesty. I grieve that my waning strength prevents rejoicing in the sight of your most gracious presence. I raise fervent prayers to Heaven that the Almighty may exalt the race of the just, and mercifully fulfill the desires of Your Majesty. What force! What a style! was uttered in approval both of reader and of author. Animated by that address Anna PÃ¡vlovnas guests talked for a long time of the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the result of the battle to be fought in a few days. You will see, said Anna PÃ¡vlovna, that tomorrow, on the Emperors birthday, we shall receive news. I have a favorable presentiment! CHAPTER II Anna PÃ¡vlovnas presentiment was in fact fulfilled. Next day during the service at the palace church in honor of the Emperors birthday, Prince VolkÃ³nski was called out of the church and received a dispatch from Prince KutÃºzov. It was KutÃºzovs report, written from TatÃ¡rinova on the day of the battle. KutÃºzov wrote that the Russians had not retreated a step, that the French losses were much heavier than ours, and that he was writing in haste from the field of battle before collecting full information. It followed that there must have been a victory. And at once, without leaving the church, thanks were rendered to the Creator for His help and for the victory. Anna PÃ¡vlovnas presentiment was justified, and all that morning a joyously festive mood reigned in the city. Everyone believed the victory to have been complete, and some even spoke of Napoleons having been captured, of his deposition, and of the choice of a new ruler for France. It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength and completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the scene of action. General events involuntarily group themselves around some particular incident. So now the courtiers pleasure was based as much on the fact that the news had arrived on the Emperors birthday as on the fact of the victory itself. It was like a successfully arranged surprise. Mention was made in KutÃºzovs report of the Russian losses, among which figured the names of TÃºchkov, BagratiÃ³n, and KutÃ¡ysov. In the Petersburg world this sad side of the affair again involuntarily centered round a single incident: KutÃ¡ysovs death. Everybody knew him, the Emperor liked him, and he was young and interesting. That day everyone met with the words: What a wonderful coincidence! Just during the service. But what a loss KutÃ¡ysov is! How sorry I am! What did I tell about KutÃºzov? Prince VasÃli now said with a prophets pride. I always said he was the only man capable of defeating Napoleon. But next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew anxious. The courtiers suffered because of the suffering the suspense occasioned the Emperor. Fancy the Emperors position! said they, and instead of extolling KutÃºzov as they had done the day before, they condemned him as the cause of the Emperors anxiety. That day Prince VasÃli no longer boasted of his protÃ©gÃ© KutÃºzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was mentioned. Moreover, toward evening, as if everything conspired to make Petersburg society anxious and uneasy, a terrible piece of news was added. Countess HÃ©lÃ¨ne BezÃºkhova had suddenly died of that terrible malady it had been so agreeable to mention. Officially, at large gatherings, everyone said that Countess BezÃºkhova had died of a terrible attack of angina pectoris, but in intimate circles details were mentioned of how the private physician of the Queen of Spain had prescribed small doses of a certain drug to produce a certain effect; but HÃ©lÃ¨ne, tortured by the fact that the old count suspected her and that her husband to whom she had written (that wretched, profligate Pierre) had not replied, had suddenly taken a very large dose of the drug, and had died in agony before assistance could be rendered her. It was said that Prince VasÃli and the old count had turned upon the Italian, but the latter had produced such letters from the unfortunate deceased that they had immediately let the matter drop. Talk in general centered round three melancholy facts: the Emperors lack of news, the loss of KutÃ¡ysov, and the death of HÃ©lÃ¨ne. On the third day after KutÃºzovs report a country gentleman arrived from Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through the whole town. This was terrible! What a position for the Emperor to be in! KutÃºzov was a traitor, and Prince VasÃli during the visits of condolence paid to him on the occasion of his daughters death said of KutÃºzov, whom he had formerly praised (it was excusable for him in his grief to forget what he had said), that it was impossible to expect anything else from a blind and depraved old man. I only wonder that the fate of Russia could have been entrusted to such a man. As long as this news remained unofficial it was possible to doubt it, but the next day the following communication was received from Count RostopchÃn: Prince KutÃºzovs adjutant has brought me a letter in which he demands police officers to guide the army to the RyazÃ¡n road. He writes that he is regretfully abandoning Moscow. Sire! KutÃºzovs action decides the fate of the capital and of your empire! Russia will shudder to learn of the abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in which lie the ashes of your ancestors! I shall follow the army. I have had everything removed, and it only remains for me to weep over the fate of my fatherland. On receiving this dispatch the Emperor sent Prince VolkÃ³nski to KutÃºzov with the following rescript: Prince Michael IlariÃ³novich! Since the twenty-ninth of August I have received no communication from you, yet on the first of September I received from the commander in chief of Moscow, via YaroslÃ¡vl, the sad news that you, with the army, have decided to abandon Moscow. You can yourself imagine the effect this news has had on me, and your silence increases my astonishment. I am sending this by Adjutant-General Prince VolkÃ³nski, to hear from you the situation of the army and the reasons that have induced you to take this melancholy decision. CHAPTER III Nine days after the abandonment of Moscow, a messenger from KutÃºzov reached Petersburg with the official announcement of that event. This messenger was Michaud, a Frenchman who did not know Russian, but who was quoique Ã©tranger, russe de cÅ“ur et dÃ¢me, * as he said of himself. * Though a foreigner, Russian in heart and soul. The Emperor at once received this messenger in his study at the palace on Stone Island. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign and who did not know Russian, yet felt deeply moved (as he wrote) when he appeared before notre trÃ¨s gracieux souverain * with the news of the burning of Moscow, dont les flammes Ã©clairaient sa route. *(2) * Our most gracious sovereign. * (2) Whose flames illumined his route. Though the source of M. Michauds chagrin must have been different from that which caused Russians to grieve, he had such a sad face when shown into the Emperors study that the latter at once asked: Have you brought me sad news, Colonel? Very sad, sire, replied Michaud, lowering his eyes with a sigh. The abandonment of Moscow. Have they surrendered my ancient capital without a battle? asked the Emperor quickly, his face suddenly flushing. Michaud respectfully delivered the message KutÃºzov had entrusted to him, which was that it had been impossible to fight before Moscow, and that as the only remaining choice was between losing the army as well as Moscow, or losing Moscow alone, the field marshal had to choose the latter. The Emperor listened in silence, not looking at Michaud. Has the enemy entered the city? he asked. Yes, sire, and Moscow is now in ashes. I left it all in flames, replied Michaud in a decided tone, but glancing at the Emperor he was frightened by what he had done. The Emperor began to breathe heavily and rapidly, his lower lip trembled, and tears instantly appeared in his fine blue eyes. But this lasted only a moment. He suddenly frowned, as if blaming himself for his weakness, and raising his head addressed Michaud in a firm voice: I see, Colonel, from all that is happening, that Providence requires great sacrifices of us... I am ready to submit myself in all things to His will; but tell me, Michaud, how did you leave the army when it saw my ancient capital abandoned without a battle? Did you not notice discouragement?... Seeing that his most gracious ruler was calm once more, Michaud also grew calm, but was not immediately ready to reply to the Emperors direct and relevant question which required a direct answer. Sire, will you allow me to speak frankly as befits a loyal soldier? he asked to gain time. Colonel, I always require it, replied the Emperor. Conceal nothing from me, I wish to know absolutely how things are. Sire! said Michaud with a subtle, scarcely perceptible smile on his lips, having now prepared a well-phrased reply, sire, I left the whole army, from its chiefs to the lowest soldier, without exception in desperate and agonized terror... How is that? the Emperor interrupted him, frowning sternly. Would misfortune make my Russians lose heart?... Never! Michaud had only waited for this to bring out the phrase he had prepared. Sire, he said, with respectful playfulness, they are only afraid lest Your Majesty, in the goodness of your heart, should allow yourself to be persuaded to make peace. They are burning for the combat, declared this representative of the Russian nation, and to prove to Your Majesty by the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are.... Ah! said the Emperor reassured, and with a kindly gleam in his eyes, he patted Michaud on the shoulder. You set me at ease, Colonel. He bent his head and was silent for some time. Well, then, go back to the army, he said, drawing himself up to his full height and addressing Michaud with a gracious and majestic gesture, and tell our brave men and all my good subjects wherever you go that when I have not a soldier left I shall put myself at the head of my beloved nobility and my good peasants and so use the last resources of my empire. It still offers me more than my enemies suppose, said the Emperor growing more and more animated; but should it ever be ordained by Divine Providence, he continued, raising to heaven his fine eyes shining with emotion, that my dynasty should cease to reign on the throne of my ancestors, then after exhausting all the means at my command, I shall let my beard grow to here (he pointed halfway down his chest) and go and eat potatoes with the meanest of my peasants, rather than sign the disgrace of my country and of my beloved people whose sacrifices I know how to appreciate. Having uttered these words in an agitated voice the Emperor suddenly turned away as if to hide from Michaud the tears that rose to his eyes, and went to the further end of his study. Having stood there a few moments, he strode back to Michaud and pressed his arm below the elbow with a vigorous movement. The Emperors mild and handsome face was flushed and his eyes gleamed with resolution and anger. Colonel Michaud, do not forget what I say to you here, perhaps we may recall it with pleasure someday... Napoleon or I, said the Emperor, touching his breast. We can no longer both reign together. I have learned to know him, and he will not deceive me any more.... And the Emperor paused, with a frown. When he heard these words and saw the expression of firm resolution in the Emperors eyes, Michaud”quoique Ã©tranger, russe de cÅ“ur et dÃ¢me,”at that solemn moment felt himself enraptured by all that he had heard (as he used afterwards to say), and gave expression to his own feelings and those of the Russian people whose representative he considered himself to be, in the following words: Sire! said he, Your Majesty is at this moment signing the glory of the nation and the salvation of Europe! With an inclination of the head the Emperor dismissed him. CHAPTER IV It is natural for us who were not living in those days to imagine that when half Russia had been conquered and the inhabitants were fleeing to distant provinces, and one levy after another was being raised for the defense of the fatherland, all Russians from the greatest to the least were solely engaged in sacrificing themselves, saving their fatherland, or weeping over its downfall. The tales and descriptions of that time without exception speak only of the self-sacrifice, patriotic devotion, despair, grief, and the heroism of the Russians. But it was not really so. It appears so to us because we see only the general historic interest of that time and do not see all the personal human interests that people had. Yet in reality those personal interests of the moment so much transcend the general interests that they always prevent the public interest from being felt or even noticed. Most of the people at that time paid no attention to the general progress of events but were guided only by their private interests, and they were the very people whose activities at that period were most useful. Those who tried to understand the general course of events and to take part in it by self-sacrifice and heroism were the most useless members of society, they saw everything upside down, and all they did for the common good turned out to be useless and foolish”like Pierres and MamÃ³novs regiments which looted Russian villages, and the lint the young ladies prepared and that never reached the wounded, and so on. Even those, fond of intellectual talk and of expressing their feelings, who discussed Russias position at the time involuntarily introduced into their conversation either a shade of pretense and falsehood or useless condemnation and anger directed against people accused of actions no one could possibly be guilty of. In historic events the rule forbidding us to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is specially applicable. Only unconscious action bears fruit, and he who plays a part in an historic event never understands its significance. If he tries to realize it his efforts are fruitless. The more closely a man was engaged in the events then taking place in Russia the less did he realize their significance. In Petersburg and in the provinces at a distance from Moscow, ladies, and gentlemen in militia uniforms, wept for Russia and its ancient capital and talked of self-sacrifice and so on; but in the army which retired beyond Moscow there was little talk or thought of Moscow, and when they caught sight of its burned ruins no one swore to be avenged on the French, but they thought about their next pay, their next quarters, of MatrÃ«shka the vivandiÃ¨re, and like matters. As the war had caught him in the service, Nicholas RostÃ³v took a close and prolonged part in the defense of his country, but did so casually, without any aim at self-sacrifice, and he therefore looked at what was going on in Russia without despair and without dismally racking his brains over it. Had he been asked what he thought of the state of Russia, he would have said that it was not his business to think about it, that KutÃºzov and others were there for that purpose, but that he had heard that the regiments were to be made up to their full strength, that fighting would probably go on for a long time yet, and that things being so it was quite likely he might be in command of a regiment in a couple of years time. As he looked at the matter in this way, he learned that he was being sent to VorÃ³nezh to buy remounts for his division, not only without regret at being prevented from taking part in the coming battle, but with the greatest pleasure”which he did not conceal and which his comrades fully understood. A few days before the battle of BorodinÃ³, Nicholas received the necessary money and warrants, and having sent some hussars on in advance, he set out with post horses for VorÃ³nezh. Only a man who has experienced it”that is, has passed some months continuously in an atmosphere of campaigning and war”can understand the delight Nicholas felt when he escaped from the region covered by the armys foraging operations, provision trains, and hospitals. When”free from soldiers, wagons, and the filthy traces of a camp”he saw villages with peasants and peasant women, gentlemens country houses, fields where cattle were grazing, posthouses with stationmasters asleep in them, he rejoiced as though seeing all this for the first time. What for a long while specially surprised and delighted him were the women, young and healthy, without a dozen officers making up to each of them; women, too, who were pleased and flattered that a passing officer should joke with them. In the highest spirits Nicholas arrived at night at a hotel in VorÃ³nezh, ordered things he had long been deprived of in camp, and next day, very clean-shaven and in a full-dress uniform he had not worn for a long time, went to present himself to the authorities. The commander of the militia was a civilian general, an old man who was evidently pleased with his military designation and rank. He received Nicholas brusquely (imagining this to be characteristically military) and questioned him with an important air, as if considering the general progress of affairs and approving and disapproving with full right to do so. Nicholas was in such good spirits that this merely amused him. From the commander of the militia he drove to the governor. The governor was a brisk little man, very simple and affable. He indicated the stud farms at which Nicholas might procure horses, recommended to him a horse dealer in the town and a landowner fourteen miles out of town who had the best horses, and promised to assist him in every way. You are Count IlyÃ¡ RostÃ³vs son? My wife was a great friend of your mothers. We are at home on Thursdays”today is Thursday, so please come and see us quite informally, said the governor, taking leave of him. Immediately on leaving the governors, Nicholas hired post horses and, taking his squadron quartermaster with him, drove at a gallop to the landowner, fourteen miles away, who had the stud. Everything seemed to him pleasant and easy during that first part of his stay in VorÃ³nezh and, as usually happens when a man is in a pleasant state of mind, everything went well and easily. The landowner to whom Nicholas went was a bachelor, an old cavalryman, a horse fancier, a sportsman, the possessor of some century-old brandy and some old Hungarian wine, who had a snuggery where he smoked, and who owned some splendid horses. In very few words Nicholas bought seventeen picked stallions for six thousand rubles”to serve, as he said, as samples of his remounts. After dining and taking rather too much of the Hungarian wine, Nicholas”having exchanged kisses with the landowner, with whom he was already on the friendliest terms”galloped back over abominable roads, in the brightest frame of mind, continually urging on the driver so as to be in time for the governors party. When he had changed, poured water over his head, and scented himself, Nicholas arrived at the governors rather late, but with the phrase better late than never on his lips. It was not a ball, nor had dancing been announced, but everyone knew that Catherine PetrÃ³vna would play valses and the Ã©cossaise on the clavichord and that there would be dancing, and so everyone had come as to a ball. Provincial life in 1812 went on very much as usual, but with this difference, that it was livelier in the towns in consequence of the arrival of many wealthy families from Moscow, and as in everything that went on in Russia at that time a special recklessness was noticeable, an in for a penny, in for a pound”who cares? spirit, and the inevitable small talk, instead of turning on the weather and mutual acquaintances, now turned on Moscow, the army, and Napoleon. The society gathered together at the governors was the best in VorÃ³nezh. There were a great many ladies and some of Nicholas Moscow acquaintances, but there were no men who could at all vie with the cavalier of St. George, the hussar remount officer, the good-natured and well-bred Count RostÃ³v. Among the men was an Italian prisoner, an officer of the French army; and Nicholas felt that the presence of that prisoner enhanced his own importance as a Russian hero. The Italian was, as it were, a war trophy. Nicholas felt this, it seemed to him that everyone regarded the Italian in the same light, and he treated him cordially though with dignity and restraint. As soon as Nicholas entered in his hussar uniform, diffusing around him a fragrance of perfume and wine, and had uttered the words better late than never and heard them repeated several times by others, people clustered around him; all eyes turned on him, and he felt at once that he had entered into his proper position in the province”that of a universal favorite: a very pleasant position, and intoxicatingly so after his long privations. At posting stations, at inns, and in the landowners snuggery, maidservants had been flattered by his notice, and here too at the governors party there were (as it seemed to Nicholas) an inexhaustible number of pretty young women, married and unmarried, impatiently awaiting his notice. The women and girls flirted with him and, from the first day, the people concerned themselves to get this fine young daredevil of an hussar married and settled down. Among these was the governors wife herself, who welcomed RostÃ³v as a near relative and called him Nicholas. Catherine PetrÃ³vna did actually play valses and the Ã©cossaise, and dancing began in which Nicholas still further captivated the provincial society by his agility. His particularly free manner of dancing even surprised them all. Nicholas was himself rather surprised at the way he danced that evening. He had never danced like that in Moscow and would even have considered such a very free and easy manner improper and in bad form, but here he felt it incumbent on him to astonish them all by something unusual, something they would have to accept as the regular thing in the capital though new to them in the provinces. All the evening Nicholas paid attention to a blue-eyed, plump and pleasing little blonde, the wife of one of the provincial officials. With the naÃ¯ve conviction of young men in a merry mood that other mens wives were created for them, RostÃ³v did not leave the ladys side and treated her husband in a friendly and conspiratorial style, as if, without speaking of it, they knew how capitally Nicholas and the lady would get on together. The husband, however, did not seem to share that conviction and tried to behave morosely with RostÃ³v. But the latters good-natured naÃ¯vetÃ© was so boundless that sometimes even he involuntarily yielded to Nicholas good humor. Toward the end of the evening, however, as the wifes face grew more flushed and animated, the husbands became more and more melancholy and solemn, as though there were but a given amount of animation between them and as the wifes share increased the husbands diminished. CHAPTER V Nicholas sat leaning slightly forward in an armchair, bending closely over the blonde lady and paying her mythological compliments with a smile that never left his face. Jauntily shifting the position of his legs in their tight riding breeches, diffusing an odor of perfume, and admiring his partner, himself, and the fine outlines of his legs in their well-fitting Hessian boots, Nicholas told the blonde lady that he wished to run away with a certain lady here in VorÃ³nezh. Which lady? A charming lady, a divine one. Her eyes (Nicholas looked at his partner) are blue, her mouth coral and ivory; her figure (he glanced at her shoulders) like Dianas.... The husband came up and sullenly asked his wife what she was talking about. Ah, NikÃta IvÃ¡nych! cried Nicholas, rising politely, and as if wishing NikÃta IvÃ¡nych to share his joke, he began to tell him of his intention to elope with a blonde lady. The husband smiled gloomily, the wife gaily. The governors good-natured wife came up with a look of disapproval. Anna IgnÃ¡tyevna wants to see you, Nicholas, said she, pronouncing the name so that Nicholas at once understood that Anna IgnÃ¡tyevna was a very important person. Come, Nicholas! You know you let me call you so? Oh, yes, Aunt. Who is she? Anna IgnÃ¡tyevna MalvÃntseva. She has heard from her niece how you rescued her.... Can you guess? I rescued such a lot of them! said Nicholas. Her niece, Princess BolkÃ³nskaya. She is here in VorÃ³nezh with her aunt. Oho! How you blush. Why, are...? Not a bit! Please dont, Aunt! Very well, very well!... Oh, what a fellow you are! The governors wife led him up to a tall and very stout old lady with a blue headdress, who had just finished her game of cards with the most important personages of the town. This was MalvÃntseva, Princess Marys aunt on her mothers side, a rich, childless widow who always lived in VorÃ³nezh. When RostÃ³v approached her she was standing settling up for the game. She looked at him and, screwing up her eyes sternly, continued to upbraid the general who had won from her. Very pleased, mon cher, she then said, holding out her hand to Nicholas. Pray come and see me. After a few words about Princess Mary and her late father, whom MalvÃntseva had evidently not liked, and having asked what Nicholas knew of Prince Andrew, who also was evidently no favorite of hers, the important old lady dismissed Nicholas after repeating her invitation to come to see her. Nicholas promised to come and blushed again as he bowed. At the mention of Princess Mary he experienced a feeling of shyness and even of fear, which he himself did not understand. When he had parted from MalvÃntseva Nicholas wished to return to the dancing, but the governors little wife placed her plump hand on his sleeve and, saying that she wanted to have a talk with him, led him to her sitting room, from which those who were there immediately withdrew so as not to be in her way. Do you know, dear boy, began the governors wife with a serious expression on her kind little face, that really would be the match for you: would you like me to arrange it? Whom do you mean, Aunt? asked Nicholas. I will make a match for you with the princess. Catherine PetrÃ³vna speaks of Lily, but I say, no”the princess! Do you want me to do it? I am sure your mother will be grateful to me. What a charming girl she is, really! And she is not at all so plain, either. Not at all, replied Nicholas as if offended at the idea. As befits a soldier, Aunt, I dont force myself on anyone or refuse anything, he said before he had time to consider what he was saying. Well then, remember, this is not a joke! Of course not! Yes, yes, the governors wife said as if talking to herself. But, my dear boy, among other things you are too attentive to the other, the blonde. One is sorry for the husband, really.... Oh no, we are good friends with him, said Nicholas in the simplicity of his heart; it did not enter his head that a pastime so pleasant to himself might not be pleasant to someone else. But what nonsense I have been saying to the governors wife! thought Nicholas suddenly at supper. She will really begin to arrange a match... and SÃ³nya...? And on taking leave of the governors wife, when she again smilingly said to him, Well then, remember! he drew her aside. But see here, to tell the truth, Aunt... What is it, my dear? Come, lets sit down here, said she. Nicholas suddenly felt a desire and need to tell his most intimate thoughts (which he would not have told to his mother, his sister, or his friend) to this woman who was almost a stranger. When he afterwards recalled that impulse to unsolicited and inexplicable frankness which had very important results for him, it seemed to him”as it seems to everyone in such cases”that it was merely some silly whim that seized him: yet that burst of frankness, together with other trifling events, had immense consequences for him and for all his family. You see, Aunt, Mamma has long wanted me to marry an heiress, but the very idea of marrying for money is repugnant to me. Oh yes, I understand, said the governors wife. But Princess BolkÃ³nskaya”thats another matter. I will tell you the truth. In the first place I like her very much, I feel drawn to her; and then, after I met her under such circumstances”so strangely, the idea often occurred to me: ˜This is fate. Especially if you remember that Mamma had long been thinking of it; but I had never happened to meet her before, somehow it had always happened that we did not meet. And as long as my sister NatÃ¡sha was engaged to her brother it was of course out of the question for me to think of marrying her. And it must needs happen that I should meet her just when NatÃ¡shas engagement had been broken off... and then everything... So you see... I never told this to anyone and never will, only to you. The governors wife pressed his elbow gratefully. You know SÃ³nya, my cousin? I love her, and promised to marry her, and will do so.... So you see there can be no question about” said Nicholas incoherently and blushing. My dear boy, what a way to look at it! You know SÃ³nya has nothing and you yourself say your Papas affairs are in a very bad way. And what about your mother? It would kill her, thats one thing. And what sort of life would it be for SÃ³nya”if shes a girl with a heart? Your mother in despair, and you all ruined.... No, my dear, you and SÃ³nya ought to understand that. Nicholas remained silent. It comforted him to hear these arguments. All the same, Aunt, it is impossible, he rejoined with a sigh, after a short pause. Besides, would the princess have me? And besides, she is now in mourning. How can one think of it! But you dont suppose Im going to get you married at once? There is always a right way of doing things, replied the governors wife. What a matchmaker you are, Aunt... said Nicholas, kissing her plump little hand. CHAPTER VI On reaching Moscow after her meeting with RostÃ³v, Princess Mary had found her nephew there with his tutor, and a letter from Prince Andrew giving her instructions how to get to her Aunt MalvÃntseva at VorÃ³nezh. That feeling akin to temptation which had tormented her during her fathers illness, since his death, and especially since her meeting with RostÃ³v was smothered by arrangements for the journey, anxiety about her brother, settling in a new house, meeting new people, and attending to her nephews education. She was sad. Now, after a month passed in quiet surroundings, she felt more and more deeply the loss of her father which was associated in her mind with the ruin of Russia. She was agitated and incessantly tortured by the thought of the dangers to which her brother, the only intimate person now remaining to her, was exposed. She was worried too about her nephews education for which she had always felt herself incompetent, but in the depths of her soul she felt at peace”a peace arising from consciousness of having stifled those personal dreams and hopes that had been on the point of awakening within her and were related to her meeting with RostÃ³v. The day after her party the governors wife came to see MalvÃntseva and, after discussing her plan with the aunt, remarked that though under present circumstances a formal betrothal was, of course, not to be thought of, all the same the young people might be brought together and could get to know one another. MalvÃntseva expressed approval, and the governors wife began to speak of RostÃ³v in Marys presence, praising him and telling how he had blushed when Princess Marys name was mentioned. But Princess Mary experienced a painful rather than a joyful feeling”her mental tranquillity was destroyed, and desires, doubts, self-reproach, and hopes reawoke. During the two days that elapsed before RostÃ³v called, Princess Mary continually thought of how she ought to behave to him. First she decided not to come to the drawing room when he called to see her aunt”that it would not be proper for her, in her deep mourning, to receive visitors; then she thought this would be rude after what he had done for her; then it occurred to her that her aunt and the governors wife had intentions concerning herself and RostÃ³v”their looks and words at times seemed to confirm this supposition”then she told herself that only she, with her sinful nature, could think this of them: they could not forget that situated as she was, while still wearing deep mourning, such matchmaking would be an insult to her and to her fathers memory. Assuming that she did go down to see him, Princess Mary imagined the words he would say to her and what she would say to him, and these words sometimes seemed undeservedly cold and then to mean too much. More than anything she feared lest the confusion she felt might overwhelm her and betray her as soon as she saw him. But when on Sunday after church the footman announced in the drawing room that Count RostÃ³v had called, the princess showed no confusion, only a slight blush suffused her cheeks and her eyes lit up with a new and radiant light. You have met him, Aunt? said she in a calm voice, unable herself to understand that she could be outwardly so calm and natural. When RostÃ³v entered the room, the princess dropped her eyes for an instant, as if to give the visitor time to greet her aunt, and then just as Nicholas turned to her she raised her head and met his look with shining eyes. With a movement full of dignity and grace she half rose with a smile of pleasure, held out her slender, delicate hand to him, and began to speak in a voice in which for the first time new deep womanly notes vibrated. Mademoiselle Bourienne, who was in the drawing room, looked at Princess Mary in bewildered surprise. Herself a consummate coquette, she could not have maneuvered better on meeting a man she wished to attract. Either black is particularly becoming to her or she really has greatly improved without my having noticed it. And above all, what tact and grace! thought Mademoiselle Bourienne. Had Princess Mary been capable of reflection at that moment, she would have been more surprised than Mademoiselle Bourienne at the change that had taken place in herself. From the moment she recognized that dear, loved face, a new life force took possession of her and compelled her to speak and act apart from her own will. From the time RostÃ³v entered, her face became suddenly transformed. It was as if a light had been kindled in a carved and painted lantern and the intricate, skillful, artistic work on its sides, that previously seemed dark, coarse, and meaningless, was suddenly shown up in unexpected and striking beauty. For the first time all that pure, spiritual, inward travail through which she had lived appeared on the surface. All her inward labor, her dissatisfaction with herself, her sufferings, her strivings after goodness, her meekness, love, and self-sacrifice”all this now shone in those radiant eyes, in her delicate smile, and in every trait of her gentle face. RostÃ³v saw all this as clearly as if he had known her whole life. He felt that the being before him was quite different from, and better than, anyone he had met before, and above all better than himself. Their conversation was very simple and unimportant. They spoke of the war, and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their sorrow about it; they spoke of their last meeting”Nicholas trying to change the subject”they talked of the governors kind wife, of Nicholas relations, and of Princess Marys. She did not talk about her brother, diverting the conversation as soon as her aunt mentioned Andrew. Evidently she could speak of Russias misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her brother was too near her heart and she neither could nor would speak lightly of him. Nicholas noticed this, as he noticed every shade of Princess Marys character with an observation unusual to him, and everything confirmed his conviction that she was a quite unusual and extraordinary being. Nicholas blushed and was confused when people spoke to him about the princess (as she did when he was mentioned) and even when he thought of her, but in her presence he felt quite at ease, and said not at all what he had prepared, but what, quite appropriately, occurred to him at the moment. When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as is usual when there are children, turned to Prince Andrews little son, caressing him and asking whether he would like to be an hussar. He took the boy on his knee, played with him, and looked round at Princess Mary. With a softened, happy, timid look she watched the boy she loved in the arms of the man she loved. Nicholas also noticed that look and, as if understanding it, flushed with pleasure and began to kiss the boy with good natured playfulness. As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society, and Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again; but all the same the governors wife went on with her matchmaking, passing on to Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said of him and vice versa, and insisting on his declaring himself to Princess Mary. For this purpose she arranged a meeting between the young people at the bishops house before Mass. Though RostÃ³v told the governors wife that he would not make any declaration to Princess Mary, he promised to go. As at Tilsit RostÃ³v had not allowed himself to doubt that what everybody considered right was right, so now, after a short but sincere struggle between his effort to arrange his life by his own sense of justice, and in obedient submission to circumstances, he chose the latter and yielded to the power he felt irresistibly carrying him he knew not where. He knew that after his promise to SÃ³nya it would be what he deemed base to declare his feelings to Princess Mary. And he knew that he would never act basely. But he also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart) that by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those who were guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong, but was doing something very important”more important than anything he had ever done in his life. After meeting Princess Mary, though the course of his life went on externally as before, all his former amusements lost their charm for him and he often thought about her. But he never thought about her as he had thought of all the young ladies without exception whom he had met in society, nor as he had for a long time, and at one time rapturously, thought about SÃ³nya. He had pictured each of those young ladies as almost all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife, adapting her in his imagination to all the conditions of married life: a white dressing gown, his wife at the tea table, his wifes carriage, little ones, Mamma and Papa, their relations to her, and so on”and these pictures of the future had given him pleasure. But with Princess Mary, to whom they were trying to get him engaged, he could never picture anything of future married life. If he tried, his pictures seemed incongruous and false. It made him afraid. CHAPTER VII The dreadful news of the battle of BorodinÃ³, of our losses in killed and wounded, and the still more terrible news of the loss of Moscow reached VorÃ³nezh in the middle of September. Princess Mary, having learned of her brothers wound only from the Gazette and having no definite news of him, prepared (so Nicholas heard, he had not seen her again himself) to set off in search of Prince Andrew. When he received the news of the battle of BorodinÃ³ and the abandonment of Moscow, RostÃ³v was not seized with despair, anger, the desire for vengeance, or any feeling of that kind, but everything in VorÃ³nezh suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an indefinite feeling of shame and awkwardness. The conversations he heard seemed to him insincere; he did not know how to judge all these affairs and felt that only in the regiment would everything again become clear to him. He made haste to finish buying the horses, and often became unreasonably angry with his servant and squadron quartermaster. A few days before his departure a special thanksgiving, at which Nicholas was present, was held in the cathedral for the Russian victory. He stood a little behind the governor and held himself with military decorum through the service, meditating on a great variety of subjects. When the service was over the governors wife beckoned him to her. Have you seen the princess? she asked, indicating with a movement of her head a lady standing on the opposite side, beyond the choir. Nicholas immediately recognized Princess Mary not so much by the profile he saw under her bonnet as by the feeling of solicitude, timidity, and pity that immediately overcame him. Princess Mary, evidently engrossed by her thoughts, was crossing herself for the last time before leaving the church. Nicholas looked at her face with surprise. It was the same face he had seen before, there was the same general expression of refined, inner, spiritual labor, but now it was quite differently lit up. There was a pathetic expression of sorrow, prayer, and hope in it. As had occurred before when she was present, Nicholas went up to her without waiting to be prompted by the governors wife and not asking himself whether or not it was right and proper to address her here in church, and told her he had heard of her trouble and sympathized with his whole soul. As soon as she heard his voice a vivid glow kindled in her face, lighting up both her sorrow and her joy. There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess, said RostÃ³v. It is that if your brother, Prince Andrew NikolÃ¡evich, were not living, it would have been at once announced in the Gazette, as he is a colonel. The princess looked at him, not grasping what he was saying, but cheered by the expression of regretful sympathy on his face. And I have known so many cases of a splinter wound (the Gazette said it was a shell) either proving fatal at once or being very slight, continued Nicholas. We must hope for the best, and I am sure... Princess Mary interrupted him. Oh, that would be so dread... she began and, prevented by agitation from finishing, she bent her head with a movement as graceful as everything she did in his presence and, looking up at him gratefully, went out, following her aunt. That evening Nicholas did not go out, but stayed at home to settle some accounts with the horse dealers. When he had finished that business it was already too late to go anywhere but still too early to go to bed, and for a long time he paced up and down the room, reflecting on his life, a thing he rarely did. Princess Mary had made an agreeable impression on him when he had met her in SmolÃ©nsk province. His having encountered her in such exceptional circumstances, and his mother having at one time mentioned her to him as a good match, had drawn his particular attention to her. When he met her again in VorÃ³nezh the impression she made on him was not merely pleasing but powerful. Nicholas had been struck by the peculiar moral beauty he observed in her at this time. He was, however, preparing to go away and it had not entered his head to regret that he was thus depriving himself of chances of meeting her. But that days encounter in church had, he felt, sunk deeper than was desirable for his peace of mind. That pale, sad, refined face, that radiant look, those gentle graceful gestures, and especially the deep and tender sorrow expressed in all her features agitated him and evoked his sympathy. In men RostÃ³v could not bear to see the expression of a higher spiritual life (that was why he did not like Prince Andrew) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy and dreaminess, but in Princess Mary that very sorrow which revealed the depth of a whole spiritual world foreign to him was an irresistible attraction. She must be a wonderful woman. A real angel! he said to himself. Why am I not free? Why was I in such a hurry with SÃ³nya? And he involuntarily compared the two: the lack of spirituality in the one and the abundance of it in the other”a spirituality he himself lacked and therefore valued most highly. He tried to picture what would happen were he free. How he would propose to her and how she would become his wife. But no, he could not imagine that. He felt awed, and no clear picture presented itself to his mind. He had long ago pictured to himself a future with SÃ³nya, and that was all clear and simple just because it had all been thought out and he knew all there was in SÃ³nya, but it was impossible to picture a future with Princess Mary, because he did not understand her but simply loved her. Reveries about SÃ³nya had had something merry and playful in them, but to dream of Princess Mary was always difficult and a little frightening. How she prayed! he thought. It was plain that her whole soul was in her prayer. Yes, that was the prayer that moves mountains, and I am sure her prayer will be answered. Why dont I pray for what I want? he suddenly thought. What do I want? To be free, released from SÃ³nya... She was right, he thought, remembering what the governors wife had said: Nothing but misfortune can come of marrying SÃ³nya. Muddles, grief for Mamma... business difficulties... muddles, terrible muddles! Besides, I dont love her”not as I should. O, God! release me from this dreadful, inextricable position! he suddenly began to pray. Yes, prayer can move mountains, but one must have faith and not pray as NatÃ¡sha and I used to as children, that the snow might turn into sugar”and then run out into the yard to see whether it had done so. No, but I am not praying for trifles now, he thought as he put his pipe down in a corner, and folding his hands placed himself before the icon. Softened by memories of Princess Mary he began to pray as he had not done for a long time. Tears were in his eyes and in his throat when the door opened and LavrÃºshka came in with some papers. Blockhead! Why do you come in without being called? cried Nicholas, quickly changing his attitude. From the governor, said LavrÃºshka in a sleepy voice. A courier has arrived and theres a letter for you. Well, all right, thanks. You can go! Nicholas took the two letters, one of which was from his mother and the other from SÃ³nya. He recognized them by the handwriting and opened SÃ³nyas first. He had read only a few lines when he turned pale and his eyes opened wide with fear and joy. No, its not possible! he cried aloud. Unable to sit still he paced up and down the room holding the letter and reading it. He glanced through it, then read it again, and then again, and standing still in the middle of the room he raised his shoulders, stretching out his hands, with his mouth wide open and his eyes fixed. What he had just been praying for with confidence that God would hear him had come to pass; but Nicholas was as much astonished as if it were something extraordinary and unexpected, and as if the very fact that it had happened so quickly proved that it had not come from God to whom he had prayed, but by some ordinary coincidence. This unexpected and, as it seemed to Nicholas, quite voluntary letter from SÃ³nya freed him from the knot that fettered him and from which there had seemed no escape. She wrote that the last unfortunate events”the loss of almost the whole of the RostÃ³vs Moscow property”and the countess repeatedly expressed wish that Nicholas should marry Princess BolkÃ³nskaya, together with his silence and coldness of late, had all combined to make her decide to release him from his promise and set him completely free. It would be too painful to me to think that I might be a cause of sorrow or discord in the family that has been so good to me (she wrote), and my love has no aim but the happiness of those I love; so, Nicholas, I beg you to consider yourself free, and to be assured that, in spite of everything, no one can love you more than does Your SÃ³nya Both letters were written from TrÃ³itsa. The other, from the countess, described their last days in Moscow, their departure, the fire, and the destruction of all their property. In this letter the countess also mentioned that Prince Andrew was among the wounded traveling with them; his state was very critical, but the doctor said there was now more hope. SÃ³nya and NatÃ¡sha were nursing him. Next day Nicholas took his mothers letter and went to see Princess Mary. Neither he nor she said a word about what NatÃ¡sha nursing him might mean, but thanks to this letter Nicholas suddenly became almost as intimate with the princess as if they were relations. The following day he saw Princess Mary off on her journey to YaroslÃ¡vl, and a few days later left to rejoin his regiment. CHAPTER VIII SÃ³nyas letter written from TrÃ³itsa, which had come as an answer to Nicholas prayer, was prompted by this: the thought of getting Nicholas married to an heiress occupied the old countess mind more and more. She knew that SÃ³nya was the chief obstacle to this happening, and SÃ³nyas life in the countess house had grown harder and harder, especially after they had received a letter from Nicholas telling of his meeting with Princess Mary in BoguchÃ¡rovo. The countess let no occasion slip of making humiliating or cruel allusions to SÃ³nya. But a few days before they left Moscow, moved and excited by all that was going on, she called SÃ³nya to her and, instead of reproaching and making demands on her, tearfully implored her to sacrifice herself and repay all that the family had done for her by breaking off her engagement with Nicholas. I shall not be at peace till you promise me this. SÃ³nya burst into hysterical tears and replied through her sobs that she would do anything and was prepared for anything, but gave no actual promise and could not bring herself to decide to do what was demanded of her. She must sacrifice herself for the family that had reared and brought her up. To sacrifice herself for others was SÃ³nyas habit. Her position in the house was such that only by sacrifice could she show her worth, and she was accustomed to this and loved doing it. But in all her former acts of self-sacrifice she had been happily conscious that they raised her in her own esteem and in that of others, and so made her more worthy of Nicholas whom she loved more than anything in the world. But now they wanted her to sacrifice the very thing that constituted the whole reward for her self-sacrifice and the whole meaning of her life. And for the first time she felt bitterness against those who had been her benefactors only to torture her the more painfully; she felt jealous of NatÃ¡sha who had never experienced anything of this sort, had never needed to sacrifice herself, but made others sacrifice themselves for her and yet was beloved by everybody. And for the first time SÃ³nya felt that out of her pure, quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling was beginning to grow up which was stronger than principle, virtue, or religion. Under the influence of this feeling SÃ³nya, whose life of dependence had taught her involuntarily to be secretive, having answered the countess in vague general terms, avoided talking with her and resolved to wait till she should see Nicholas, not in order to set him free but on the contrary at that meeting to bind him to her forever. The bustle and terror of the RostÃ³vs last days in Moscow stifled the gloomy thoughts that oppressed SÃ³nya. She was glad to find escape from them in practical activity. But when she heard of Prince Andrews presence in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for NatÃ¡sha, she was seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God did not intend her to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that NatÃ¡sha loved no one but Prince Andrew and had never ceased to love him. She knew that being thrown together again under such terrible circumstances they would again fall in love with one another, and that Nicholas would then not be able to marry Princess Mary as they would be within the prohibited degrees of affinity. Despite all the terror of what had happened during those last days and during the first days of their journey, this feeling that Providence was intervening in her personal affairs cheered SÃ³nya. At the TrÃ³itsa monastery the RostÃ³vs first broke their journey for a whole day. Three large rooms were assigned to them in the monastery hostelry, one of which was occupied by Prince Andrew. The wounded man was much better that day and NatÃ¡sha was sitting with him. In the next room sat the count and countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was calling on them as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery. SÃ³nya was there too, tormented by curiosity as to what Prince Andrew and NatÃ¡sha were talking about. She heard the sound of their voices through the door. That door opened and NatÃ¡sha came out, looking excited. Not noticing the monk, who had risen to greet her and was drawing back the wide sleeve on his right arm, she went up to SÃ³nya and took her hand. NatÃ¡sha, what are you about? Come here! said the countess. NatÃ¡sha went up to the monk for his blessing, and he advised her to pray for aid to God and His saint. As soon as the prior withdrew, NatÃ¡sha took her friend by the hand and went with her into the unoccupied room. SÃ³nya, will he live? she asked. SÃ³nya, how happy I am, and how unhappy!... SÃ³nya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he lives! He cannot... because... because... of... and NatÃ¡sha burst into tears. Yes! I knew it! Thank God! murmured SÃ³nya. He will live. SÃ³nya was not less agitated than her friend by the latters fear and grief and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one. Sobbing, she kissed and comforted NatÃ¡sha. If only he lives! she thought. Having wept, talked, and wiped away their tears, the two friends went together to Prince Andrews door. NatÃ¡sha opened it cautiously and glanced into the room, SÃ³nya standing beside her at the half-open door. Prince Andrew was lying raised high on three pillows. His pale face was calm, his eyes closed, and they could see his regular breathing. O, NatÃ¡sha! SÃ³nya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companions arm and stepping back from the door. What? What is it? asked NatÃ¡sha. Its that, that... said SÃ³nya, with a white face and trembling lips. NatÃ¡sha softly closed the door and went with SÃ³nya to the window, not yet understanding what the latter was telling her. You remember, said SÃ³nya with a solemn and frightened expression. You remember when I looked in the mirror for you... at OtrÃ¡dnoe at Christmas? Do you remember what I saw? Yes, yes! cried NatÃ¡sha opening her eyes wide, and vaguely recalling that SÃ³nya had told her something about Prince Andrew whom she had seen lying down. You remember? SÃ³nya went on. I saw it then and told everybody, you and DunyÃ¡sha. I saw him lying on a bed, said she, making a gesture with her hand and a lifted finger at each detail, and that he had his eyes closed and was covered just with a pink quilt, and that his hands were folded, she concluded, convincing herself that the details she had just seen were exactly what she had seen in the mirror. She had in fact seen nothing then but had mentioned the first thing that came into her head, but what she had invented then seemed to her now as real as any other recollection. She not only remembered what she had then said”that he turned to look at her and smiled and was covered with something red”but was firmly convinced that she had then seen and said that he was covered with a pink quilt and that his eyes were closed. Yes, yes, it really was pink! cried NatÃ¡sha, who now thought she too remembered the word pink being used, and saw in this the most extraordinary and mysterious part of the prediction. But what does it mean? she added meditatively. Oh, I dont know, it is all so strange, replied SÃ³nya, clutching at her head. A few minutes later Prince Andrew rang and NatÃ¡sha went to him, but SÃ³nya, feeling unusually excited and touched, remained at the window thinking about the strangeness of what had occurred. They had an opportunity that day to send letters to the army, and the countess was writing to her son. SÃ³nya! said the countess, raising her eyes from her letter as her niece passed, SÃ³nya, wont you write to Nicholas? She spoke in a soft, tremulous voice, and in the weary eyes that looked over her spectacles SÃ³nya read all that the countess meant to convey with these words. Those eyes expressed entreaty, shame at having to ask, fear of a refusal, and readiness for relentless hatred in case of such refusal. SÃ³nya went up to the countess and, kneeling down, kissed her hand. Yes, Mamma, I will write, said she. SÃ³nya was softened, excited, and touched by all that had occurred that day, especially by the mysterious fulfillment she had just seen of her vision. Now that she knew that the renewal of NatÃ¡shas relations with Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she was joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in which she was accustomed to live and loved to live. So with a joyful consciousness of performing a magnanimous deed”interrupted several times by the tears that dimmed her velvety black eyes”she wrote that touching letter the arrival of which had so amazed Nicholas. CHAPTER IX The officer and soldiers who had arrested Pierre treated him with hostility but yet with respect, in the guardhouse to which he was taken. In their attitude toward him could still be felt both uncertainty as to who he might be”perhaps a very important person”and hostility as a result of their recent personal conflict with him. But when the guard was relieved next morning, Pierre felt that for the new guard”both officers and men”he was not as interesting as he had been to his captors; and in fact the guard of the second day did not recognize in this big, stout man in a peasant coat the vigorous person who had fought so desperately with the marauder and the convoy and had uttered those solemn words about saving a child; they saw in him only No. 17 of the captured Russians, arrested and detained for some reason by order of the Higher Command. If they noticed anything remarkable about Pierre, it was only his unabashed, meditative concentration and thoughtfulness, and the way he spoke French, which struck them as surprisingly good. In spite of this he was placed that day with the other arrested suspects, as the separate room he had occupied was required by an officer. All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and, recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as he spoke French. Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him. That evening he learned that all these prisoners (he, probably, among them) were to be tried for incendiarism. On the third day he was taken with the others to a house where a French general with a white mustache sat with two colonels and other Frenchmen with scarves on their arms. With the precision and definiteness customary in addressing prisoners, and which is supposed to preclude human frailty, Pierre like the others was questioned as to who he was, where he had been, with what object, and so on. These questions, like questions put at trials generally, left the essence of the matter aside, shut out the possibility of that essences being revealed, and were designed only to form a channel through which the judges wished the answers of the accused to flow so as to lead to the desired result, namely a conviction. As soon as Pierre began to say anything that did not fit in with that aim, the channel was removed and the water could flow to waste. Pierre felt, moreover, what the accused always feel at their trial, perplexity as to why these questions were put to him. He had a feeling that it was only out of condescension or a kind of civility that this device of placing a channel was employed. He knew he was in these mens power, that only by force had they brought him there, that force alone gave them the right to demand answers to their questions, and that the sole object of that assembly was to inculpate him. And so, as they had the power and wish to inculpate him, this expedient of an inquiry and trial seemed unnecessary. It was evident that any answer would lead to conviction. When asked what he was doing when he was arrested, Pierre replied in a rather tragic manner that he was restoring to its parents a child he had saved from the flames. Why had he fought the marauder? Pierre answered that he was protecting a woman, and that to protect a woman who was being insulted was the duty of every man; that... They interrupted him, for this was not to the point. Why was he in the yard of a burning house where witnesses had seen him? He replied that he had gone out to see what was happening in Moscow. Again they interrupted him: they had not asked where he was going, but why he was found near the fire? Who was he? they asked, repeating their first question, which he had declined to answer. Again he replied that he could not answer it. Put that down, thats bad... very bad, sternly remarked the general with the white mustache and red flushed face. On the fourth day fires broke out on the ZÃºbovski rampart. Pierre and thirteen others were moved to the coach house of a merchants house near the Crimean bridge. On his way through the streets Pierre felt stifled by the smoke which seemed to hang over the whole city. Fires were visible on all sides. He did not then realize the significance of the burning of Moscow, and looked at the fires with horror. He passed four days in the coach house near the Crimean bridge and during that time learned, from the talk of the French soldiers, that all those confined there were awaiting a decision which might come any day from the marshal. What marshal this was, Pierre could not learn from the soldiers. Evidently for them the marshal represented a very high and rather mysterious power. These first days, before the eighth of September when the prisoners were had up for a second examination, were the hardest of all for Pierre. CHAPTER X On the eighth of September an officer”a very important one judging by the respect the guards showed him”entered the coach house where the prisoners were. This officer, probably someone on the staff, was holding a paper in his hand, and called over all the Russians there, naming Pierre as the man who does not give his name. Glancing indolently and indifferently at all the prisoners, he ordered the officer in charge to have them decently dressed and tidied up before taking them to the marshal. An hour later a squad of soldiers arrived and Pierre with thirteen others was led to the Virgins Field. It was a fine day, sunny after rain, and the air was unusually pure. The smoke did not hang low as on the day when Pierre had been taken from the guardhouse on the ZÃºbovski rampart, but rose through the pure air in columns. No flames were seen, but columns of smoke rose on all sides, and all Moscow as far as Pierre could see was one vast charred ruin. On all sides there were waste spaces with only stoves and chimney stacks still standing, and here and there the blackened walls of some brick houses. Pierre gazed at the ruins and did not recognize districts he had known well. Here and there he could see churches that had not been burned. The KrÃ©mlin, which was not destroyed, gleamed white in the distance with its towers and the belfry of IvÃ¡n the Great. The domes of the New Convent of the Virgin glittered brightly and its bells were ringing particularly clearly. These bells reminded Pierre that it was Sunday and the feast of the Nativity of the Virgin. But there seemed to be no one to celebrate this holiday: everywhere were blackened ruins, and the few Russians to be seen were tattered and frightened people who tried to hide when they saw the French. It was plain that the Russian nest was ruined and destroyed, but in place of the Russian order of life that had been destroyed, Pierre unconsciously felt that a quite different, firm, French order had been established over this ruined nest. He felt this in the looks of the soldiers who, marching in regular ranks briskly and gaily, were escorting him and the other criminals; he felt it in the looks of an important French official in a carriage and pair driven by a soldier, whom they met on the way. He felt it in the merry sounds of regimental music he heard from the left side of the field, and felt and realized it especially from the list of prisoners the French officer had read out when he came that morning. Pierre had been taken by one set of soldiers and led first to one and then to another place with dozens of other men, and it seemed that they might have forgotten him, or confused him with the others. But no: the answers he had given when questioned had come back to him in his designation as the man who does not give his name, and under that appellation, which to Pierre seemed terrible, they were now leading him somewhere with unhesitating assurance on their faces that he and all the other prisoners were exactly the ones they wanted and that they were being taken to the proper place. Pierre felt himself to be an insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of a machine whose action he did not understand but which was working well. He and the other prisoners were taken to the right side of the Virgins Field, to a large white house with an immense garden not far from the convent. This was Prince ShcherbÃ¡tovs house, where Pierre had often been in other days, and which, as he learned from the talk of the soldiers, was now occupied by the marshal, the Duke of EckmÃ¼hl (Davout). They were taken to the entrance and led into the house one by one. Pierre was the sixth to enter. He was conducted through a glass gallery, an anteroom, and a hall, which were familiar to him, into a long low study at the door of which stood an adjutant. Davout, spectacles on nose, sat bent over a table at the further end of the room. Pierre went close up to him, but Davout, evidently consulting a paper that lay before him, did not look up. Without raising his eyes, he said in a low voice: Who are you? Pierre was silent because he was incapable of uttering a word. To him Davout was not merely a French general, but a man notorious for his cruelty. Looking at his cold face, as he sat like a stern schoolmaster who was prepared to wait awhile for an answer, Pierre felt that every instant of delay might cost him his life; but he did not know what to say. He did not venture to repeat what he had said at his first examination, yet to disclose his rank and position was dangerous and embarrassing. So he was silent. But before he had decided what to do, Davout raised his head, pushed his spectacles back on his forehead, screwed up his eyes, and looked intently at him. I know that man, he said in a cold, measured tone, evidently calculated to frighten Pierre. The chill that had been running down Pierres back now seized his head as in a vise. You cannot know me, General, I have never seen you... He is a Russian spy, Davout interrupted, addressing another general who was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed. Davout turned away. With an unexpected reverberation in his voice Pierre rapidly began: No, monseigneur, he said, suddenly remembering that Davout was a duke. No, monseigneur, you cannot have known me. I am a militia officer and have not quitted Moscow. Your name? asked Davout. BezÃºkhov. What proof have I that you are not lying? Monseigneur! exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in a pleading voice. Davout looked up and gazed intently at him. For some seconds they looked at one another, and that look saved Pierre. Apart from conditions of war and law, that look established human relations between the two men. At that moment an immense number of things passed dimly through both their minds, and they realized that they were both children of humanity and were brothers. At the first glance, when Davout had only raised his head from the papers where human affairs and lives were indicated by numbers, Pierre was merely a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him without burdening his conscience with an evil deed, but now he saw in him a human being. He reflected for a moment. How can you show me that you are telling the truth? said Davout coldly. Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and the street where the house was. You are not what you say, returned Davout. In a trembling, faltering voice Pierre began adducing proofs of the truth of his statements. But at that moment an adjutant entered and reported something to Davout. Davout brightened up at the news the adjutant brought, and began buttoning up his uniform. It seemed that he had quite forgotten Pierre. When the adjutant reminded him of the prisoner, he jerked his head in Pierres direction with a frown and ordered him to be led away. But where they were to take him Pierre did not know: back to the coach house or to the place of execution his companions had pointed out to him as they crossed the Virgins Field. He turned his head and saw that the adjutant was putting another question to Davout. Yes, of course! replied Davout, but what this yes meant, Pierre did not know. Pierre could not afterwards remember how he went, whether it was far, or in which direction. His faculties were quite numbed, he was stupefied, and noticing nothing around him went on moving his legs as the others did till they all stopped and he stopped too. The only thought in his mind at that time was: who was it that had really sentenced him to death? Not the men on the commission that had first examined him”not one of them wished to or, evidently, could have done it. It was not Davout, who had looked at him in so human a way. In another moment Davout would have realized that he was doing wrong, but just then the adjutant had come in and interrupted him. The adjutant, also, had evidently had no evil intent though he might have refrained from coming in. Then who was executing him, killing him, depriving him of life”him, Pierre, with all his memories, aspirations, hopes, and thoughts? Who was doing this? And Pierre felt that it was no one. It was a system”a concurrence of circumstances. A system of some sort was killing him”Pierre”depriving him of life, of everything, annihilating him. CHAPTER XI From Prince ShcherbÃ¡tovs house the prisoners were led straight down the Virgins Field, to the left of the nunnery, as far as a kitchen garden in which a post had been set up. Beyond that post a fresh pit had been dug in the ground, and near the post and the pit a large crowd stood in a semicircle. The crowd consisted of a few Russians and many of Napoleons soldiers who were not on duty”Germans, Italians, and Frenchmen, in a variety of uniforms. To the right and left of the post stood rows of French troops in blue uniforms with red epaulets and high boots and shakos. The prisoners were placed in a certain order, according to the list (Pierre was sixth), and were led to the post. Several drums suddenly began to beat on both sides of them, and at that sound Pierre felt as if part of his soul had been torn away. He lost the power of thinking or understanding. He could only hear and see. And he had only one wish”that the frightful thing that had to happen should happen quickly. Pierre looked round at his fellow prisoners and scrutinized them. The two first were convicts with shaven heads. One was tall and thin, the other dark, shaggy, and sinewy, with a flat nose. The third was a domestic serf, about forty-five years old, with grizzled hair and a plump, well-nourished body. The fourth was a peasant, a very handsome man with a broad, light-brown beard and black eyes. The fifth was a factory hand, a thin, sallow-faced lad of eighteen in a loose coat. Pierre heard the French consulting whether to shoot them separately or two at a time. In couples, replied the officer in command in a calm voice. There was a stir in the ranks of the soldiers and it was evident that they were all hurrying”not as men hurry to do something they understand, but as people hurry to finish a necessary but unpleasant and incomprehensible task. A French official wearing a scarf came up to the right of the row of prisoners and read out the sentence in Russian and in French. Then two pairs of Frenchmen approached the criminals and at the officers command took the two convicts who stood first in the row. The convicts stopped when they reached the post and, while sacks were being brought, looked dumbly around as a wounded beast looks at an approaching huntsman. One crossed himself continually, the other scratched his back and made a movement of the lips resembling a smile. With hurried hands the soldiers blindfolded them, drawing the sacks over their heads, and bound them to the post. Twelve sharpshooters with muskets stepped out of the ranks with a firm regular tread and halted eight paces from the post. Pierre turned away to avoid seeing what was going to happen. Suddenly a crackling, rolling noise was heard which seemed to him louder than the most terrific thunder, and he looked round. There was some smoke, and the Frenchmen were doing something near the pit, with pale faces and trembling hands. Two more prisoners were led up. In the same way and with similar looks, these two glanced vainly at the onlookers with only a silent appeal for protection in their eyes, evidently unable to understand or believe what was going to happen to them. They could not believe it because they alone knew what their life meant to them, and so they neither understood nor believed that it could be taken from them. Again Pierre did not wish to look and again turned away; but again the sound as of a frightful explosion struck his ear, and at the same moment he saw smoke, blood, and the pale, scared faces of the Frenchmen who were again doing something by the post, their trembling hands impeding one another. Pierre, breathing heavily, looked around as if asking what it meant. The same question was expressed in all the looks that met his. On the faces of all the Russians and of the French soldiers and officers without exception, he read the same dismay, horror, and conflict that were in his own heart. But who, after all, is doing this? They are all suffering as I am. Who then is it? Who? flashed for an instant through his mind. Sharpshooters of the 86th, forward! shouted someone. The fifth prisoner, the one next to Pierre, was led away”alone. Pierre did not understand that he was saved, that he and the rest had been brought there only to witness the execution. With ever-growing horror, and no sense of joy or relief, he gazed at what was taking place. The fifth man was the factory lad in the loose cloak. The moment they laid hands on him he sprang aside in terror and clutched at Pierre. (Pierre shuddered and shook himself free.) The lad was unable to walk. They dragged him along, holding him up under the arms, and he screamed. When they got him to the post he grew quiet, as if he suddenly understood something. Whether he understood that screaming was useless or whether he thought it incredible that men should kill him, at any rate he took his stand at the post, waiting to be blindfolded like the others, and like a wounded animal looked around him with glittering eyes. Pierre was no longer able to turn away and close his eyes. His curiosity and agitation, like that of the whole crowd, reached the highest pitch at this fifth murder. Like the others this fifth man seemed calm; he wrapped his loose cloak closer and rubbed one bare foot with the other. When they began to blindfold him he himself adjusted the knot which hurt the back of his head; then when they propped him against the bloodstained post, he leaned back and, not being comfortable in that position, straightened himself, adjusted his feet, and leaned back again more comfortably. Pierre did not take his eyes from him and did not miss his slightest movement. Probably a word of command was given and was followed by the reports of eight muskets; but try as he would Pierre could not afterwards remember having heard the slightest sound of the shots. He only saw how the workman suddenly sank down on the cords that held him, how blood showed itself in two places, how the ropes slackened under the weight of the hanging body, and how the workman sat down, his head hanging unnaturally and one leg bent under him. Pierre ran up to the post. No one hindered him. Pale, frightened people were doing something around the workman. The lower jaw of an old Frenchman with a thick mustache trembled as he untied the ropes. The body collapsed. The soldiers dragged it awkwardly from the post and began pushing it into the pit. They all plainly and certainly knew that they were criminals who must hide the traces of their guilt as quickly as possible. Pierre glanced into the pit and saw that the factory lad was lying with his knees close up to his head and one shoulder higher than the other. That shoulder rose and fell rhythmically and convulsively, but spadefuls of earth were already being thrown over the whole body. One of the soldiers, evidently suffering, shouted gruffly and angrily at Pierre to go back. But Pierre did not understand him and remained near the post, and no one drove him away. When the pit had been filled up a command was given. Pierre was taken back to his place, and the rows of troops on both sides of the post made a half turn and went past it at a measured pace. The twenty-four sharpshooters with discharged muskets, standing in the center of the circle, ran back to their places as the companies passed by. Pierre gazed now with dazed eyes at these sharpshooters who ran in couples out of the circle. All but one rejoined their companies. This one, a young soldier, his face deadly pale, his shako pushed back, and his musket resting on the ground, still stood near the pit at the spot from which he had fired. He swayed like a drunken man, taking some steps forward and back to save himself from falling. An old, noncommissioned officer ran out of the ranks and taking him by the elbow dragged him to his company. The crowd of Russians and Frenchmen began to disperse. They all went away silently and with drooping heads. That will teach them to start fires, said one of the Frenchmen. Pierre glanced round at the speaker and saw that it was a soldier who was trying to find some relief after what had been done, but was not able to do so. Without finishing what he had begun to say he made a hopeless movement with his arm and went away. CHAPTER XII After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of the prisoners and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church. Toward evening a noncommissioned officer entered with two soldiers and told him that he had been pardoned and would now go to the barracks for the prisoners of war. Without understanding what was said to him, Pierre got up and went with the soldiers. They took him to the upper end of the field, where there were some sheds built of charred planks, beams, and battens, and led him into one of them. In the darkness some twenty different men surrounded Pierre. He looked at them without understanding who they were, why they were there, or what they wanted of him. He heard what they said, but did not understand the meaning of the words and made no kind of deduction from or application of them. He replied to questions they put to him, but did not consider who was listening to his replies, nor how they would understand them. He looked at their faces and figures, but they all seemed to him equally meaningless. From the moment Pierre had witnessed those terrible murders committed by men who did not wish to commit them, it was as if the mainspring of his life, on which everything depended and which made everything appear alive, had suddenly been wrenched out and everything had collapsed into a heap of meaningless rubbish. Though he did not acknowledge it to himself, his faith in the right ordering of the universe, in humanity, in his own soul, and in God, had been destroyed. He had experienced this before, but never so strongly as now. When similar doubts had assailed him before, they had been the result of his own wrongdoing, and at the bottom of his heart he had felt that relief from his despair and from those doubts was to be found within himself. But now he felt that the universe had crumbled before his eyes and only meaningless ruins remained, and this not by any fault of his own. He felt that it was not in his power to regain faith in the meaning of life. Around him in the darkness men were standing and evidently something about him interested them greatly. They were telling him something and asking him something. Then they led him away somewhere, and at last he found himself in a corner of the shed among men who were laughing and talking on all sides. Well, then, mates... that very prince who... some voice at the other end of the shed was saying, with a strong emphasis on the word who. Sitting silent and motionless on a heap of straw against the wall, Pierre sometimes opened and sometimes closed his eyes. But as soon as he closed them he saw before him the dreadful face of the factory lad”especially dreadful because of its simplicity”and the faces of the murderers, even more dreadful because of their disquiet. And he opened his eyes again and stared vacantly into the darkness around him. Beside him in a stooping position sat a small man of whose presence he was first made aware by a strong smell of perspiration which came from him every time he moved. This man was doing something to his legs in the darkness, and though Pierre could not see his face he felt that the man continually glanced at him. On growing used to the darkness Pierre saw that the man was taking off his leg bands, and the way he did it aroused Pierres interest. Having unwound the string that tied the band on one leg, he carefully coiled it up and immediately set to work on the other leg, glancing up at Pierre. While one hand hung up the first string the other was already unwinding the band on the second leg. In this way, having carefully removed the leg bands by deft circular motions of his arm following one another uninterruptedly, the man hung the leg bands up on some pegs fixed above his head. Then he took out a knife, cut something, closed the knife, placed it under the head of his bed, and, seating himself comfortably, clasped his arms round his lifted knees and fixed his eyes on Pierre. The latter was conscious of something pleasant, comforting, and well-rounded in these deft movements, in the mans well-ordered arrangements in his corner, and even in his very smell, and he looked at the man without taking his eyes from him. Youve seen a lot of trouble, sir, eh? the little man suddenly said. And there was so much kindliness and simplicity in his singsong voice that Pierre tried to reply, but his jaw trembled and he felt tears rising to his eyes. The little fellow, giving Pierre no time to betray his confusion, instantly continued in the same pleasant tones: Eh, lad, dont fret! said he, in the tender singsong caressing voice old Russian peasant women employ. Dont fret, friend”˜suffer an hour, live for an age! thats how it is, my dear fellow. And here we live, thank heaven, without offense. Among these folk, too, there are good men as well as bad, said he, and still speaking, he turned on his knees with a supple movement, got up, coughed, and went off to another part of the shed. Eh, you rascal! Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at the other end of the shed. So youve come, you rascal? She remembers... Now, now, thatll do! And the soldier, pushing away a little dog that was jumping up at him, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something wrapped in a rag. Here, eat a bit, sir, said he, resuming his former respectful tone as he unwrapped and offered Pierre some baked potatoes. We had soup for dinner and the potatoes are grand! Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed extremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat. Well, are they all right? said the soldier with a smile. You should do like this. He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato into two equal halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on it from the rag, and handed it to Pierre. The potatoes are grand! he said once more. Eat some like that! Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better. Oh, Im all right, said he, but why did they shoot those poor fellows? The last one was hardly twenty. Tss, tt...! said the little man. Ah, what a sin... what a sin! he added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in his mouth and flew out involuntarily he went on: How was it, sir, that you stayed in Moscow? I didnt think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally, replied Pierre. And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house? No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, and tried me as an incendiary. Where theres law theres injustice, put in the little man. And have you been here long? Pierre asked as he munched the last of the potato. I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow. Why, are you a soldier then? Yes, we are soldiers of the Ãpsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We werent told anything. There were some twenty of us lying there. We had no idea, never guessed at all. And do you feel sad here? Pierre inquired. How can one help it, lad? My name is PlatÃ³n, and the surname is KaratÃ¡ev, he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to address him. They call me ˜little falcon in the regiment. How is one to help feeling sad? Moscow”shes the mother of cities. How can one see all this and not feel sad? But ˜the maggot gnaws the cabbage, yet dies first; thats what the old folks used to tell us, he added rapidly. What? What did you say? asked Pierre. Who? I? said KaratÃ¡ev. I say things happen not as we plan but as God judges, he replied, thinking that he was repeating what he had said before, and immediately continued: Well, and you, have you a family estate, sir? And a house? So you have abundance, then? And a housewife? And your old parents, are they still living? he asked. And though it was too dark for Pierre to see, he felt that a suppressed smile of kindliness puckered the soldiers lips as he put these questions. He seemed grieved that Pierre had no parents, especially that he had no mother. A wife for counsel, a mother-in-law for welcome, but theres none as dear as ones own mother! said he. Well, and have you little ones? he went on asking. Again Pierres negative answer seemed to distress him, and he hastened to add: Never mind! Youre young folks yet, and please God may still have some. The great thing is to live in harmony.... But its all the same now, Pierre could not help saying. Ah, my dear fellow! rejoined KaratÃ¡ev, never decline a prison or a beggars sack! He seated himself more comfortably and coughed, evidently preparing to tell a long story. Well, my dear fellow, I was still living at home, he began. We had a well-to-do homestead, plenty of land, we peasants lived well and our house was one to thank God for. When Father and we went out mowing there were seven of us. We lived well. We were real peasants. It so happened... And PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev told a long story of how he had gone into someones copse to take wood, how he had been caught by the keeper, had been tried, flogged, and sent to serve as a soldier. Well, lad, and a smile changed the tone of his voice, we thought it was a misfortune but it turned out a blessing! If it had not been for my sin, my brother would have had to go as a soldier. But he, my younger brother, had five little ones, while I, you see, only left a wife behind. We had a little girl, but God took her before I went as a soldier. I come home on leave and Ill tell you how it was, I look and see that they are living better than before. The yard full of cattle, the women at home, two brothers away earning wages, and only Michael the youngest, at home. Father, he says, ˜All my children are the same to me: it hurts the same whichever finger gets bitten. But if PlatÃ³n hadnt been shaved for a soldier, Michael would have had to go. called us all to him and, will you believe it, placed us in front of the icons. ˜Michael, he says, ˜come here and bow down to his feet; and you, young woman, you bow down too; and you, grandchildren, also bow down before him! Do you understand? he says. Thats how it is, dear fellow. Fate looks for a head. But we are always judging, ˜thats not well”thats not right! Our luck is like water in a dragnet: you pull at it and it bulges, but when youve drawn it out its empty! Thats how it is. And PlatÃ³n shifted his seat on the straw. After a short silence he rose. Well, I think you must be sleepy, said he, and began rapidly crossing himself and repeating: Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us and save us! he concluded, then bowed to the ground, got up, sighed, and sat down again on his heap of straw. Thats the way. Lay me down like a stone, O God, and raise me up like a loaf, he muttered as he lay down, pulling his coat over him. What prayer was that you were saying? asked Pierre. Eh? murmured PlatÃ³n, who had almost fallen asleep. What was I saying? I was praying. Dont you pray? Yes, I do, said Pierre. But what was that you said: Frola and Lavra? Well, of course, replied PlatÃ³n quickly, the horses saints. One must pity the animals too. Eh, the rascal! Now youve curled up and got warm, you daughter of a bitch! said KaratÃ¡ev, touching the dog that lay at his feet, and again turning over he fell asleep immediately. Sounds of crying and screaming came from somewhere in the distance outside, and flames were visible through the cracks of the shed, but inside it was quiet and dark. For a long time Pierre did not sleep, but lay with eyes open in the darkness, listening to the regular snoring of PlatÃ³n who lay beside him, and he felt that the world that had been shattered was once more stirring in his soul with a new beauty and on new and unshakable foundations. CHAPTER XIII Twenty-three soldiers, three officers, and two officials were confined in the shed in which Pierre had been placed and where he remained for four weeks. When Pierre remembered them afterwards they all seemed misty figures to him except PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev, who always remained in his mind a most vivid and precious memory and the personification of everything Russian, kindly, and round. When Pierre saw his neighbor next morning at dawn the first impression of him, as of something round, was fully confirmed: PlatÃ³ns whole figure”in a French overcoat girdled with a cord, a soldiers cap, and bast shoes”was round. His head was quite round, his back, chest, shoulders, and even his arms, which he held as if ever ready to embrace something, were rounded, his pleasant smile and his large, gentle brown eyes were also round. PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev must have been fifty, judging by his stories of campaigns he had been in, told as by an old soldier. He did not himself know his age and was quite unable to determine it. But his brilliantly white, strong teeth which showed in two unbroken semicircles when he laughed”as he often did”were all sound and good, there was not a gray hair in his beard or on his head, and his whole body gave an impression of suppleness and especially of firmness and endurance. His face, despite its fine, rounded wrinkles, had an expression of innocence and youth, his voice was pleasant and musical. But the chief peculiarity of his speech was its directness and appositeness. It was evident that he never considered what he had said or was going to say, and consequently the rapidity and justice of his intonation had an irresistible persuasiveness. His physical strength and agility during the first days of his imprisonment were such that he seemed not to know what fatigue and sickness meant. Every night before lying down, he said: Lord, lay me down as a stone and raise me up as a loaf! and every morning on getting up, he said: I lay down and curled up, I get up and shake myself. And indeed he only had to lie down, to fall asleep like a stone, and he only had to shake himself, to be ready without a moments delay for some work, just as children are ready to play directly they awake. He could do everything, not very well but not badly. He baked, cooked, sewed, planed, and mended boots. He was always busy, and only at night allowed himself conversation”of which he was fond”and songs. He did not sing like a trained singer who knows he is listened to, but like the birds, evidently giving vent to the sounds in the same way that one stretches oneself or walks about to get rid of stiffness, and the sounds were always high-pitched, mournful, delicate, and almost feminine, and his face at such times was very serious. Having been taken prisoner and allowed his beard to grow, he seemed to have thrown off all that had been forced upon him”everything military and alien to himself”and had returned to his former peasant habits. A soldier on leave”a shirt outside breeches, he would say. He did not like talking about his life as a soldier, though he did not complain, and often mentioned that he had not been flogged once during the whole of his army service. When he related anything it was generally some old and evidently precious memory of his Christian life, as he called his peasant existence. The proverbs, of which his talk was full, were for the most part not the coarse and indecent saws soldiers employ, but those folk sayings which taken without a context seem so insignificant, but when used appositely suddenly acquire a significance of profound wisdom. He would often say the exact opposite of what he had said on a previous occasion, yet both would be right. He liked to talk and he talked well, adorning his speech with terms of endearment and with folk sayings which Pierre thought he invented himself, but the chief charm of his talk lay in the fact that the commonest events”sometimes just such as Pierre had witnessed without taking notice of them”assumed in KaratÃ¡evs a character of solemn fitness. He liked to hear the folk tales one of the soldiers used to tell of an evening (they were always the same), but most of all he liked to hear stories of real life. He would smile joyfully when listening to such stories, now and then putting in a word or asking a question to make the moral beauty of what he was told clear to himself. KaratÃ¡ev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre understood them, but loved and lived affectionately with everything life brought him in contact with, particularly with man”not any particular man, but those with whom he happened to be. He loved his dog, his comrades, the French, and Pierre who was his neighbor, but Pierre felt that in spite of KaratÃ¡evs affectionate tenderness for him (by which he unconsciously gave Pierres spiritual life its due) he would not have grieved for a moment at parting from him. And Pierre began to feel in the same way toward KaratÃ¡ev. To all the other prisoners PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev seemed a most ordinary soldier. They called him little falcon or PlatÃ³sha, chaffed him good-naturedly, and sent him on errands. But to Pierre he always remained what he had seemed that first night: an unfathomable, rounded, eternal personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth. PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev knew nothing by heart except his prayers. When he began to speak he seemed not to know how he would conclude. Sometimes Pierre, struck by the meaning of his words, would ask him to repeat them, but PlatÃ³n could never recall what he had said a moment before, just as he never could repeat to Pierre the words of his favorite song: native and birch tree and my heart is sick occurred in it, but when spoken and not sung, no meaning could be got out of it. He did not, and could not, understand the meaning of words apart from their context. Every word and action of his was the manifestation of an activity unknown to him, which was his life. But his life, as he regarded it, had no meaning as a separate thing. It had meaning only as part of a whole of which he was always conscious. His words and actions flowed from him as evenly, inevitably, and spontaneously as fragrance exhales from a flower. He could not understand the value or significance of any word or deed taken separately. CHAPTER XIV When Princess Mary heard from Nicholas that her brother was with the RostÃ³vs at YaroslÃ¡vl she at once prepared to go there, in spite of her aunts efforts to dissuade her”and not merely to go herself but to take her nephew with her. Whether it were difficult or easy, possible or impossible, she did not ask and did not want to know: it was her duty, not only to herself, to be near her brother who was perhaps dying, but to do everything possible to take his son to him, and so she prepared to set off. That she had not heard from Prince Andrew himself, Princess Mary attributed to his being too weak to write or to his considering the long journey too hard and too dangerous for her and his son. In a few days Princess Mary was ready to start. Her equipages were the huge family coach in which she had traveled to VorÃ³nezh, a semiopen trap, and a baggage cart. With her traveled Mademoiselle Bourienne, little Nicholas and his tutor, her old nurse, three maids, TÃkhon, and a young footman and courier her aunt had sent to accompany her. The usual route through Moscow could not be thought of, and the roundabout way Princess Mary was obliged to take through LÃpetsk, RyazÃ¡n, VladÃmir, and ShÃºya was very long and, as post horses were not everywhere obtainable, very difficult, and near RyazÃ¡n where the French were said to have shown themselves was even dangerous. During this difficult journey Mademoiselle Bourienne, Dessalles, and Princess Marys servants were astonished at her energy and firmness of spirit. She went to bed later and rose earlier than any of them, and no difficulties daunted her. Thanks to her activity and energy, which infected her fellow travelers, they approached YaroslÃ¡vl by the end of the second week. The last days of her stay in VorÃ³nezh had been the happiest of her life. Her love for RostÃ³v no longer tormented or agitated her. It filled her whole soul, had become an integral part of herself, and she no longer struggled against it. Latterly she had become convinced that she loved and was beloved, though she never said this definitely to herself in words. She had become convinced of it at her last interview with Nicholas, when he had come to tell her that her brother was with the RostÃ³vs. Not by a single word had Nicholas alluded to the fact that Prince Andrews relations with NatÃ¡sha might, if he recovered, be renewed, but Princess Mary saw by his face that he knew and thought of this. Yet in spite of that, his relation to her”considerate, delicate, and loving”not only remained unchanged, but it sometimes seemed to Princess Mary that he was even glad that the family connection between them allowed him to express his friendship more freely. She knew that she loved for the first and only time in her life and felt that she was beloved, and was happy in regard to it. But this happiness on one side of her spiritual nature did not prevent her feeling grief for her brother with full force; on the contrary, that spiritual tranquility on the one side made it the more possible for her to give full play to her feeling for her brother. That feeling was so strong at the moment of leaving VorÃ³nezh that those who saw her off, as they looked at her careworn, despairing face, felt sure she would fall ill on the journey. But the very difficulties and preoccupations of the journey, which she took so actively in hand, saved her for a while from her grief and gave her strength. As always happens when traveling, Princess Mary thought only of the journey itself, forgetting its object. But as she approached YaroslÃ¡vl the thought of what might await her there”not after many days, but that very evening”again presented itself to her and her agitation increased to its utmost limit. The courier who had been sent on in advance to find out where the RostÃ³vs were staying in YaroslÃ¡vl, and in what condition Prince Andrew was, when he met the big coach just entering the town gates was appalled by the terrible pallor of the princess face that looked out at him from the window. I have found out everything, your excellency: the RostÃ³vs are staying at the merchant BrÃ³nnikovs house, in the Square not far from here, right above the VÃ³lga, said the courier. Princess Mary looked at him with frightened inquiry, not understanding why he did not reply to what she chiefly wanted to know: how was her brother? Mademoiselle Bourienne put that question for her. How is the prince? she asked. His excellency is staying in the same house with them. Then he is alive, thought Princess Mary, and asked in a low voice: How is he? The servants say he is still the same. What still the same might mean Princess Mary did not ask, but with an unnoticed glance at little seven-year-old Nicholas, who was sitting in front of her looking with pleasure at the town, she bowed her head and did not raise it again till the heavy coach, rumbling, shaking and swaying, came to a stop. The carriage steps clattered as they were let down. The carriage door was opened. On the left there was water”a great river”and on the right a porch. There were people at the entrance: servants, and a rosy girl with a large plait of black hair, smiling as it seemed to Princess Mary in an unpleasantly affected way. (This was SÃ³nya.) Princess Mary ran up the steps. This way, this way! said the girl, with the same artificial smile, and the princess found herself in the hall facing an elderly woman of Oriental type, who came rapidly to meet her with a look of emotion. This was the countess. She embraced Princess Mary and kissed her. Mon enfant! she muttered, je vous aime et vous connais depuis longtemps. * * My child! I love you and have known you a long time. Despite her excitement, Princess Mary realized that this was the countess and that it was necessary to say something to her. Hardly knowing how she did it, she contrived to utter a few polite phrases in French in the same tone as those that had been addressed to her, and asked: How is he? The doctor says that he is not in danger, said the countess, but as she spoke she raised her eyes with a sigh, and her gesture conveyed a contradiction of her words. Where is he? Can I see him”can I? asked the princess. One moment, Princess, one moment, my dear! Is this his son? said the countess, turning to little Nicholas who was coming in with Dessalles. There will be room for everybody, this is a big house. Oh, what a lovely boy! The countess took Princess Mary into the drawing room, where SÃ³nya was talking to Mademoiselle Bourienne. The countess caressed the boy, and the old count came in and welcomed the princess. He had changed very much since Princess Mary had last seen him. Then he had been a brisk, cheerful, self-assured old man; now he seemed a pitiful, bewildered person. While talking to Princess Mary he continually looked round as if asking everyone whether he was doing the right thing. After the destruction of Moscow and of his property, thrown out of his accustomed groove he seemed to have lost the sense of his own significance and to feel that there was no longer a place for him in life. In spite of her one desire to see her brother as soon as possible, and her vexation that at the moment when all she wanted was to see him they should be trying to entertain her and pretending to admire her nephew, the princess noticed all that was going on around her and felt the necessity of submitting, for a time, to this new order of things which she had entered. She knew it to be necessary, and though it was hard for her she was not vexed with these people. This is my niece, said the count, introducing SÃ³nya”You dont know her, Princess? Princess Mary turned to SÃ³nya and, trying to stifle the hostile feeling that arose in her toward the girl, she kissed her. But she felt oppressed by the fact that the mood of everyone around her was so far from what was in her own heart. Where is he? she asked again, addressing them all. He is downstairs. NatÃ¡sha is with him, answered SÃ³nya, flushing. We have sent to ask. I think you must be tired, Princess. Tears of vexation showed themselves in Princess Marys eyes. She turned away and was about to ask the countess again how to go to him, when light, impetuous, and seemingly buoyant steps were heard at the door. The princess looked round and saw NatÃ¡sha coming in, almost running”that NatÃ¡sha whom she had liked so little at their meeting in Moscow long since. But hardly had the princess looked at NatÃ¡shas face before she realized that here was a real comrade in her grief, and consequently a friend. She ran to meet her, embraced her, and began to cry on her shoulder. As soon as NatÃ¡sha, sitting at the head of Prince Andrews bed, heard of Princess Marys arrival, she softly left his room and hastened to her with those swift steps that had sounded buoyant to Princess Mary. There was only one expression on her agitated face when she ran into the drawing room”that of love”boundless love for him, for her, and for all that was near to the man she loved; and of pity, suffering for others, and passionate desire to give herself entirely to helping them. It was plain that at that moment there was in NatÃ¡shas heart no thought of herself or of her own relations with Prince Andrew. Princess Mary, with her acute sensibility, understood all this at the first glance at NatÃ¡shas face, and wept on her shoulder with sorrowful pleasure. Come, come to him, Mary, said NatÃ¡sha, leading her into the other room. Princess Mary raised her head, dried her eyes, and turned to NatÃ¡sha. She felt that from her she would be able to understand and learn everything. How... she began her question but stopped short. She felt that it was impossible to ask, or to answer, in words. NatÃ¡shas face and eyes would have to tell her all more clearly and profoundly. NatÃ¡sha was gazing at her, but seemed afraid and in doubt whether to say all she knew or not; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes which penetrated into the very depths of her heart, it was impossible not to tell the whole truth which she saw. And suddenly, NatÃ¡shas lips twitched, ugly wrinkles gathered round her mouth, and covering her face with her hands she burst into sobs. Princess Mary understood. But she still hoped, and asked, in words she herself did not trust: But how is his wound? What is his general condition? You, you... will see, was all NatÃ¡sha could say. They sat a little while downstairs near his room till they had left off crying and were able to go to him with calm faces. How has his whole illness gone? Is it long since he grew worse? When did this happen? Princess Mary inquired. NatÃ¡sha told her that at first there had been danger from his feverish condition and the pain he suffered, but at TrÃ³itsa that had passed and the doctor had only been afraid of gangrene. That danger had also passed. When they reached YaroslÃ¡vl the wound had begun to fester (NatÃ¡sha knew all about such things as festering) and the doctor had said that the festering might take a normal course. Then fever set in, but the doctor had said the fever was not very serious. But two days ago this suddenly happened, said NatÃ¡sha, struggling with her sobs. I dont know why, but you will see what he is like. Is he weaker? Thinner? asked the princess. No, its not that, but worse. You will see. O, Mary, he is too good, he cannot, cannot live, because... CHAPTER XV When NatÃ¡sha opened Prince Andrews door with a familiar movement and let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the sobs in her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now tried to remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at him without tears. The princess understood what NatÃ¡sha had meant by the words: two days ago this suddenly happened. She understood those words to mean that he had suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs of approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in imagination Andrews face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle, mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender words to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and that she would not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his presence. Yet sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs rose higher and higher in her throat as she more and more clearly distinguished his form and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his features, and then she saw his face and met his gaze. He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand he held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate mustache he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them as they entered. On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Marys pace suddenly slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and eyes. But in what am I to blame? she asked herself. And his cold, stern look replied: Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I... In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there was an almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and NatÃ¡sha. He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont. How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here? said he in a voice as calm and aloof as his look. Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror into Princess Marys heart as the tone of his voice. And have you brought little Nicholas? he asked in the same slow, quiet manner and with an obvious effort to remember. How are you now? said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was saying. That, my dear, you must ask the doctor, he replied, and again making an evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his words clearly did not correspond to his thoughts): Merci, chÃ¨re amie, dÃªtre venue. * * Thank you for coming, my dear. Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something else”something the living did not and could not understand”and which wholly occupied his mind. There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together, said he, breaking the silence and pointing to NatÃ¡sha. She looks after me all the time. Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that, before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important, had been revealed to him. The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off. Mary came by way of RyazÃ¡n, said NatÃ¡sha. Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister Mary, and only after calling her so in his presence did NatÃ¡sha notice it herself. Really? he asked. They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that... NatÃ¡sha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was making an effort to listen, but could not do so. Yes, they say its burned, he said. Its a great pity, and he gazed straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers. And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary? Prince Andrew suddenly said, evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. He wrote here that he took a great liking to you, he went on simply and calmly, evidently unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for living people. If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you to get married, he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having found words he had long been seeking. Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as a proof of how far away he now was from everything living. Why talk of me? she said quietly and glanced at NatÃ¡sha. NatÃ¡sha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again silent. Andrew, would you like... Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling voice, would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking about you! Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last means of arousing him. Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Is he quite well? When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrews room he looked at his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to say to him. When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began to cry. He looked at her attentively. Is it about Nicholas? he asked. Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping. Mary, you know the Gosp... but he broke off. What did you say? Nothing. You mustnt cry here, he said, looking at her with the same cold expression. When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their point of view. Yes, to them it must seem sad! he thought. But how simple it is. The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father feedeth them, he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary; but no, they will take it their own way, they wont understand! They cant understand that all those feelings they prize so”all our feelings, all those ideas that seem so important to us, are unnecessary. We cannot understand one another, and he remained silent. Prince Andrews little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge, observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between his father, Mary, and NatÃ¡sha, than he had then. He understood it completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up to NatÃ¡sha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled and leaning his head against her he began to cry. After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to NatÃ¡sha of whom he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and shyly. When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what NatÃ¡shas face had told her. She did not speak any more to NatÃ¡sha of hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so evident. CHAPTER XVI Not only did Prince Andrew know he would die, but he felt that he was dying and was already half dead. He was conscious of an aloofness from everything earthly and a strange and joyous lightness of existence. Without haste or agitation he awaited what was coming. That inexorable, eternal, distant, and unknown the presence of which he had felt continually all his life”was now near to him and, by the strange lightness he experienced, almost comprehensible and palpable.... Formerly he had feared the end. He had twice experienced that terribly tormenting fear of death”the end”but now he no longer understood that fear. He had felt it for the first time when the shell spun like a top before him, and he looked at the fallow field, the bushes, and the sky, and knew that he was face to face with death. When he came to himself after being wounded and the flower of eternal, unfettered love had instantly unfolded itself in his soul as if freed from the bondage of life that had restrained it, he no longer feared death and ceased to think about it. During the hours of solitude, suffering, and partial delirium he spent after he was wounded, the more deeply he penetrated into the new principle of eternal love revealed to him, the more he unconsciously detached himself from earthly life. To love everything and everybody and always to sacrifice oneself for love meant not to love anyone, not to live this earthly life. And the more imbued he became with that principle of love, the more he renounced life and the more completely he destroyed that dreadful barrier which”in the absence of such love”stands between life and death. When during those first days he remembered that he would have to die, he said to himself: Well, what of it? So much the better! But after the night in MytÃshchi when, half delirious, he had seen her for whom he longed appear before him and, having pressed her hand to his lips, had shed gentle, happy tears, love for a particular woman again crept unobserved into his heart and once more bound him to life. And joyful and agitating thoughts began to occupy his mind. Recalling the moment at the ambulance station when he had seen KurÃ¡gin, he could not now regain the feeling he then had, but was tormented by the question whether KurÃ¡gin was alive. And he dared not inquire. His illness pursued its normal physical course, but what NatÃ¡sha referred to when she said: This suddenly happened, had occurred two days before Princess Mary arrived. It was the last spiritual struggle between life and death, in which death gained the victory. It was the unexpected realization of the fact that he still valued life as presented to him in the form of his love for NatÃ¡sha, and a last, though ultimately vanquished, attack of terror before the unknown. It was evening. As usual after dinner he was slightly feverish, and his thoughts were preternaturally clear. SÃ³nya was sitting by the table. He began to doze. Suddenly a feeling of happiness seized him. Ah, she has come! thought he. And so it was: in SÃ³nyas place sat NatÃ¡sha who had just come in noiselessly. Since she had begun looking after him, he had always experienced this physical consciousness of her nearness. She was sitting in an armchair placed sideways, screening the light of the candle from him, and was knitting a stocking. She had learned to knit stockings since Prince Andrew had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old nurses who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in the knitting of stockings. The needles clicked lightly in her slender, rapidly moving hands, and he could clearly see the thoughtful profile of her drooping face. She moved, and the ball rolled off her knees. She started, glanced round at him, and screening the candle with her hand stooped carefully with a supple and exact movement, picked up the ball, and regained her former position. He looked at her without moving and saw that she wanted to draw a deep breath after stooping, but refrained from doing so and breathed cautiously. At the TrÃ³itsa monastery they had spoken of the past, and he had told her that if he lived he would always thank God for his wound which had brought them together again, but after that they never spoke of the future. Can it or can it not be? he now thought as he looked at her and listened to the light click of the steel needles. Can fate have brought me to her so strangely only for me to die?... Is it possible that the truth of life has been revealed to me only to show me that I have spent my life in falsity? I love her more than anything in the world! But what am I to do if I love her? he thought, and he involuntarily groaned, from a habit acquired during his sufferings. On hearing that sound NatÃ¡sha put down the stocking, leaned nearer to him, and suddenly, noticing his shining eyes, stepped lightly up to him and bent over him. You are not asleep? No, I have been looking at you a long time. I felt you come in. No one else gives me that sense of soft tranquillity that you do... that light. I want to weep for joy. NatÃ¡sha drew closer to him. Her face shone with rapturous joy. NatÃ¡sha, I love you too much! More than anything in the world. And I!”She turned away for an instant. Why too much? she asked. Why too much?... Well, what do you, what do you feel in your soul, your whole soul”shall I live? What do you think? I am sure of it, sure! NatÃ¡sha almost shouted, taking hold of both his hands with a passionate movement. He remained silent awhile. How good it would be! and taking her hand he kissed it. NatÃ¡sha felt happy and agitated, but at once remembered that this would not do and that he had to be quiet. But you have not slept, she said, repressing her joy. Try to sleep... please! He pressed her hand and released it, and she went back to the candle and sat down again in her former position. Twice she turned and looked at him, and her eyes met his beaming at her. She set herself a task on her stocking and resolved not to turn round till it was finished. Soon he really shut his eyes and fell asleep. He did not sleep long and suddenly awoke with a start and in a cold perspiration. As he fell asleep he had still been thinking of the subject that now always occupied his mind”about life and death, and chiefly about death. He felt himself nearer to it. Love? What is love? he thought. Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source. These thoughts seemed to him comforting. But they were only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they were too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun. And there was the former agitation and obscurity. He fell asleep. He dreamed that he was lying in the room he really was in, but that he was quite well and unwounded. Many various, indifferent, and insignificant people appeared before him. He talked to them and discussed something trivial. They were preparing to go away somewhere. Prince Andrew dimly realized that all this was trivial and that he had more important cares, but he continued to speak, surprising them by empty witticisms. Gradually, unnoticed, all these persons began to disappear and a single question, that of the closed door, superseded all else. He rose and went to the door to bolt and lock it. Everything depended on whether he was, or was not, in time to lock it. He went, and tried to hurry, but his legs refused to move and he knew he would not be in time to lock the door though he painfully strained all his powers. He was seized by an agonizing fear. And that fear was the fear of death. It stood behind the door. But just when he was clumsily creeping toward the door, that dreadful something on the other side was already pressing against it and forcing its way in. Something not human”death”was breaking in through that door, and had to be kept out. He seized the door, making a final effort to hold it back”to lock it was no longer possible”but his efforts were weak and clumsy and the door, pushed from behind by that terror, opened and closed again. Once again it pushed from outside. His last superhuman efforts were vain and both halves of the door noiselessly opened. It entered, and it was death, and Prince Andrew died. But at the instant he died, Prince Andrew remembered that he was asleep, and at the very instant he died, having made an effort, he awoke. Yes, it was death! I died”and woke up. Yes, death is an awakening! And all at once it grew light in his soul and the veil that had till then concealed the unknown was lifted from his spiritual vision. He felt as if powers till then confined within him had been liberated, and that strange lightness did not again leave him. When, waking in a cold perspiration, he moved on the divan, NatÃ¡sha went up and asked him what was the matter. He did not answer and looked at her strangely, not understanding. That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Marys arrival. From that day, as the doctor expressed it, the wasting fever assumed a malignant character, but what the doctor said did not interest NatÃ¡sha, she saw the terrible moral symptoms which to her were more convincing. From that day an awakening from life came to Prince Andrew together with his awakening from sleep. And compared to the duration of life it did not seem to him slower than an awakening from sleep compared to the duration of a dream. There was nothing terrible or violent in this comparatively slow awakening. His last days and hours passed in an ordinary and simple way. Both Princess Mary and NatÃ¡sha, who did not leave him, felt this. They did not weep or shudder and during these last days they themselves felt that they were not attending on him (he was no longer there, he had left them) but on what reminded them most closely of him”his body. Both felt this so strongly that the outward and terrible side of death did not affect them and they did not feel it necessary to foment their grief. Neither in his presence nor out of it did they weep, nor did they ever talk to one another about him. They felt that they could not express in words what they understood. They both saw that he was sinking slowly and quietly, deeper and deeper, away from them, and they both knew that this had to be so and that it was right. He confessed, and received communion: everyone came to take leave of him. When they brought his son to him, he pressed his lips to the boys and turned away, not because he felt it hard and sad (Princess Mary and NatÃ¡sha understood that) but simply because he thought it was all that was required of him, but when they told him to bless the boy, he did what was demanded and looked round as if asking whether there was anything else he should do. When the last convulsions of the body, which the spirit was leaving, occurred, Princess Mary and NatÃ¡sha were present. Is it over? said Princess Mary when his body had for a few minutes lain motionless, growing cold before them. NatÃ¡sha went up, looked at the dead eyes, and hastened to close them. She closed them but did not kiss them, but clung to that which reminded her most nearly of him”his body. Where has he gone? Where is he now?... When the body, washed and dressed, lay in the coffin on a table, everyone came to take leave of him and they all wept. Little Nicholas cried because his heart was rent by painful perplexity. The countess and SÃ³nya cried from pity for NatÃ¡sha and because he was no more. The old count cried because he felt that before long, he, too, must take the same terrible step. NatÃ¡sha and Princess Mary also wept now, but not because of their own personal grief; they wept with a reverent and softening emotion which had taken possession of their souls at the consciousness of the simple and solemn mystery of death that had been accomplished in their presence. BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812 CHAPTER I Mans mind cannot grasp the causes of events in their completeness, but the desire to find those causes is implanted in mans soul. And without considering the multiplicity and complexity of the conditions any one of which taken separately may seem to be the cause, he snatches at the first approximation to a cause that seems to him intelligible and says: This is the cause! In historical events (where the actions of men are the subject of observation) the first and most primitive approximation to present itself was the will of the gods and, after that, the will of those who stood in the most prominent position”the heroes of history. But we need only penetrate to the essence of any historic event”which lies in the activity of the general mass of men who take part in it”to be convinced that the will of the historic hero does not control the actions of the mass but is itself continually controlled. It may seem to be a matter of indifference whether we understand the meaning of historical events this way or that; yet there is the same difference between a man who says that the people of the West moved on the East because Napoleon wished it and a man who says that this happened because it had to happen, as there is between those who declared that the earth was stationary and that the planets moved round it and those who admitted that they did not know what upheld the earth, but knew there were laws directing its movement and that of the other planets. There is, and can be, no cause of an historical event except the one cause of all causes. But there are laws directing events, and some of these laws are known to us while we are conscious of others we cannot comprehend. The discovery of these laws is only possible when we have quite abandoned the attempt to find the cause in the will of some one man, just as the discovery of the laws of the motion of the planets was possible only when men abandoned the conception of the fixity of the earth. The historians consider that, next to the battle of BorodinÃ³ and the occupation of Moscow by the enemy and its destruction by fire, the most important episode of the war of 1812 was the movement of the Russian army from the RyazÃ¡na to the KalÃºga road and to the TarÃºtino camp”the so-called flank march across the KrÃ¡snaya PakhrÃ¡ River. They ascribe the glory of that achievement of genius to different men and dispute as to whom the honor is due. Even foreign historians, including the French, acknowledge the genius of the Russian commanders when they speak of that flank march. But it is hard to understand why military writers, and following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon. In the first place it is hard to understand where the profundity and genius of this movement lay, for not much mental effort was needed to see that the best position for an army when it is not being attacked is where there are most provisions; and even a dull boy of thirteen could have guessed that the best position for an army after its retreat from Moscow in 1812 was on the KalÃºga road. So it is impossible to understand by what reasoning the historians reach the conclusion that this maneuver was a profound one. And it is even more difficult to understand just why they think that this maneuver was calculated to save Russia and destroy the French; for this flank march, had it been preceded, accompanied, or followed by other circumstances, might have proved ruinous to the Russians and salutary for the French. If the position of the Russian army really began to improve from the time of that march, it does not at all follow that the march was the cause of it. That flank march might not only have failed to give any advantage to the Russian army, but might in other circumstances have led to its destruction. What would have happened had Moscow not burned down? If Murat had not lost sight of the Russians? If Napoleon had not remained inactive? If the Russian army at KrÃ¡snaya PakhrÃ¡ had given battle as Bennigsen and Barclay advised? What would have happened had the French attacked the Russians while they were marching beyond the PakhrÃ¡? What would have happened if on approaching TarÃºtino, Napoleon had attacked the Russians with but a tenth of the energy he had shown when he attacked them at SmolÃ©nsk? What would have happened had the French moved on Petersburg?... In any of these eventualities the flank march that brought salvation might have proved disastrous. The third and most incomprehensible thing is that people studying history deliberately avoid seeing that this flank march cannot be attributed to any one man, that no one ever foresaw it, and that in reality, like the retreat from FilÃ, it did not suggest itself to anyone in its entirety, but resulted”moment by moment, step by step, event by event”from an endless number of most diverse circumstances and was only seen in its entirety when it had been accomplished and belonged to the past. At the council at FilÃ the prevailing thought in the minds of the Russian commanders was the one naturally suggesting itself, namely, a direct retreat by the NÃzhni road. In proof of this there is the fact that the majority of the council voted for such a retreat, and above all there is the well-known conversation after the council, between the commander in chief and LanskÃ³y, who was in charge of the commissariat department. LanskÃ³y informed the commander in chief that the army supplies were for the most part stored along the OkÃ¡ in the TÃºla and RyazÃ¡n provinces, and that if they retreated on NÃzhni the army would be separated from its supplies by the broad river OkÃ¡, which cannot be crossed early in winter. This was the first indication of the necessity of deviating from what had previously seemed the most natural course”a direct retreat on NÃzhni-NÃ³vgorod. The army turned more to the south, along the RyazÃ¡n road and nearer to its supplies. Subsequently the inactivity of the French (who even lost sight of the Russian army), concern for the safety of the arsenal at TÃºla, and especially the advantages of drawing nearer to its supplies caused the army to turn still further south to the TÃºla road. Having crossed over, by a forced march, to the TÃºla road beyond the PakhrÃ¡, the Russian commanders intended to remain at PodÃ³lsk and had no thought of the TarÃºtino position; but innumerable circumstances and the reappearance of French troops who had for a time lost touch with the Russians, and projects of giving battle, and above all the abundance of provisions in KalÃºga province, obliged our army to turn still more to the south and to cross from the TÃºla to the KalÃºga road and go to TarÃºtino, which was between the roads along which those supplies lay. Just as it is impossible to say when it was decided to abandon Moscow, so it is impossible to say precisely when, or by whom, it was decided to move to TarÃºtino. Only when the army had got there, as the result of innumerable and varying forces, did people begin to assure themselves that they had desired this movement and long ago foreseen its result. CHAPTER II The famous flank movement merely consisted in this: after the advance of the French had ceased, the Russian army, which had been continually retreating straight back from the invaders, deviated from that direct course and, not finding itself pursued, was naturally drawn toward the district where supplies were abundant. If instead of imagining to ourselves commanders of genius leading the Russian army, we picture that army without any leaders, it could not have done anything but make a return movement toward Moscow, describing an arc in the direction where most provisions were to be found and where the country was richest. That movement from the NÃzhni to the RyazÃ¡n, TÃºla, and KalÃºga roads was so natural that even the Russian marauders moved in that direction, and demands were sent from Petersburg for KutÃºzov to take his army that way. At TarÃºtino KutÃºzov received what was almost a reprimand from the Emperor for having moved his army along the RyazÃ¡n road, and the Emperors letter indicated to him the very position he had already occupied near KalÃºga. Having rolled like a ball in the direction of the impetus given by the whole campaign and by the battle of BorodinÃ³, the Russian army”when the strength of that impetus was exhausted and no fresh push was received”assumed the position natural to it. KutÃºzovs merit lay, not in any strategic maneuver of genius, as it is called, but in the fact that he alone understood the significance of what had happened. He alone then understood the meaning of the French armys inactivity, he alone continued to assert that the battle of BorodinÃ³ had been a victory, he alone”who as commander in chief might have been expected to be eager to attack”employed his whole strength to restrain the Russian army from useless engagements. The beast wounded at BorodinÃ³ was lying where the fleeing hunter had left him; but whether he was still alive, whether he was strong and merely lying low, the hunter did not know. Suddenly the beast was heard to moan. The moan of that wounded beast (the French army) which betrayed its calamitous condition was the sending of Lauriston to KutÃºzovs camp with overtures for peace. Napoleon, with his usual assurance that whatever entered his head was right, wrote to KutÃºzov the first words that occurred to him, though they were meaningless. MONSIEUR LE PRINCE KOUTOUZOV: I am sending one of my adjutants-general to discuss several interesting questions with you. I beg your Highness to credit what he says to you, especially when he expresses the sentiment of esteem and special regard I have long entertained for your person. This letter having no other object, I pray God, monsieur le prince Koutouzov, to keep you in His holy and gracious protection! NAPOLEON MOSCOW, OCTOBER 30, 1812 KutÃºzov replied: I should be cursed by posterity were I looked on as the initiator of a settlement of any sort. Such is the present spirit of my nation. But he continued to exert all his powers to restrain his troops from attacking. During the month that the French troops were pillaging in Moscow and the Russian troops were quietly encamped at TarÃºtino, a change had taken place in the relative strength of the two armies”both in spirit and in number”as a result of which the superiority had passed to the Russian side. Though the condition and numbers of the French army were unknown to the Russians, as soon as that change occurred the need of attacking at once showed itself by countless signs. These signs were: Lauristons mission; the abundance of provisions at TarÃºtino; the reports coming in from all sides of the inactivity and disorder of the French; the flow of recruits to our regiments; the fine weather; the long rest the Russian soldiers had enjoyed, and the impatience to do what they had been assembled for, which usually shows itself in an army that has been resting; curiosity as to what the French army, so long lost sight of, was doing; the boldness with which our outposts now scouted close up to the French stationed at TarÃºtino; the news of easy successes gained by peasants and guerrilla troops over the French, the envy aroused by this; the desire for revenge that lay in the heart of every Russian as long as the French were in Moscow, and (above all) a dim consciousness in every soldiers mind that the relative strength of the armies had changed and that the advantage was now on our side. There was a substantial change in the relative strength, and an advance had become inevitable. And at once, as a clock begins to strike and chime as soon as the minute hand has completed a full circle, this change was shown by an increased activity, whirring, and chiming in the higher spheres. CHAPTER III The Russian army was commanded by KutÃºzov and his staff, and also by the Emperor from Petersburg. Before the news of the abandonment of Moscow had been received in Petersburg, a detailed plan of the whole campaign had been drawn up and sent to KutÃºzov for his guidance. Though this plan had been drawn up on the supposition that Moscow was still in our hands, it was approved by the staff and accepted as a basis for action. KutÃºzov only replied that movements arranged from a distance were always difficult to execute. So fresh instructions were sent for the solution of difficulties that might be encountered, as well as fresh people who were to watch KutÃºzovs actions and report upon them. Besides this, the whole staff of the Russian army was now reorganized. The posts left vacant by BagratiÃ³n, who had been killed, and by Barclay, who had gone away in dudgeon, had to be filled. Very serious consideration was given to the question whether it would be better to put A in Bs place and B in Ds, or on the contrary to put D in As place, and so on”as if anything more than As or Bs satisfaction depended on this. As a result of the hostility between KutÃºzov and Bennigsen, his Chief of Staff, the presence of confidential representatives of the Emperor, and these transfers, a more than usually complicated play of parties was going on among the staff of the army. A was undermining B, D was undermining C, and so on in all possible combinations and permutations. In all these plottings the subject of intrigue was generally the conduct of the war, which all these men believed they were directing; but this affair of the war went on independently of them, as it had to go: that is, never in the way people devised, but flowing always from the essential attitude of the masses. Only in the highest spheres did all these schemes, crossings, and interminglings appear to be a true reflection of what had to happen. Prince Michael IlariÃ³novich! (wrote the Emperor on the second of October in a letter that reached KutÃºzov after the battle at TarÃºtino) Since September 2 Moscow has been in the hands of the enemy. Your last reports were written on the twentieth, and during all this time not only has no action been taken against the enemy or for the relief of the ancient capital, but according to your last report you have even retreated farther. SÃ©rpukhov is already occupied by an enemy detachment and TÃºla with its famous arsenal, so indispensable to the army, is in danger. From General Wintzingerodes reports, I see that an enemy corps of ten thousand men is moving on the Petersburg road. Another corps of several thousand men is moving on DmÃtrov. A third has advanced along the VladÃmir road, and a fourth, rather considerable detachment is stationed between RÃºza and MozhÃ¡ysk. Napoleon himself was in Moscow as late as the twenty-fifth. In view of all this information, when the enemy has scattered his forces in large detachments, and with Napoleon and his Guards in Moscow, is it possible that the enemys forces confronting you are so considerable as not to allow of your taking the offensive? On the contrary, he is probably pursuing you with detachments, or at most with an army corps much weaker than the army entrusted to you. It would seem that, availing yourself of these circumstances, you might advantageously attack a weaker one and annihilate him, or at least oblige him to retreat, retaining in our hands an important part of the provinces now occupied by the enemy, and thereby averting danger from TÃºla and other towns in the interior. You will be responsible if the enemy is able to direct a force of any size against Petersburg to threaten this capital in which it has not been possible to retain many troops; for with the army entrusted to you, and acting with resolution and energy, you have ample means to avert this fresh calamity. Remember that you have still to answer to our offended country for the loss of Moscow. You have experienced my readiness to reward you. That readiness will not weaken in me, but I and Russia have a right to expect from you all the zeal, firmness, and success which your intellect, military talent, and the courage of the troops you command justify us in expecting. But by the time this letter, which proved that the real relation of the forces had already made itself felt in Petersburg, was dispatched, KutÃºzov had found himself unable any longer to restrain the army he commanded from attacking and a battle had taken place. On the second of October a Cossack, ShapovÃ¡lov, who was out scouting, killed one hare and wounded another. Following the wounded hare he made his way far into the forest and came upon the left flank of Murats army, encamped there without any precautions. The Cossack laughingly told his comrades how he had almost fallen into the hands of the French. A cornet, hearing the story, informed his commander. The Cossack was sent for and questioned. The Cossack officers wished to take advantage of this chance to capture some horses, but one of the superior officers, who was acquainted with the higher authorities, reported the incident to a general on the staff. The state of things on the staff had of late been exceedingly strained. ErmÃ³lov had been to see Bennigsen a few days previously and had entreated him to use his influence with the commander in chief to induce him to take the offensive. If I did not know you I should think you did not want what you are asking for. I need only advise anything and his Highness is sure to do the opposite, replied Bennigsen. The Cossacks report, confirmed by horse patrols who were sent out, was the final proof that events had matured. The tightly coiled spring was released, the clock began to whirr and the chimes to play. Despite all his supposed power, his intellect, his experience, and his knowledge of men, KutÃºzov”having taken into consideration the Cossacks report, a note from Bennigsen who sent personal reports to the Emperor, the wishes he supposed the Emperor to hold, and the fact that all the generals expressed the same wish”could no longer check the inevitable movement, and gave the order to do what he regarded as useless and harmful”gave his approval, that is, to the accomplished fact. CHAPTER IV Bennigsens note and the Cossacks information that the left flank of the French was unguarded were merely final indications that it was necessary to order an attack, and it was fixed for the fifth of October. On the morning of the fourth of October KutÃºzov signed the dispositions. Toll read them to ErmÃ³lov, asking him to attend to the further arrangements. All right”all right. I havent time just now, replied ErmÃ³lov, and left the hut. The dispositions drawn up by Toll were very good. As in the Austerlitz dispositions, it was written”though not in German this time: The First Column will march here and here, the Second Column will march there and there, and so on; and on paper, all these columns arrived at their places at the appointed time and destroyed the enemy. Everything had been admirably thought out as is usual in dispositions, and as is always the case, not a single column reached its place at the appointed time. When the necessary number of copies of the dispositions had been prepared, an officer was summoned and sent to deliver them to ErmÃ³lov to deal with. A young officer of the Horse Guards, KutÃºzovs orderly, pleased at the importance of the mission entrusted to him, went to ErmÃ³lovs quarters. Gone away, said ErmÃ³lovs orderly. The officer of the Horse Guards went to a general with whom ErmÃ³lov was often to be found. No, and the generals out too. The officer, mounting his horse, rode off to someone else. No, hes gone out. If only they dont make me responsible for this delay! What a nuisance it is! thought the officer, and he rode round the whole camp. One man said he had seen ErmÃ³lov ride past with some other generals, others said he must have returned home. The officer searched till six oclock in the evening without even stopping to eat. ErmÃ³lov was nowhere to be found and no one knew where he was. The officer snatched a little food at a comrades, and rode again to the vanguard to find MilorÃ¡dovich. MilorÃ¡dovich too was away, but here he was told that he had gone to a ball at General KÃkins and that ErmÃ³lov was probably there too. But where is it? Why, there, over at Ã‰chkino, said a Cossack officer, pointing to a country house in the far distance. What, outside our line? Theyve put two regiments as outposts, and theyre having such a spree there, its awful! Two bands and three sets of singers! The officer rode out beyond our lines to Ã‰chkino. While still at a distance he heard as he rode the merry sounds of a soldiers dance song proceeding from the house. In the meadows... in the meadows! he heard, accompanied by whistling and the sound of a torban, drowned every now and then by shouts. These sounds made his spirits rise, but at the same time he was afraid that he would be blamed for not having executed sooner the important order entrusted to him. It was already past eight oclock. He dismounted and went up into the porch of a large country house which had remained intact between the Russian and French forces. In the refreshment room and the hall, footmen were bustling about with wine and viands. Groups of singers stood outside the windows. The officer was admitted and immediately saw all the chief generals of the army together, and among them ErmÃ³lovs big imposing figure. They all had their coats unbuttoned and were standing in a semicircle with flushed and animated faces, laughing loudly. In the middle of the room a short handsome general with a red face was dancing the trepÃ¡k with much spirit and agility. Ha, ha, ha! Bravo, Nicholas IvÃ¡nych! Ha, ha, ha! The officer felt that by arriving with important orders at such a moment he was doubly to blame, and he would have preferred to wait; but one of the generals espied him and, hearing what he had come about, informed ErmÃ³lov. ErmÃ³lov came forward with a frown on his face and, hearing what the officer had to say, took the papers from him without a word. You think he went off just by chance? said a comrade, who was on the staff that evening, to the officer of the Horse Guards, referring to ErmÃ³lov. It was a trick. It was done on purpose to get KonovnÃtsyn into trouble. Youll see what a mess therell be tomorrow. CHAPTER V Next day the decrepit KutÃºzov, having given orders to be called early, said his prayers, dressed, and, with an unpleasant consciousness of having to direct a battle he did not approve of, got into his calÃ¨che and drove from LetashÃ³vka (a village three and a half miles from TarÃºtino) to the place where the attacking columns were to meet. He sat in the calÃ¨che, dozing and waking up by turns, and listening for any sound of firing on the right as an indication that the action had begun. But all was still quiet. A damp dull autumn morning was just dawning. On approaching TarÃºtino KutÃºzov noticed cavalrymen leading their horses to water across the road along which he was driving. KutÃºzov looked at them searchingly, stopped his carriage, and inquired what regiment they belonged to. They belonged to a column that should have been far in front and in ambush long before then. It may be a mistake, thought the old commander in chief. But a little further on he saw infantry regiments with their arms piled and the soldiers, only partly dressed, eating their rye porridge and carrying fuel. He sent for an officer. The officer reported that no order to advance had been received. How! Not rec... KutÃºzov began, but checked himself immediately and sent for a senior officer. Getting out of his calÃ¨che, he waited with drooping head and breathing heavily, pacing silently up and down. When EÃ½khen, the officer of the general staff whom he had summoned, appeared, KutÃºzov went purple in the face, not because that officer was to blame for the mistake, but because he was an object of sufficient importance for him to vent his wrath on. Trembling and panting the old man fell into that state of fury in which he sometimes used to roll on the ground, and he fell upon EÃ½khen, threatening him with his hands, shouting and loading him with gross abuse. Another man, Captain BrÃ³zin, who happened to turn up and who was not at all to blame, suffered the same fate. What sort of another blackguard are you? Ill have you shot! Scoundrels! yelled KutÃºzov in a hoarse voice, waving his arms and reeling. He was suffering physically. He, the commander in chief, a Serene Highness who everybody said possessed powers such as no man had ever had in Russia, to be placed in this position”made the laughingstock of the whole army! I neednt have been in such a hurry to pray about today, or have kept awake thinking everything over all night, thought he to himself. When I was a chit of an officer no one would have dared to mock me so... and now! He was in a state of physical suffering as if from corporal punishment, and could not avoid expressing it by cries of anger and distress. But his strength soon began to fail him, and looking about him, conscious of having said much that was amiss, he again got into his calÃ¨che and drove back in silence. His wrath, once expended, did not return, and blinking feebly he listened to excuses and self-justifications (ErmÃ³lov did not come to see him till the next day) and to the insistence of Bennigsen, KonovnÃtsyn, and Toll that the movement that had miscarried should be executed next day. And once more KutÃºzov had to consent. CHAPTER VI Next day the troops assembled in their appointed places in the evening and advanced during the night. It was an autumn night with dark purple clouds, but no rain. The ground was damp but not muddy, and the troops advanced noiselessly, only occasionally a jingling of the artillery could be faintly heard. The men were forbidden to talk out loud, to smoke their pipes, or to strike a light, and they tried to prevent their horses neighing. The secrecy of the undertaking heightened its charm and they marched gaily. Some columns, supposing they had reached their destination, halted, piled arms, and settled down on the cold ground, but the majority marched all night and arrived at places where they evidently should not have been. Only Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov with his Cossacks (the least important detachment of all) got to his appointed place at the right time. This detachment halted at the outskirts of a forest, on the path leading from the village of StromÃlova to DmÃtrovsk. Toward dawn, Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov, who had dozed off, was awakened by a deserter from the French army being brought to him. This was a Polish sergeant of Poniatowskis corps, who explained in Polish that he had come over because he had been slighted in the service: that he ought long ago to have been made an officer, that he was braver than any of them, and so he had left them and wished to pay them out. He said that Murat was spending the night less than a mile from where they were, and that if they would let him have a convoy of a hundred men he would capture him alive. Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov consulted his fellow officers. The offer was too tempting to be refused. Everyone volunteered to go and everybody advised making the attempt. After much disputing and arguing, Major-General GrÃ©kov with two Cossack regiments decided to go with the Polish sergeant. Now, remember, said Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov to the sergeant at parting, if you have been lying Ill have you hanged like a dog; but if its true you shall have a hundred gold pieces! Without replying, the sergeant, with a resolute air, mounted and rode away with GrÃ©kov whose men had quickly assembled. They disappeared into the forest, and Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov, having seen GrÃ©kov off, returned, shivering from the freshness of the early dawn and excited by what he had undertaken on his own responsibility, and began looking at the enemy camp, now just visible in the deceptive light of dawn and the dying campfires. Our columns ought to have begun to appear on an open declivity to his right. He looked in that direction, but though the columns would have been visible quite far off, they were not to be seen. It seemed to the count that things were beginning to stir in the French camp, and his keen-sighted adjutant confirmed this. Oh, it is really too late, said Count OrlÃ³v, looking at the camp. As often happens when someone we have trusted is no longer before our eyes, it suddenly seemed quite clear and obvious to him that the sergeant was an impostor, that he had lied, and that the whole Russian attack would be ruined by the absence of those two regiments, which he would lead away heaven only knew where. How could one capture a commander in chief from among such a mass of troops! I am sure that rascal was lying, said the count. They can still be called back, said one of his suite, who like Count OrlÃ³v felt distrustful of the adventure when he looked at the enemys camp. Eh? Really... what do you think? Should we let them go on or not? Will you have them fetched back? Fetch them back, fetch them back! said Count OrlÃ³v with sudden determination, looking at his watch. It will be too late. It is quite light. And the adjutant galloped through the forest after GrÃ©kov. When GrÃ©kov returned, Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov, excited both by the abandoned attempt and by vainly awaiting the infantry columns that still did not appear, as well as by the proximity of the enemy, resolved to advance. All his men felt the same excitement. Mount! he commanded in a whisper. The men took their places and crossed themselves.... Forward, with Gods aid! Hurrah-ah-ah! reverberated in the forest, and the Cossack companies, trailing their lances and advancing one after another as if poured out of a sack, dashed gaily across the brook toward the camp. One desperate, frightened yell from the first French soldier who saw the Cossacks, and all who were in the camp, undressed and only just waking up, ran off in all directions, abandoning cannons, muskets, and horses. Had the Cossacks pursued the French, without heeding what was behind and around them, they would have captured Murat and everything there. That was what the officers desired. But it was impossible to make the Cossacks budge when once they had got booty and prisoners. None of them listened to orders. Fifteen hundred prisoners and thirty-eight guns were taken on the spot, besides standards and (what seemed most important to the Cossacks) horses, saddles, horsecloths, and the like. All this had to be dealt with, the prisoners and guns secured, the booty divided”not without some shouting and even a little fighting among themselves”and it was on this that the Cossacks all busied themselves. The French, not being farther pursued, began to recover themselves: they formed into detachments and began firing. OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov, still waiting for the other columns to arrive, advanced no further. Meantime, according to the dispositions which said that the First Column will march and so on, the infantry of the belated columns, commanded by Bennigsen and directed by Toll, had started in due order and, as always happens, had got somewhere, but not to their appointed places. As always happens the men, starting cheerfully, began to halt; murmurs were heard, there was a sense of confusion, and finally a backward movement. Adjutants and generals galloped about, shouted, grew angry, quarreled, said they had come quite wrong and were late, gave vent to a little abuse, and at last gave it all up and went forward, simply to get somewhere. We shall get somewhere or other! And they did indeed get somewhere, though not to their right places; a few eventually even got to their right place, but too late to be of any use and only in time to be fired at. Toll, who in this battle played the part of Weyrother at Austerlitz, galloped assiduously from place to place, finding everything upside down everywhere. Thus he stumbled on BagovÃºts corps in a wood when it was already broad daylight, though the corps should long before have joined OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov. Excited and vexed by the failure and supposing that someone must be responsible for it, Toll galloped up to the commander of the corps and began upbraiding him severely, saying that he ought to be shot. General BagovÃºt, a fighting old soldier of placid temperament, being also upset by all the delay, confusion, and cross-purposes, fell into a rage to everybodys surprise and quite contrary to his usual character and said disagreeable things to Toll. I prefer not to take lessons from anyone, but I can die with my men as well as anybody, he said, and advanced with a single division. Coming out onto a field under the enemys fire, this brave general went straight ahead, leading his men under fire, without considering in his agitation whether going into action now, with a single division, would be of any use or no. Danger, cannon balls, and bullets were just what he needed in his angry mood. One of the first bullets killed him, and other bullets killed many of his men. And his division remained under fire for some time quite uselessly. CHAPTER VII Meanwhile another column was to have attacked the French from the front, but KutÃºzov accompanied that column. He well knew that nothing but confusion would come of this battle undertaken against his will, and as far as was in his power held the troops back. He did not advance. He rode silently on his small gray horse, indolently answering suggestions that they should attack. The word attack is always on your tongue, but you dont see that we are unable to execute complicated maneuvers, said he to MilorÃ¡dovich who asked permission to advance. We couldnt take Murat prisoner this morning or get to the place in time, and nothing can be done now! he replied to someone else. When KutÃºzov was informed that at the French rear”where according to the reports of the Cossacks there had previously been nobody”there were now two battalions of Poles, he gave a sidelong glance at ErmÃ³lov who was behind him and to whom he had not spoken since the previous day. You see! They are asking to attack and making plans of all kinds, but as soon as one gets to business nothing is ready, and the enemy, forewarned, takes measures accordingly. ErmÃ³lov screwed up his eyes and smiled faintly on hearing these words. He understood that for him the storm had blown over, and that KutÃºzov would content himself with that hint. Hes having a little fun at my expense, said ErmÃ³lov softly, nudging with his knee RaÃ©vski who was at his side. Soon after this, ErmÃ³lov moved up to KutÃºzov and respectfully remarked: It is not too late yet, your Highness”the enemy has not gone away”if you were to order an attack! If not, the Guards will not so much as see a little smoke. KutÃºzov did not reply, but when they reported to him that Murats troops were in retreat he ordered an advance, though at every hundred paces he halted for three quarters of an hour. The whole battle consisted in what OrlÃ³v-DenÃsovs Cossacks had done: the rest of the army merely lost some hundreds of men uselessly. In consequence of this battle KutÃºzov received a diamond decoration, and Bennigsen some diamonds and a hundred thousand rubles, others also received pleasant recognitions corresponding to their various grades, and following the battle fresh changes were made in the staff. Thats how everything is done with us, all topsy-turvy! said the Russian officers and generals after the TarÃºtino battle, letting it be understood that some fool there is doing things all wrong but that we ourselves should not have done so, just as people speak today. But people who talk like that either do not know what they are talking about or deliberately deceive themselves. No battle”TarÃºtino, BorodinÃ³, or Austerlitz”takes place as those who planned it anticipated. That is an essential condition. A countless number of free forces (for nowhere is man freer than during a battle, where it is a question of life and death) influence the course taken by the fight, and that course never can be known in advance and never coincides with the direction of any one force. If many simultaneously and variously directed forces act on a given body, the direction of its motion cannot coincide with any one of those forces, but will always be a mean”what in mechanics is represented by the diagonal of a parallelogram of forces. If in the descriptions given by historians, especially French ones, we find their wars and battles carried out in accordance with previously formed plans, the only conclusion to be drawn is that those descriptions are false. The battle of TarÃºtino obviously did not attain the aim Toll had in view”to lead the troops into action in the order prescribed by the dispositions; nor that which Count OrlÃ³v-DenÃsov may have had in view”to take Murat prisoner; nor the result of immediately destroying the whole corps, which Bennigsen and others may have had in view; nor the aim of the officer who wished to go into action to distinguish himself; nor that of the Cossack who wanted more booty than he got, and so on. But if the aim of the battle was what actually resulted and what all the Russians of that day desired”to drive the French out of Russia and destroy their army”it is quite clear that the battle of TarÃºtino, just because of its incongruities, was exactly what was wanted at that stage of the campaign. It would be difficult and even impossible to imagine any result more opportune than the actual outcome of this battle. With a minimum of effort and insignificant losses, despite the greatest confusion, the most important results of the whole campaign were attained: the transition from retreat to advance, an exposure of the weakness of the French, and the administration of that shock which Napoleons army had only awaited to begin its flight. CHAPTER VIII Napoleon enters Moscow after the brilliant victory de la Moskowa; there can be no doubt about the victory for the battlefield remains in the hands of the French. The Russians retreat and abandon their ancient capital. Moscow, abounding in provisions, arms, munitions, and incalculable wealth, is in Napoleons hands. The Russian army, only half the strength of the French, does not make a single attempt to attack for a whole month. Napoleons position is most brilliant. He can either fall on the Russian army with double its strength and destroy it; negotiate an advantageous peace, or in case of a refusal make a menacing move on Petersburg, or even, in the case of a reverse, return to SmolÃ©nsk or VÃlna; or remain in Moscow; in short, no special genius would seem to be required to retain the brilliant position the French held at that time. For that, only very simple and easy steps were necessary: not to allow the troops to loot, to prepare winter clothing”of which there was sufficient in Moscow for the whole army”and methodically to collect the provisions, of which (according to the French historians) there were enough in Moscow to supply the whole army for six months. Yet Napoleon, that greatest of all geniuses, who the historians declare had control of the army, took none of these steps. He not merely did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary he used his power to select the most foolish and ruinous of all the courses open to him. Of all that Napoleon might have done: wintering in Moscow, advancing on Petersburg or on NÃzhni-NÃ³vgorod, or retiring by a more northerly or more southerly route (say by the road KutÃºzov afterwards took), nothing more stupid or disastrous can be imagined than what he actually did. He remained in Moscow till October, letting the troops plunder the city; then, hesitating whether to leave a garrison behind him, he quitted Moscow, approached KutÃºzov without joining battle, turned to the right and reached MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets, again without attempting to break through and take the road KutÃºzov took, but retiring instead to MozhÃ¡ysk along the devastated SmolÃ©nsk road. Nothing more stupid than that could have been devised, or more disastrous for the army, as the sequel showed. Had Napoleons aim been to destroy his army, the most skillful strategist could hardly have devised any series of actions that would so completely have accomplished that purpose, independently of anything the Russian army might do. Napoleon, the man of genius, did this! But to say that he destroyed his army because he wished to, or because he was very stupid, would be as unjust as to say that he had brought his troops to Moscow because he wished to and because he was very clever and a genius. In both cases his personal activity, having no more force than the personal activity of any soldier, merely coincided with the laws that guided the event. The historians quite falsely represent Napoleons faculties as having weakened in Moscow, and do so only because the results did not justify his actions. He employed all his ability and strength to do the best he could for himself and his army, as he had done previously and as he did subsequently in 1813. His activity at that time was no less astounding than it was in Egypt, in Italy, in Austria, and in Prussia. We do not know for certain in how far his genius was genuine in Egypt”where forty centuries looked down upon his grandeur”for his great exploits there are all told us by Frenchmen. We cannot accurately estimate his genius in Austria or Prussia, for we have to draw our information from French or German sources, and the incomprehensible surrender of whole corps without fighting and of fortresses without a siege must incline Germans to recognize his genius as the only explanation of the war carried on in Germany. But we, thank God, have no need to recognize his genius in order to hide our shame. We have paid for the right to look at the matter plainly and simply, and we will not abandon that right. His activity in Moscow was as amazing and as full of genius as elsewhere. Order after order and plan after plan were issued by him from the time he entered Moscow till the time he left it. The absence of citizens and of a deputation, and even the burning of Moscow, did not disconcert him. He did not lose sight either of the welfare of his army or of the doings of the enemy, or of the welfare of the people of Russia, or of the direction of affairs in Paris, or of diplomatic considerations concerning the terms of the anticipated peace. CHAPTER IX With regard to military matters, Napoleon immediately on his entry into Moscow gave General Sabastiani strict orders to observe the movements of the Russian army, sent army corps out along the different roads, and charged Murat to find KutÃºzov. Then he gave careful directions about the fortification of the KrÃ©mlin, and drew up a brilliant plan for a future campaign over the whole map of Russia. With regard to diplomatic questions, Napoleon summoned Captain YÃ¡kovlev, who had been robbed and was in rags and did not know how to get out of Moscow, minutely explained to him his whole policy and his magnanimity, and having written a letter to the Emperor Alexander in which he considered it his duty to inform his Friend and Brother that RostopchÃn had managed affairs badly in Moscow, he dispatched YÃ¡kovlev to Petersburg. Having similarly explained his views and his magnanimity to TutÃ³lmin, he dispatched that old man also to Petersburg to negotiate. With regard to legal matters, immediately after the fires he gave orders to find and execute the incendiaries. And the scoundrel RostopchÃn was punished by an order to burn down his houses. With regard to administrative matters, Moscow was granted a constitution. A municipality was established and the following announcement issued: INHABITANTS OF MOSCOW! Your misfortunes are cruel, but His Majesty the Emperor and King desires to arrest their course. Terrible examples have taught you how he punishes disobedience and crime. Strict measures have been taken to put an end to disorder and to re-establish public security. A paternal administration, chosen from among yourselves, will form your municipality or city government. It will take care of you, of your needs, and of your welfare. Its members will be distinguished by a red ribbon worn across the shoulder, and the mayor of the city will wear a white belt as well. But when not on duty they will only wear a red ribbon round the left arm. The city police is established on its former footing, and better order already prevails in consequence of its activity. The government has appointed two commissaries general, or chiefs of police, and twenty commissaries or captains of wards have been appointed to the different wards of the city. You will recognize them by the white ribbon they will wear on the left arm. Several churches of different denominations are open, and divine service is performed in them unhindered. Your fellow citizens are returning every day to their homes and orders have been given that they should find in them the help and protection due to their misfortunes. These are the measures the government has adopted to re-establish order and relieve your condition. But to achieve this aim it is necessary that you should add your efforts and should, if possible, forget the misfortunes you have suffered, should entertain the hope of a less cruel fate, should be certain that inevitable and ignominious death awaits those who make any attempt on your persons or on what remains of your property, and finally that you should not doubt that these will be safeguarded, since such is the will of the greatest and most just of monarchs. Soldiers and citizens, of whatever nation you may be, re-establish public confidence, the source of the welfare of a state, live like brothers, render mutual aid and protection one to another, unite to defeat the intentions of the evil-minded, obey the military and civil authorities, and your tears will soon cease to flow! With regard to supplies for the army, Napoleon decreed that all the troops in turn should enter Moscow Ã la maraude * to obtain provisions for themselves, so that the army might have its future provided for. * As looters. With regard to religion, Napoleon ordered the priests to be brought back and services to be again performed in the churches. With regard to commerce and to provisioning the army, the following was placarded everywhere: PROCLAMATION You, peaceful inhabitants of Moscow, artisans and workmen whom misfortune has driven from the city, and you scattered tillers of the soil, still kept out in the fields by groundless fear, listen! Tranquillity is returning to this capital and order is being restored in it. Your fellow countrymen are emerging boldly from their hiding places on finding that they are respected. Any violence to them or to their property is promptly punished. His Majesty the Emperor and King protects them, and considers no one among you his enemy except those who disobey his orders. He desires to end your misfortunes and restore you to your homes and families. Respond, therefore, to his benevolent intentions and come to us without fear. Inhabitants, return with confidence to your abodes! You will soon find means of satisfying your needs. Craftsmen and industrious artisans, return to your work, your houses, your shops, where the protection of guards awaits you! You shall receive proper pay for your work. And lastly you too, peasants, come from the forests where you are hiding in terror, return to your huts without fear, in full assurance that you will find protection! Markets are established in the city where peasants can bring their surplus supplies and the products of the soil. The government has taken the following steps to ensure freedom of sale for them: (1) From today, peasants, husbandmen, and those living in the neighborhood of Moscow may without any danger bring their supplies of all kinds to two appointed markets, of which one is on the MokhovÃ¡ya Street and the other at the Provision Market. (2) Such supplies will be bought from them at such prices as seller and buyer may agree on, and if a seller is unable to obtain a fair price he will be free to take his goods back to his village and no one may hinder him under any pretense. (3) Sunday and Wednesday of each week are appointed as the chief market days and to that end a sufficient number of troops will be stationed along the highroads on Tuesdays and Saturdays at such distances from the town as to protect the carts. (4) Similar measures will be taken that peasants with their carts and horses may meet with no hindrance on their return journey. (5) Steps will immediately be taken to re-establish ordinary trading. Inhabitants of the city and villages, and you, workingmen and artisans, to whatever nation you belong, you are called on to carry out the paternal intentions of His Majesty the Emperor and King and to co-operate with him for the public welfare! Lay your respect and confidence at his feet and do not delay to unite with us! With the object of raising the spirits of the troops and of the people, reviews were constantly held and rewards distributed. The Emperor rode through the streets to comfort the inhabitants, and, despite his preoccupation with state affairs, himself visited the theaters that were established by his order. In regard to philanthropy, the greatest virtue of crowned heads, Napoleon also did all in his power. He caused the words Maison de ma MÃ¨re to be inscribed on the charitable institutions, thereby combining tender filial affection with the majestic benevolence of a monarch. He visited the Foundling Hospital and, allowing the orphans saved by him to kiss his white hands, graciously conversed with TutÃ³lmin. Then, as Thiers eloquently recounts, he ordered his soldiers to be paid in forged Russian money which he had prepared: Raising the use of these means by an act worthy of himself and of the French army, he let relief be distributed to those who had been burned out. But as food was too precious to be given to foreigners, who were for the most part enemies, Napoleon preferred to supply them with money with which to purchase food from outside, and had paper rubles distributed to them. With reference to army discipline, orders were continually being issued to inflict severe punishment for the nonperformance of military duties and to suppress robbery. CHAPTER X But strange to say, all these measures, efforts, and plans”which were not at all worse than others issued in similar circumstances”did not affect the essence of the matter but, like the hands of a clock detached from the mechanism, swung about in an arbitrary and aimless way without engaging the cogwheels. With reference to the military side”the plan of campaign”that work of genius of which Thiers remarks that, His genius never devised anything more profound, more skillful, or more admirable, and enters into a polemic with M. Fain to prove that this work of genius must be referred not to the fourth but to the fifteenth of October”that plan never was or could be executed, for it was quite out of touch with the facts of the case. The fortifying of the KrÃ©mlin, for which la MosquÃ©e (as Napoleon termed the church of Basil the Beatified) was to have been razed to the ground, proved quite useless. The mining of the KrÃ©mlin only helped toward fulfilling Napoleons wish that it should be blown up when he left Moscow”as a child wants the floor on which he has hurt himself to be beaten. The pursuit of the Russian army, about which Napoleon was so concerned, produced an unheard-of result. The French generals lost touch with the Russian army of sixty thousand men, and according to Thiers it was only eventually found, like a lost pin, by the skill”and apparently the genius”of Murat. With reference to diplomacy, all Napoleons arguments as to his magnanimity and justice, both to TutÃ³lmin and to YÃ¡kovlev (whose chief concern was to obtain a greatcoat and a conveyance), proved useless; Alexander did not receive these envoys and did not reply to their embassage. With regard to legal matters, after the execution of the supposed incendiaries the rest of Moscow burned down. With regard to administrative matters, the establishment of a municipality did not stop the robberies and was only of use to certain people who formed part of that municipality and under pretext of preserving order looted Moscow or saved their own property from being looted. With regard to religion, as to which in Egypt matters had so easily been settled by Napoleons visit to a mosque, no results were achieved. Two or three priests who were found in Moscow did try to carry out Napoleons wish, but one of them was slapped in the face by a French soldier while conducting service, and a French official reported of another that: The priest whom I found and invited to say Mass cleaned and locked up the church. That night the doors were again broken open, the padlocks smashed, the books mutilated, and other disorders perpetrated. With reference to commerce, the proclamation to industrious workmen and to peasants evoked no response. There were no industrious workmen, and the peasants caught the commissaries who ventured too far out of town with the proclamation and killed them. As to the theaters for the entertainment of the people and the troops, these did not meet with success either. The theaters set up in the KrÃ©mlin and in PosnyÃ¡kovs house were closed again at once because the actors and actresses were robbed. Even philanthropy did not have the desired effect. The genuine as well as the false paper money which flooded Moscow lost its value. The French, collecting booty, cared only for gold. Not only was the paper money valueless which Napoleon so graciously distributed to the unfortunate, but even silver lost its value in relation to gold. But the most amazing example of the ineffectiveness of the orders given by the authorities at that time was Napoleons attempt to stop the looting and re-establish discipline. This is what the army authorities were reporting: Looting continues in the city despite the decrees against it. Order is not yet restored and not a single merchant is carrying on trade in a lawful manner. The sutlers alone venture to trade, and they sell stolen goods. The neighborhood of my ward continues to be pillaged by soldiers of the 3rd Corps who, not satisfied with taking from the unfortunate inhabitants hiding in the cellars the little they have left, even have the ferocity to wound them with their sabers, as I have repeatedly witnessed. Nothing new, except that the soldiers are robbing and pillaging”October 9. Robbery and pillaging continue. There is a band of thieves in our district who ought to be arrested by a strong force”October 11. The Emperor is extremely displeased that despite the strict orders to stop pillage, parties of marauding Guards are continually seen returning to the KrÃ©mlin. Among the Old Guard disorder and pillage were renewed more violently than ever yesterday evening, last night, and today. The Emperor sees with regret that the picked soldiers appointed to guard his person, who should set an example of discipline, carry disobedience to such a point that they break into the cellars and stores containing army supplies. Others have disgraced themselves to the extent of disobeying sentinels and officers, and have abused and beaten them. The Grand Marshal of the palace, wrote the governor, complains bitterly that in spite of repeated orders, the soldiers continue to commit nuisances in all the courtyards and even under the very windows of the Emperor. That army, like a herd of cattle run wild and trampling underfoot the provender which might have saved it from starvation, disintegrated and perished with each additional day it remained in Moscow. But it did not go away. It began to run away only when suddenly seized by a panic caused by the capture of transport trains on the SmolÃ©nsk road, and by the battle of TarÃºtino. The news of that battle of TarÃºtino, unexpectedly received by Napoleon at a review, evoked in him a desire to punish the Russians (Thiers says), and he issued the order for departure which the whole army was demanding. Fleeing from Moscow the soldiers took with them everything they had stolen. Napoleon, too, carried away his own personal trÃ©sor, but on seeing the baggage trains that impeded the army, he was (Thiers says) horror-struck. And yet with his experience of war he did not order all the superfluous vehicles to be burned, as he had done with those of a certain marshal when approaching Moscow. He gazed at the calÃ¨ches and carriages in which soldiers were riding and remarked that it was a very good thing, as those vehicles could be used to carry provisions, the sick, and the wounded. The plight of the whole army resembled that of a wounded animal which feels it is perishing and does not know what it is doing. To study the skillful tactics and aims of Napoleon and his army from the time it entered Moscow till it was destroyed is like studying the dying leaps and shudders of a mortally wounded animal. Very often a wounded animal, hearing a rustle, rushes straight at the hunters gun, runs forward and back again, and hastens its own end. Napoleon, under pressure from his whole army, did the same thing. The rustle of the battle of TarÃºtino frightened the beast, and it rushed forward onto the hunters gun, reached him, turned back, and finally”like any wild beast”ran back along the most disadvantageous and dangerous path, where the old scent was familiar. During the whole of that period Napoleon, who seems to us to have been the leader of all these movements”as the figurehead of a ship may seem to a savage to guide the vessel”acted like a child who, holding a couple of strings inside a carriage, thinks he is driving it. CHAPTER XI Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went out of the shed, and on returning stopped by the door to play with a little blue-gray dog, with a long body and short bandy legs, that jumped about him. This little dog lived in their shed, sleeping beside KaratÃ¡ev at night; it sometimes made excursions into the town but always returned again. Probably it had never had an owner, and it still belonged to nobody and had no name. The French called it Azor; the soldier who told stories called it FemgÃ¡lka; KaratÃ¡ev and others called it Gray, or sometimes Flabby. Its lack of a master, a name, or even of a breed or any definite color did not seem to trouble the blue-gray dog in the least. Its furry tail stood up firm and round as a plume, its bandy legs served it so well that it would often gracefully lift a hind leg and run very easily and quickly on three legs, as if disdaining to use all four. Everything pleased it. Now it would roll on its back, yelping with delight, now bask in the sun with a thoughtful air of importance, and now frolic about playing with a chip of wood or a straw. Pierres attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the only remnant of his former clothing), a pair of soldiers trousers which by KaratÃ¡evs advice he tied with string round the ankles for warmth, and a peasant coat and cap. Physically he had changed much during this time. He no longer seemed stout, though he still had the appearance of solidity and strength hereditary in his family. A beard and mustache covered the lower part of his face, and a tangle of hair, infested with lice, curled round his head like a cap. The look of his eyes was resolute, calm, and animatedly alert, as never before. The former slackness which had shown itself even in his eyes was now replaced by an energetic readiness for action and resistance. His feet were bare. Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles and horsemen were passing that morning, then into the distance across the river, then at the dog who was pretending to be in earnest about biting him, and then at his bare feet which he placed with pleasure in various positions, moving his dirty thick big toes. Every time he looked at his bare feet a smile of animated self-satisfaction flitted across his face. The sight of them reminded him of all he had experienced and learned during these weeks and this recollection was pleasant to him. For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frosts in the mornings”what is called an old wives summer. In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularly pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still in the air. On everything”far and near”lay the magic crystal glitter seen only at that time of autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance, with the village, the church, and the large white house. The bare trees, the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the green church spire, and the corners of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the transparent air in most delicate outline and with unnatural clearness. Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of a half-burned mansion occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still showing dark green beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled house”which in dull weather was repulsively ugly”seemed quietly beautiful now, in the clear, motionless brilliance. A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly wink. What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril! (Their name for Pierre.) Eh? Just like spring! And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe, though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it. To be on the march in such weather... he began. Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the corporal told him that nearly all the troops were starting and there ought to be an order about the prisoners that day. SokolÃ³v, one of the soldiers in the shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something should be done about him. The corporal replied that Pierre need not worry about that as they had an ambulance and a permanent hospital and arrangements would be made for the sick, and that in general everything that could happen had been foreseen by the authorities. Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain, you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain when he makes his round, he will do anything for you. (The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats with Pierre and showed him all sorts of favors.) ˜You see, St. Thomas, he said to me the other day. ˜Monsieur Kiril is a man of education, who speaks French. He is a Russian seigneur who has had misfortunes, but he is a man. He knows whats what.... If he wants anything and asks me, he wont get a refusal. When one has studied, you see, one likes education and well-bred people. It is for your sake I mention it, Monsieur Kiril. The other day if it had not been for you that affair would have ended ill. And after chatting a while longer, the corporal went away. (The affair he had alluded to had happened a few days before”a fight between the prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded in pacifying his comrades.) Some of the prisoners who had heard Pierre talking to the corporal immediately asked what the Frenchman had said. While Pierre was repeating what he had been told about the army leaving Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldier came up to the door of the shed. Rapidly and timidly raising his fingers to his forehead by way of greeting, he asked Pierre whether the soldier Platoche to whom he had given a shirt to sew was in that shed. A week before the French had had boot leather and linen issued to them, which they had given out to the prisoners to make up into boots and shirts for them. Ready, ready, dear fellow! said KaratÃ¡ev, coming out with a neatly folded shirt. KaratÃ¡ev, on account of the warm weather and for convenience at work, was wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt as black as soot. His hair was bound round, workman fashion, with a wisp of lime-tree bast, and his round face seemed rounder and pleasanter than ever. A promise is own brother to performance! I said Friday and here it is, ready, said PlatÃ³n, smiling and unfolding the shirt he had sewn. The Frenchman glanced around uneasily and then, as if overcoming his hesitation, rapidly threw off his uniform and put on the shirt. He had a long, greasy, flowered silk waistcoat next to his sallow, thin bare body, but no shirt. He was evidently afraid the prisoners looking on would laugh at him, and thrust his head into the shirt hurriedly. None of the prisoners said a word. See, it fits well! PlatÃ³n kept repeating, pulling the shirt straight. The Frenchman, having pushed his head and hands through, without raising his eyes, looked down at the shirt and examined the seams. You see, dear man, this is not a sewing shop, and I had no proper tools; and, as they say, one needs a tool even to kill a louse, said PlatÃ³n with one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with his work. Its good, quite good, thank you, said the Frenchman, in French, but there must be some linen left over. It will fit better still when it sets to your body, said KaratÃ¡ev, still admiring his handiwork. Youll be nice and comfortable.... Thanks, thanks, old fellow.... But the bits left over? said the Frenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble note and gave it to KaratÃ¡ev. But give me the pieces that are over. Pierre saw that PlatÃ³n did not want to understand what the Frenchman was saying, and he looked on without interfering. KaratÃ¡ev thanked the Frenchman for the money and went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked Pierre to translate what he said. What does he want the bits for? said KaratÃ¡ev. Theyd make fine leg bands for us. Well, never mind. And KaratÃ¡ev, with a suddenly changed and saddened expression, took a small bundle of scraps from inside his shirt and gave it to the Frenchman without looking at him. Oh dear! muttered KaratÃ¡ev and went away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierres look had told him something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice: Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself! And handing back the odd bits he turned and went out. There, look at that, said KaratÃ¡ev, swaying his head. People said they were not Christians, but they too have souls. Its what the old folk used to say: ˜A sweating hands an open hand, a dry hands close. Hes naked, but yet hes given it back. KaratÃ¡ev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at the pieces. But theyll make grand leg bands, dear friend, he said, and went back into the shed. CHAPTER XII Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner and though the French had offered to move him from the mens to the officers shed, he had stayed in the shed where he was first put. In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost the extreme limits of privation a man can endure; but thanks to his physical strength and health, of which he had till then been unconscious, and thanks especially to the fact that the privations came so gradually that it was impossible to say when they began, he endured his position not only lightly but joyfully. And just at this time he obtained the tranquillity and ease of mind he had formerly striven in vain to reach. He had long sought in different ways that tranquillity of mind, that inner harmony which had so impressed him in the soldiers at the battle of BorodinÃ³. He had sought it in philanthropy, in Freemasonry, in the dissipations of town life, in wine, in heroic feats of self-sacrifice, and in romantic love for NatÃ¡sha; he had sought it by reasoning”and all these quests and experiments had failed him. And now without thinking about it he had found that peace and inner harmony only through the horror of death, through privation, and through what he recognized in KaratÃ¡ev. Those dreadful moments he had lived through at the executions had as it were forever washed away from his imagination and memory the agitating thoughts and feelings that had formerly seemed so important. It did not now occur to him to think of Russia, or the war, or politics, or Napoleon. It was plain to him that all these things were no business of his, and that he was not called on to judge concerning them and therefore could not do so. Russia and summer weather are not bound together, he thought, repeating words of KaratÃ¡evs which he found strangely consoling. His intention of killing Napoleon and his calculations of the cabalistic number of the beast of the Apocalypse now seemed to him meaningless and even ridiculous. His anger with his wife and anxiety that his name should not be smirched now seemed not merely trivial but even amusing. What concern was it of his that somewhere or other that woman was leading the life she preferred? What did it matter to anybody, and especially to him, whether or not they found out that their prisoners name was Count BezÃºkhov? He now often remembered his conversation with Prince Andrew and quite agreed with him, though he understood Prince Andrews thoughts somewhat differently. Prince Andrew had thought and said that happiness could only be negative, but had said it with a shade of bitterness and irony as though he was really saying that all desire for positive happiness is implanted in us merely to torment us and never be satisfied. But Pierre believed it without any mental reservation. The absence of suffering, the satisfaction of ones needs and consequent freedom in the choice of ones occupation, that is, of ones way of life, now seemed to Pierre to be indubitably mans highest happiness. Here and now for the first time he fully appreciated the enjoyment of eating when he wanted to eat, drinking when he wanted to drink, sleeping when he wanted to sleep, of warmth when he was cold, of talking to a fellow man when he wished to talk and to hear a human voice. The satisfaction of ones needs”good food, cleanliness, and freedom”now that he was deprived of all this, seemed to Pierre to constitute perfect happiness; and the choice of occupation, that is, of his way of life”now that that was so restricted”seemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that a superfluity of the comforts of life destroys all joy in satisfying ones needs, while great freedom in the choice of occupation”such freedom as his wealth, his education, and his social position had given him in his own life”is just what makes the choice of occupation insolubly difficult and destroys the desire and possibility of having an occupation. All Pierres daydreams now turned on the time when he would be free. Yet subsequently, and for the rest of his life, he thought and spoke with enthusiasm of that month of captivity, of those irrecoverable, strong, joyful sensations, and chiefly of the complete peace of mind and inner freedom which he experienced only during those weeks. When on the first day he got up early, went out of the shed at dawn, and saw the cupolas and crosses of the New Convent of the Virgin still dark at first, the hoarfrost on the dusty grass, the Sparrow Hills, and the wooded banks above the winding river vanishing in the purple distance, when he felt the contact of the fresh air and heard the noise of the crows flying from Moscow across the field, and when afterwards light gleamed from the east and the suns rim appeared solemnly from behind a cloud, and the cupolas and crosses, the hoarfrost, the distance and the river, all began to sparkle in the glad light”Pierre felt a new joy and strength in life such as he had never before known. And this not only stayed with him during the whole of his imprisonment, but even grew in strength as the hardships of his position increased. That feeling of alertness and of readiness for anything was still further strengthened in him by the high opinion his fellow prisoners formed of him soon after his arrival at the shed. With his knowledge of languages, the respect shown him by the French, his simplicity, his readiness to give anything asked of him (he received the allowance of three rubles a week made to officers); with his strength, which he showed to the soldiers by pressing nails into the walls of the hut; his gentleness to his companions, and his capacity for sitting still and thinking without doing anything (which seemed to them incomprehensible), he appeared to them a rather mysterious and superior being. The very qualities that had been a hindrance, if not actually harmful, to him in the world he had lived in”his strength, his disdain for the comforts of life, his absent-mindedness and simplicity”here among these people gave him almost the status of a hero. And Pierre felt that their opinion placed responsibilities upon him. CHAPTER XIII The French evacuation began on the night between the sixth and seventh of October: kitchens and sheds were dismantled, carts loaded, and troops and baggage trains started. At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching trim, wearing shakos and carrying muskets, knapsacks, and enormous sacks, stood in front of the sheds, and animated French talk mingled with curses sounded all along the lines. In the shed everyone was ready, dressed, belted, shod, and only awaited the order to start. The sick soldier, SokolÃ³v, pale and thin with dark shadows round his eyes, alone sat in his place barefoot and not dressed. His eyes, prominent from the emaciation of his face, gazed inquiringly at his comrades who were paying no attention to him, and he moaned regularly and quietly. It was evidently not so much his sufferings that caused him to moan (he had dysentery) as his fear and grief at being left alone. Pierre, girt with a rope round his waist and wearing shoes KaratÃ¡ev had made for him from some leather a French soldier had torn off a tea chest and brought to have his boots mended with, went up to the sick man and squatted down beside him. You know, SokolÃ³v, they are not all going away! They have a hospital here. You may be better off than we others, said Pierre. O Lord! Oh, it will be the death of me! O Lord! moaned the man in a louder voice. Ill go and ask them again directly, said Pierre, rising and going to the door of the shed. Just as Pierre reached the door, the corporal who had offered him a pipe the day before came up to it with two soldiers. The corporal and soldiers were in marching kit with knapsacks and shakos that had metal straps, and these changed their familiar faces. The corporal came, according to orders, to shut the door. The prisoners had to be counted before being let out. Corporal, what will they do with the sick man?... Pierre began. But even as he spoke he began to doubt whether this was the corporal he knew or a stranger, so unlike himself did the corporal seem at that moment. Moreover, just as Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle of drums was suddenly heard from both sides. The corporal frowned at Pierres words and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door. The shed became semidark, and the sharp rattle of the drums on two sides drowned the sick mans groans. There it is!... It again!... said Pierre to himself, and an involuntary shudder ran down his spine. In the corporals changed face, in the sound of his voice, in the stirring and deafening noise of the drums, he recognized that mysterious, callous force which compelled people against their will to kill their fellow men”that force the effect of which he had witnessed during the executions. To fear or to try to escape that force, to address entreaties or exhortations to those who served as its tools, was useless. Pierre knew this now. One had to wait and endure. He did not again go to the sick man, nor turn to look at him, but stood frowning by the door of the hut. When that door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against one another like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushed his way forward and approached that very captain who as the corporal had assured him was ready to do anything for him. The captain was also in marching kit, and on his cold face appeared that same it which Pierre had recognized in the corporals words and in the roll of the drums. Pass on, pass on! the captain reiterated, frowning sternly, and looking at the prisoners who thronged past him. Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt would be vain. What now? the officer asked with a cold look as if not recognizing Pierre. Pierre told him about the sick man. Hell manage to walk, devil take him! said the captain. Pass on, pass on! he continued without looking at Pierre. But he is dying, Pierre again began. Be so good... shouted the captain, frowning angrily. Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam... rattled the drums, and Pierre understood that this mysterious force completely controlled these men and that it was now useless to say any more. The officer prisoners were separated from the soldiers and told to march in front. There were about thirty officers, with Pierre among them, and about three hundred men. The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were all strangers to Pierre and much better dressed than he. They looked at him and at his shoes mistrustfully, as at an alien. Not far from him walked a fat major with a sallow, bloated, angry face, who was wearing a KazÃ¡n dressing gown tied round with a towel, and who evidently enjoyed the respect of his fellow prisoners. He kept one hand, in which he clasped his tobacco pouch, inside the bosom of his dressing gown and held the stem of his pipe firmly with the other. Panting and puffing, the major grumbled and growled at everybody because he thought he was being pushed and that they were all hurrying when they had nowhere to hurry to and were all surprised at something when there was nothing to be surprised at. Another, a thin little officer, was speaking to everyone, conjecturing where they were now being taken and how far they would get that day. An official in felt boots and wearing a commissariat uniform ran round from side to side and gazed at the ruins of Moscow, loudly announcing his observations as to what had been burned down and what this or that part of the city was that they could see. A third officer, who by his accent was a Pole, disputed with the commissariat officer, arguing that he was mistaken in his identification of the different wards of Moscow. What are you disputing about? said the major angrily. What does it matter whether it is St. Nicholas or St. Blasius? You see its burned down, and theres an end of it.... What are you pushing for? Isnt the road wide enough? said he, turning to a man behind him who was not pushing him at all. Oh, oh, oh! What have they done? the prisoners on one side and another were heard saying as they gazed on the charred ruins. All beyond the river, and ZÃºbova, and in the KrÃ©mlin.... Just look! Theres not half of it left. Yes, I told you”the whole quarter beyond the river, and so it is. Well, you know its burned, so whats the use of talking? said the major. As they passed near a church in the KhamÃ³vniki (one of the few unburned quarters of Moscow) the whole mass of prisoners suddenly started to one side and exclamations of horror and disgust were heard. Ah, the villains! What heathens! Yes; dead, dead, so he is... And smeared with something! Pierre too drew near the church where the thing was that evoked these exclamations, and dimly made out something leaning against the palings surrounding the church. From the words of his comrades who saw better than he did, he found that this was the body of a man, set upright against the palings with its face smeared with soot. Go on! What the devil... Go on! Thirty thousand devils!... the convoy guards began cursing and the French soldiers, with fresh virulence, drove away with their swords the crowd of prisoners who were gazing at the dead man. CHAPTER XIV Through the cross streets of the KhamÃ³vniki quarter the prisoners marched, followed only by their escort and the vehicles and wagons belonging to that escort, but when they reached the supply stores they came among a huge and closely packed train of artillery mingled with private vehicles. At the bridge they all halted, waiting for those in front to get across. From the bridge they had a view of endless lines of moving baggage trains before and behind them. To the right, where the KalÃºga road turns near NeskÃºchny, endless rows of troops and carts stretched away into the distance. These were troops of Beauharnais corps which had started before any of the others. Behind, along the riverside and across the Stone Bridge, were Neys troops and transport. Davouts troops, in whose charge were the prisoners, were crossing the Crimean bridge and some were already debouching into the KalÃºga road. But the baggage trains stretched out so that the last of Beauharnais train had not yet got out of Moscow and reached the KalÃºga road when the vanguard of Neys army was already emerging from the Great OrdÃ½nka Street. When they had crossed the Crimean bridge the prisoners moved a few steps forward, halted, and again moved on, and from all sides vehicles and men crowded closer and closer together. They advanced the few hundred paces that separated the bridge from the KalÃºga road, taking more than an hour to do so, and came out upon the square where the streets of the TransmoskvÃ¡ ward and the KalÃºga road converge, and the prisoners jammed close together had to stand for some hours at that crossway. From all sides, like the roar of the sea, were heard the rattle of wheels, the tramp of feet, and incessant shouts of anger and abuse. Pierre stood pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise which mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums. To get a better view, several officer prisoners climbed onto the wall of the half-burned house against which Pierre was leaning. What crowds! Just look at the crowds!... Theyve loaded goods even on the cannon! Look there, those are furs! they exclaimed. Just see what the blackguards have looted.... There! See what that one has behind in the cart.... Why, those are settings taken from some icons, by heaven!... Oh, the rascals!... See how that fellow has loaded himself up, he can hardly walk! Good lord, theyve even grabbed those chaises!... See that fellow there sitting on the trunks.... Heavens! Theyre fighting. Thats right, hit him on the snout”on his snout! Like this, we shant get away before evening. Look, look there.... Why, that must be Napoleons own. See what horses! And the monograms with a crown! Its like a portable house.... That fellows dropped his sack and doesnt see it. Fighting again... A woman with a baby, and not bad-looking either! Yes, I dare say, thats the way theyll let you pass.... Just look, theres no end to it. Russian wenches, by heaven, so they are! In carriages”see how comfortably theyve settled themselves! Again, as at the church in KhamÃ³vniki, a wave of general curiosity bore all the prisoners forward onto the road, and Pierre, thanks to his stature, saw over the heads of the others what so attracted their curiosity. In three carriages involved among the munition carts, closely squeezed together, sat women with rouged faces, dressed in glaring colors, who were shouting something in shrill voices. From the moment Pierre had recognized the appearance of the mysterious force nothing had seemed to him strange or dreadful: neither the corpse smeared with soot for fun nor these women hurrying away nor the burned ruins of Moscow. All that he now witnessed scarcely made an impression on him”as if his soul, making ready for a hard struggle, refused to receive impressions that might weaken it. The womens vehicles drove by. Behind them came more carts, soldiers, wagons, soldiers, gun carriages, carriages, soldiers, ammunition carts, more soldiers, and now and then women. Pierre did not see the people as individuals but saw their movement. All these people and horses seemed driven forward by some invisible power. During the hour Pierre watched them they all came flowing from the different streets with one and the same desire to get on quickly; they all jostled one another, began to grow angry and to fight, white teeth gleamed, brows frowned, ever the same words of abuse flew from side to side, and all the faces bore the same swaggeringly resolute and coldly cruel expression that had struck Pierre that morning on the corporals face when the drums were beating. It was not till nearly evening that the officer commanding the escort collected his men and with shouts and quarrels forced his way in among the baggage trains, and the prisoners, hemmed in on all sides, emerged onto the KalÃºga road. They marched very quickly, without resting, and halted only when the sun began to set. The baggage carts drew up close together and the men began to prepare for their nights rest. They all appeared angry and dissatisfied. For a long time, oaths, angry shouts, and fighting could be heard from all sides. A carriage that followed the escort ran into one of the carts and knocked a hole in it with its pole. Several soldiers ran toward the cart from different sides: some beat the carriage horses on their heads, turning them aside, others fought among themselves, and Pierre saw that one German was badly wounded on the head by a sword. It seemed that all these men, now that they had stopped amid fields in the chill dusk of the autumn evening, experienced one and the same feeling of unpleasant awakening from the hurry and eagerness to push on that had seized them at the start. Once at a standstill they all seemed to understand that they did not yet know where they were going, and that much that was painful and difficult awaited them on this journey. During this halt the escort treated the prisoners even worse than they had done at the start. It was here that the prisoners for the first time received horseflesh for their meat ration. From the officer down to the lowest soldier they showed what seemed like personal spite against each of the prisoners, in unexpected contrast to their former friendly relations. This spite increased still more when, on calling over the roll of prisoners, it was found that in the bustle of leaving Moscow one Russian soldier, who had pretended to suffer from colic, had escaped. Pierre saw a Frenchman beat a Russian soldier cruelly for straying too far from the road, and heard his friend the captain reprimand and threaten to court-martial a noncommissioned officer on account of the escape of the Russian. To the noncommissioned officers excuse that the prisoner was ill and could not walk, the officer replied that the order was to shoot those who lagged behind. Pierre felt that that fatal force which had crushed him during the executions, but which he had not felt during his imprisonment, now again controlled his existence. It was terrible, but he felt that in proportion to the efforts of that fatal force to crush him, there grew and strengthened in his soul a power of life independent of it. He ate his supper of buckwheat soup with horseflesh and chatted with his comrades. Neither Pierre nor any of the others spoke of what they had seen in Moscow, or of the roughness of their treatment by the French, or of the order to shoot them which had been announced to them. As if in reaction against the worsening of their position they were all particularly animated and gay. They spoke of personal reminiscences, of amusing scenes they had witnessed during the campaign, and avoided all talk of their present situation. The sun had set long since. Bright stars shone out here and there in the sky. A red glow as of a conflagration spread above the horizon from the rising full moon, and that vast red ball swayed strangely in the gray haze. It grew light. The evening was ending, but the night had not yet come. Pierre got up and left his new companions, crossing between the campfires to the other side of the road where he had been told the common soldier prisoners were stationed. He wanted to talk to them. On the road he was stopped by a French sentinel who ordered him back. Pierre turned back, not to his companions by the campfire, but to an unharnessed cart where there was nobody. Tucking his legs under him and dropping his head he sat down on the cold ground by the wheel of the cart and remained motionless a long while sunk in thought. Suddenly he burst out into a fit of his broad, good-natured laughter, so loud that men from various sides turned with surprise to see what this strange and evidently solitary laughter could mean. Ha-ha-ha! laughed Pierre. And he said aloud to himself: The soldier did not let me pass. They took me and shut me up. They hold me captive. What, me? Me? My immortal soul? Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!... and he laughed till tears started to his eyes. A man got up and came to see what this queer big fellow was laughing at all by himself. Pierre stopped laughing, got up, went farther away from the inquisitive man, and looked around him. The huge, endless bivouac that had previously resounded with the crackling of campfires and the voices of many men had grown quiet, the red campfires were growing paler and dying down. High up in the light sky hung the full moon. Forests and fields beyond the camp, unseen before, were now visible in the distance. And farther still, beyond those forests and fields, the bright, oscillating, limitless distance lured one to itself. Pierre glanced up at the sky and the twinkling stars in its faraway depths. And all that is me, all that is within me, and it is all I! thought Pierre. And they caught all that and put it into a shed boarded up with planks! He smiled, and went and lay down to sleep beside his companions. CHAPTER XV In the early days of October another envoy came to KutÃºzov with a letter from Napoleon proposing peace and falsely dated from Moscow, though Napoleon was already not far from KutÃºzov on the old KalÃºga road. KutÃºzov replied to this letter as he had done to the one formerly brought by Lauriston, saying that there could be no question of peace. Soon after that a report was received from DÃ³rokhovs guerrilla detachment operating to the left of TarÃºtino that troops of Broussiers division had been seen at FormÃnsk and that being separated from the rest of the French army they might easily be destroyed. The soldiers and officers again demanded action. Generals on the staff, excited by the memory of the easy victory at TarÃºtino, urged KutÃºzov to carry out DÃ³rokhovs suggestion. KutÃºzov did not consider any offensive necessary. The result was a compromise which was inevitable: a small detachment was sent to FormÃnsk to attack Broussier. By a strange coincidence, this task, which turned out to be a most difficult and important one, was entrusted to DokhtÃºrov”that same modest little DokhtÃºrov whom no one had described to us as drawing up plans of battles, dashing about in front of regiments, showering crosses on batteries, and so on, and who was thought to be and was spoken of as undecided and undiscerning”but whom we find commanding wherever the position was most difficult all through the Russo-French wars from Austerlitz to the year 1813. At Austerlitz he remained last at the Augezd dam, rallying the regiments, saving what was possible when all were flying and perishing and not a single general was left in the rear guard. Ill with fever he went to SmolÃ©nsk with twenty thousand men to defend the town against Napoleons whole army. In SmolÃ©nsk, at the MalÃ¡khov Gate, he had hardly dozed off in a paroxysm of fever before he was awakened by the bombardment of the town”and SmolÃ©nsk held out all day long. At the battle of BorodinÃ³, when BagratiÃ³n was killed and nine tenths of the men of our left flank had fallen and the full force of the French artillery fire was directed against it, the man sent there was this same irresolute and undiscerning DokhtÃºrov”KutÃºzov hastening to rectify a mistake he had made by sending someone else there first. And the quiet little DokhtÃºrov rode thither, and BorodinÃ³ became the greatest glory of the Russian army. Many heroes have been described to us in verse and prose, but of DokhtÃºrov scarcely a word has been said. It was DokhtÃºrov again whom they sent to FormÃnsk and from there to MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets, the place where the last battle with the French was fought and where the obvious disintegration of the French army began; and we are told of many geniuses and heroes of that period of the campaign, but of DokhtÃºrov nothing or very little is said and that dubiously. And this silence about DokhtÃºrov is the clearest testimony to his merit. It is natural for a man who does not understand the workings of a machine to imagine that a shaving that has fallen into it by chance and is interfering with its action and tossing about in it is its most important part. The man who does not understand the construction of the machine cannot conceive that the small connecting cogwheel which revolves quietly is one of the most essential parts of the machine, and not the shaving which merely harms and hinders the working. On the tenth of October when DokhtÃºrov had gone halfway to FormÃnsk and stopped at the village of AristÃ³vo, preparing faithfully to execute the orders he had received, the whole French army having, in its convulsive movement, reached Murats position apparently in order to give battle”suddenly without any reason turned off to the left onto the new KalÃºga road and began to enter FormÃnsk, where only Broussier had been till then. At that time DokhtÃºrov had under his command, besides DÃ³rokhovs detachment, the two small guerrilla detachments of Figner and SeslÃ¡vin. On the evening of October 11 SeslÃ¡vin came to the AristÃ³vo headquarters with a French guardsman he had captured. The prisoner said that the troops that had entered FormÃnsk that day were the vanguard of the whole army, that Napoleon was there and the whole army had left Moscow four days previously. That same evening a house serf who had come from BÃ³rovsk said he had seen an immense army entering the town. Some Cossacks of DokhtÃºrovs detachment reported having sighted the French Guards marching along the road to BÃ³rovsk. From all these reports it was evident that where they had expected to meet a single division there was now the whole French army marching from Moscow in an unexpected direction”along the KalÃºga road. DokhtÃºrov was unwilling to undertake any action, as it was not clear to him now what he ought to do. He had been ordered to attack FormÃnsk. But only Broussier had been there at that time and now the whole French army was there. ErmÃ³lov wished to act on his own judgment, but DokhtÃºrov insisted that he must have KutÃºzovs instructions. So it was decided to send a dispatch to the staff. For this purpose a capable officer, BolkhovÃtinov, was chosen, who was to explain the whole affair by word of mouth, besides delivering a written report. Toward midnight BolkhovÃtinov, having received the dispatch and verbal instructions, galloped off to the General Staff accompanied by a Cossack with spare horses. CHAPTER XVI It was a warm, dark, autumn night. It had been raining for four days. Having changed horses twice and galloped twenty miles in an hour and a half over a sticky, muddy road, BolkhovÃtinov reached LitashÃ«vka after one oclock at night. Dismounting at a cottage on whose wattle fence hung a signboard, GENERAL STAFF, and throwing down his reins, he entered a dark passage. The general on duty, quick! Its very important! said he to someone who had risen and was sniffing in the dark passage. He has been very unwell since the evening and this is the third night he has not slept, said the orderly pleadingly in a whisper. You should wake the captain first. But this is very important, from General DokhtÃºrov, said BolkhovÃtinov, entering the open door which he had found by feeling in the dark. The orderly had gone in before him and began waking somebody. Your honor, your honor! A courier. What? Whats that? From whom? came a sleepy voice. From DokhtÃºrov and from AlexÃ©y PetrÃ³vich. Napoleon is at FormÃnsk, said BolkhovÃtinov, unable to see in the dark who was speaking but guessing by the voice that it was not KonovnÃtsyn. The man who had wakened yawned and stretched himself. I dont like waking him, he said, fumbling for something. He is very ill. Perhaps this is only a rumor. Here is the dispatch, said BolkhovÃtinov. My orders are to give it at once to the general on duty. Wait a moment, Ill light a candle. You damned rascal, where do you always hide it? said the voice of the man who was stretching himself, to the orderly. (This was ShcherbÃnin, KonovnÃtsyns adjutant.) Ive found it, Ive found it! he added. The orderly was striking a light and ShcherbÃnin was fumbling for something on the candlestick. Oh, the nasty beasts! said he with disgust. By the light of the sparks BolkhovÃtinov saw ShcherbÃnins youthful face as he held the candle, and the face of another man who was still asleep. This was KonovnÃtsyn. When the flame of the sulphur splinters kindled by the tinder burned up, first blue and then red, ShcherbÃnin lit the tallow candle, from the candlestick of which the cockroaches that had been gnawing it were running away, and looked at the messenger. BolkhovÃtinov was bespattered all over with mud and had smeared his face by wiping it with his sleeve. Who gave the report? inquired ShcherbÃnin, taking the envelope. The news is reliable, said BolkhovÃtinov. Prisoners, Cossacks, and the scouts all say the same thing. Theres nothing to be done, well have to wake him, said ShcherbÃnin, rising and going up to the man in the nightcap who lay covered by a greatcoat. Peter PetrÃ³vich! said he. (KonovnÃtsyn did not stir.) To the General Staff! he said with a smile, knowing that those words would be sure to arouse him. And in fact the head in the nightcap was lifted at once. On KonovnÃtsyns handsome, resolute face with cheeks flushed by fever, there still remained for an instant a faraway dreamy expression remote from present affairs, but then he suddenly started and his face assumed its habitual calm and firm appearance. Well, what is it? From whom? he asked immediately but without hurry, blinking at the light. While listening to the officers report KonovnÃtsyn broke the seal and read the dispatch. Hardly had he done so before he lowered his legs in their woolen stockings to the earthen floor and began putting on his boots. Then he took off his nightcap, combed his hair over his temples, and donned his cap. Did you get here quickly? Let us go to his Highness. KonovnÃtsyn had understood at once that the news brought was of great importance and that no time must be lost. He did not consider or ask himself whether the news was good or bad. That did not interest him. He regarded the whole business of the war not with his intelligence or his reason but by something else. There was within him a deep unexpressed conviction that all would be well, but that one must not trust to this and still less speak about it, but must only attend to ones own work. And he did his work, giving his whole strength to the task. Peter PetrÃ³vich KonovnÃtsyn, like DokhtÃºrov, seems to have been included merely for proprietys sake in the list of the so-called heroes of 1812”the Barclays, RaÃ©vskis, ErmÃ³lovs, PlÃ¡tovs, and MilorÃ¡doviches. Like DokhtÃºrov he had the reputation of being a man of very limited capacity and information, and like DokhtÃºrov he never made plans of battle but was always found where the situation was most difficult. Since his appointment as general on duty he had always slept with his door open, giving orders that every messenger should be allowed to wake him up. In battle he was always under fire, so that KutÃºzov reproved him for it and feared to send him to the front, and like DokhtÃºrov he was one of those unnoticed cogwheels that, without clatter or noise, constitute the most essential part of the machine. Coming out of the hut into the damp, dark night KonovnÃtsyn frowned”partly from an increased pain in his head and partly at the unpleasant thought that occurred to him, of how all that nest of influential men on the staff would be stirred up by this news, especially Bennigsen, who ever since TarÃºtino had been at daggers drawn with KutÃºzov; and how they would make suggestions, quarrel, issue orders, and rescind them. And this premonition was disagreeable to him though he knew it could not be helped. And in fact Toll, to whom he went to communicate the news, immediately began to expound his plans to a general sharing his quarters, until KonovnÃtsyn, who listened in weary silence, reminded him that they must go to see his Highness. CHAPTER XVII KutÃºzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He often fell asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on his bed without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking. So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred head on his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and peering into the darkness. Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more influence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him, KutÃºzov was more at ease as to the possibility of himself and his troops being obliged to take part in useless aggressive movements. The lesson of the TarÃºtino battle and of the day before it, which KutÃºzov remembered with pain, must, he thought, have some effect on others too. They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive. Patience and time are my warriors, my champions, thought KutÃºzov. He knew that an apple should not be plucked while it is green. It will fall of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman he knew that the beast was wounded, and wounded as only the whole strength of Russia could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally wounded or not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of Lauriston and BarthÃ©lemi having been sent, and by the reports of the guerrillas, KutÃºzov was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait. They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shall see! Continual maneuvers, continual advances! thought he. What for? Only to distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They are like children from whom one cant get any sensible account of what has happened because they all want to show how well they can fight. But thats not what is needed now. And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems to them that when they have thought of two or three contingencies (he remembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) they have foreseen everything. But the contingencies are endless. The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at BorodinÃ³ was mortal or not had hung over KutÃºzovs head for a whole month. On the one hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other KutÃºzov felt assured with all his being that the terrible blow into which he and all the Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal. But in any case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month for them and grew more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those sleepless nights he did just what he reproached those younger generals for doing. He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like the younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves. He imagined all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a whole or in sections”against Petersburg, or against him, or to outflank him. He thought too of the possibility (which he feared most of all) that Napoleon might fight him with his own weapon and remain in Moscow awaiting him. KutÃºzov even imagined that Napoleons army might turn back through MedÃ½n and YukhnÃ³v, but the one thing he could not foresee was what happened”the insane, convulsive stampede of Napoleons army during its first eleven days after leaving Moscow: a stampede which made possible what KutÃºzov had not yet even dared to think of”the complete extermination of the French. DÃ³rokhovs report about Broussiers division, the guerrillas reports of distress in Napoleons army, rumors of preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition that the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But these were only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but not to KutÃºzov. With his sixty years experience he knew what value to attach to rumors, knew how apt people who desire anything are to group all news so that it appears to confirm what they desire, and he knew how readily in such cases they omit all that makes for the contrary. And the more he desired it the less he allowed himself to believe it. This question absorbed all his mental powers. All else was to him only lifes customary routine. To such customary routine belonged his conversations with the staff, the letters he wrote from TarÃºtino to Madame de StaÃ«l, the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he alone foresaw, was his hearts one desire. On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and thinking of that. There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll, KonovnÃtsyn, and BolkhovÃtinov. Eh, whos there? Come in, come in! What news? the field marshal called out to them. While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance of the news. Who brought it? asked KutÃºzov with a look which, when the candle was lit, struck Toll by its cold severity. There can be no doubt about it, your Highness. Call him in, call him here. KutÃºzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to read in his face what preoccupied his own mind. Tell me, tell me, friend, said he to BolkhovÃtinov in his low, aged voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest, come nearer”nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh? BolkhovÃtinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had been told to report. Speak quicker, quicker! Dont torture me! KutÃºzov interrupted him. BolkhovÃtinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but KutÃºzov checked him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckered and wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite side of the room, to the corner darkened by the icons that hung there. O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer... said he in a tremulous voice with folded hands. Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O Lord! and he wept. CHAPTER XVIII From the time he received this news to the end of the campaign all KutÃºzovs activity was directed toward restraining his troops, by authority, by guile, and by entreaty, from useless attacks, maneuvers, or encounters with the perishing enemy. DokhtÃºrov went to MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets, but KutÃºzov lingered with the main army and gave orders for the evacuation of KalÃºga”a retreat beyond which town seemed to him quite possible. Everywhere KutÃºzov retreated, but the enemy without waiting for his retreat fled in the opposite direction. Napoleons historians describe to us his skilled maneuvers at TarÃºtino and MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets, and make conjectures as to what would have happened had Napoleon been in time to penetrate into the rich southern provinces. But not to speak of the fact that nothing prevented him from advancing into those southern provinces (for the Russian army did not bar his way), the historians forget that nothing could have saved his army, for then already it bore within itself the germs of inevitable ruin. How could that army”which had found abundant supplies in Moscow and had trampled them underfoot instead of keeping them, and on arriving at SmolÃ©nsk had looted provisions instead of storing them”how could that army recuperate in KalÃºga province, which was inhabited by Russians such as those who lived in Moscow, and where fire had the same property of consuming what was set ablaze? That army could not recover anywhere. Since the battle of BorodinÃ³ and the pillage of Moscow it had borne within itself, as it were, the chemical elements of dissolution. The members of what had once been an army”Napoleon himself and all his soldiers”fled without knowing whither, each concerned only to make his escape as quickly as possible from this position, of the hopelessness of which they were all more or less vaguely conscious. So it came about that at the council at MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets, when the generals pretending to confer together expressed various opinions, all mouths were closed by the opinion uttered by the simple-minded soldier Mouton who, speaking last, said what they all felt: that the one thing needful was to get away as quickly as possible; and no one, not even Napoleon, could say anything against that truth which they all recognized. But though they all realized that it was necessary to get away, there still remained a feeling of shame at admitting that they must flee. An external shock was needed to overcome that shame, and this shock came in due time. It was what the French called le hourra de lEmpereur. The day after the council at MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets Napoleon rode out early in the morning amid the lines of his army with his suite of marshals and an escort, on the pretext of inspecting the army and the scene of the previous and of the impending battle. Some Cossacks on the prowl for booty fell in with the Emperor and very nearly captured him. If the Cossacks did not capture Napoleon then, what saved him was the very thing that was destroying the French army, the booty on which the Cossacks fell. Here as at TarÃºtino they went after plunder, leaving the men. Disregarding Napoleon they rushed after the plunder and Napoleon managed to escape. When les enfants du Don might so easily have taken the Emperor himself in the midst of his army, it was clear that there was nothing for it but to fly as fast as possible along the nearest, familiar road. Napoleon with his forty-year-old stomach understood that hint, not feeling his former agility and boldness, and under the influence of the fright the Cossacks had given him he at once agreed with Mouton and issued orders”as the historians tell us”to retreat by the SmolÃ©nsk road. That Napoleon agreed with Mouton, and that the army retreated, does not prove that Napoleon caused it to retreat, but that the forces which influenced the whole army and directed it along the MozhÃ¡ysk (that is, the SmolÃ©nsk) road acted simultaneously on him also. CHAPTER XIX A man in motion always devises an aim for that motion. To be able to go a thousand miles he must imagine that something good awaits him at the end of those thousand miles. One must have the prospect of a promised land to have the strength to move. The promised land for the French during their advance had been Moscow, during their retreat it was their native land. But that native land was too far off, and for a man going a thousand miles it is absolutely necessary to set aside his final goal and to say to himself: Today I shall get to a place twenty-five miles off where I shall rest and spend the night, and during the first days journey that resting place eclipses his ultimate goal and attracts all his hopes and desires. And the impulses felt by a single person are always magnified in a crowd. For the French retreating along the old SmolÃ©nsk road, the final goal”their native land”was too remote, and their immediate goal was SmolÃ©nsk, toward which all their desires and hopes, enormously intensified in the mass, urged them on. It was not that they knew that much food and fresh troops awaited them in SmolÃ©nsk, nor that they were told so (on the contrary their superior officers, and Napoleon himself, knew that provisions were scarce there), but because this alone could give them strength to move on and endure their present privations. So both those who knew and those who did not know deceived themselves, and pushed on to SmolÃ©nsk as to a promised land. Coming out onto the highroad the French fled with surprising energy and unheard-of rapidity toward the goal they had fixed on. Besides the common impulse which bound the whole crowd of French into one mass and supplied them with a certain energy, there was another cause binding them together”their great numbers. As with the physical law of gravity, their enormous mass drew the individual human atoms to itself. In their hundreds of thousands they moved like a whole nation. Each of them desired nothing more than to give himself up as a prisoner to escape from all this horror and misery; but on the one hand the force of this common attraction to SmolÃ©nsk, their goal, drew each of them in the same direction; on the other hand an army corps could not surrender to a company, and though the French availed themselves of every convenient opportunity to detach themselves and to surrender on the slightest decent pretext, such pretexts did not always occur. Their very numbers and their crowded and swift movement deprived them of that possibility and rendered it not only difficult but impossible for the Russians to stop this movement, to which the French were directing all their energies. Beyond a certain limit no mechanical disruption of the body could hasten the process of decomposition. A lump of snow cannot be melted instantaneously. There is a certain limit of time in less than which no amount of heat can melt the snow. On the contrary the greater the heat the more solidified the remaining snow becomes. Of the Russian commanders KutÃºzov alone understood this. When the flight of the French army along the SmolÃ©nsk road became well defined, what KonovnÃtsyn had foreseen on the night of the eleventh of October began to occur. The superior officers all wanted to distinguish themselves, to cut off, to seize, to capture, and to overthrow the French, and all clamored for action. KutÃºzov alone used all his power (and such power is very limited in the case of any commander in chief) to prevent an attack. He could not tell them what we say now: Why fight, why block the road, losing our own men and inhumanly slaughtering unfortunate wretches? What is the use of that, when a third of their army has melted away on the road from Moscow to VyÃ¡zma without any battle? But drawing from his aged wisdom what they could understand, he told them of the golden bridge, and they laughed at and slandered him, flinging themselves on, rending and exulting over the dying beast. ErmÃ³lov, MilorÃ¡dovich, PlÃ¡tov, and others in proximity to the French near VyÃ¡zma could not resist their desire to cut off and break up two French corps, and by way of reporting their intention to KutÃºzov they sent him a blank sheet of paper in an envelope. And try as KutÃºzov might to restrain the troops, our men attacked, trying to bar the road. Infantry regiments, we are told, advanced to the attack with music and with drums beating, and killed and lost thousands of men. But they did not cut off or overthrow anybody and the French army, closing up more firmly at the danger, continued, while steadily melting away, to pursue its fatal path to SmolÃ©nsk. BOOK FOURTEEN: 1812 CHAPTER I The Battle of BorodinÃ³, with the occupation of Moscow that followed it and the flight of the French without further conflicts, is one of the most instructive phenomena in history. All historians agree that the external activity of states and nations in their conflicts with one another is expressed in wars, and that as a direct result of greater or less success in war the political strength of states and nations increases or decreases. Strange as may be the historical account of how some king or emperor, having quarreled with another, collects an army, fights his enemys army, gains a victory by killing three, five, or ten thousand men, and subjugates a kingdom and an entire nation of several millions, all the facts of history (as far as we know it) confirm the truth of the statement that the greater or lesser success of one army against another is the cause, or at least an essential indication, of an increase or decrease in the strength of the nation”even though it is unintelligible why the defeat of an army”a hundredth part of a nation”should oblige that whole nation to submit. An army gains a victory, and at once the rights of the conquering nation have increased to the detriment of the defeated. An army has suffered defeat, and at once a people loses its rights in proportion to the severity of the reverse, and if its army suffers a complete defeat the nation is quite subjugated. So according to history it has been found from the most ancient times, and so it is to our own day. All Napoleons wars serve to confirm this rule. In proportion to the defeat of the Austrian army Austria loses its rights, and the rights and the strength of France increase. The victories of the French at Jena and AuerstÃ¤dt destroy the independent existence of Prussia. But then, in 1812, the French gain a victory near Moscow. Moscow is taken and after that, with no further battles, it is not Russia that ceases to exist, but the French army of six hundred thousand, and then Napoleonic France itself. To strain the facts to fit the rules of history: to say that the field of battle at BorodinÃ³ remained in the hands of the Russians, or that after Moscow there were other battles that destroyed Napoleons army, is impossible. After the French victory at BorodinÃ³ there was no general engagement nor any that were at all serious, yet the French army ceased to exist. What does this mean? If it were an example taken from the history of China, we might say that it was not an historic phenomenon (which is the historians usual expedient when anything does not fit their standards); if the matter concerned some brief conflict in which only a small number of troops took part, we might treat it as an exception; but this event occurred before our fathers eyes, and for them it was a question of the life or death of their fatherland, and it happened in the greatest of all known wars. The period of the campaign of 1812 from the battle of BorodinÃ³ to the expulsion of the French proved that the winning of a battle does not produce a conquest and is not even an invariable indication of conquest; it proved that the force which decides the fate of peoples lies not in the conquerors, nor even in armies and battles, but in something else. The French historians, describing the condition of the French army before it left Moscow, affirm that all was in order in the Grand Army, except the cavalry, the artillery, and the transport”there was no forage for the horses or the cattle. That was a misfortune no one could remedy, for the peasants of the district burned their hay rather than let the French have it. The victory gained did not bring the usual results because the peasants Karp and Vlas (who after the French had evacuated Moscow drove in their carts to pillage the town, and in general personally failed to manifest any heroic feelings), and the whole innumerable multitude of such peasants, did not bring their hay to Moscow for the high price offered them, but burned it instead. Let us imagine two men who have come out to fight a duel with rapiers according to all the rules of the art of fencing. The fencing has gone on for some time; suddenly one of the combatants, feeling himself wounded and understanding that the matter is no joke but concerns his life, throws down his rapier, and seizing the first cudgel that comes to hand begins to brandish it. Then let us imagine that the combatant who so sensibly employed the best and simplest means to attain his end was at the same time influenced by traditions of chivalry and, desiring to conceal the facts of the case, insisted that he had gained his victory with the rapier according to all the rules of art. One can imagine what confusion and obscurity would result from such an account of the duel. The fencer who demanded a contest according to the rules of fencing was the French army; his opponent who threw away the rapier and snatched up the cudgel was the Russian people; those who try to explain the matter according to the rules of fencing are the historians who have described the event. After the burning of SmolÃ©nsk a war began which did not follow any previous traditions of war. The burning of towns and villages, the retreats after battles, the blow dealt at BorodinÃ³ and the renewed retreat, the burning of Moscow, the capture of marauders, the seizure of transports, and the guerrilla war were all departures from the rules. Napoleon felt this, and from the time he took up the correct fencing attitude in Moscow and instead of his opponents rapier saw a cudgel raised above his head, he did not cease to complain to KutÃºzov and to the Emperor Alexander that the war was being carried on contrary to all the rules”as if there were any rules for killing people. In spite of the complaints of the French as to the nonobservance of the rules, in spite of the fact that to some highly placed Russians it seemed rather disgraceful to fight with a cudgel and they wanted to assume a pose en quarte or en tierce according to all the rules, and to make an adroit thrust en prime, and so on”the cudgel of the peoples war was lifted with all its menacing and majestic strength, and without consulting anyones tastes or rules and regardless of anything else, it rose and fell with stupid simplicity, but consistently, and belabored the French till the whole invasion had perished. And it is well for a people who do not”as the French did in 1813”salute according to all the rules of art, and, presenting the hilt of their rapier gracefully and politely, hand it to their magnanimous conqueror, but at the moment of trial, without asking what rules others have adopted in similar cases, simply and easily pick up the first cudgel that comes to hand and strike with it till the feeling of resentment and revenge in their soul yields to a feeling of contempt and compassion. CHAPTER II One of the most obvious and advantageous departures from the so-called laws of war is the action of scattered groups against men pressed together in a mass. Such action always occurs in wars that take on a national character. In such actions, instead of two crowds opposing each other, the men disperse, attack singly, run away when attacked by stronger forces, but again attack when opportunity offers. This was done by the guerrillas in Spain, by the mountain tribes in the Caucasus, and by the Russians in 1812. People have called this kind of war guerrilla warfare and assume that by so calling it they have explained its meaning. But such a war does not fit in under any rule and is directly opposed to a well-known rule of tactics which is accepted as infallible. That rule says that an attacker should concentrate his forces in order to be stronger than his opponent at the moment of conflict. Guerrilla war (always successful, as history shows) directly infringes that rule. This contradiction arises from the fact that military science assumes the strength of an army to be identical with its numbers. Military science says that the more troops the greater the strength. Les gros bataillons ont toujours raison. * * Large battalions are always victorious. For military science to say this is like defining momentum in mechanics by reference to the mass only: stating that momenta are equal or unequal to each other simply because the masses involved are equal or unequal. Momentum (quantity of motion) is the product of mass and velocity. In military affairs the strength of an army is the product of its mass and some unknown x. Military science, seeing in history innumerable instances of the fact that the size of any army does not coincide with its strength and that small detachments defeat larger ones, obscurely admits the existence of this unknown factor and tries to discover it”now in a geometric formation, now in the equipment employed, now, and most usually, in the genius of the commanders. But the assignment of these various meanings to the factor does not yield results which accord with the historic facts. Yet it is only necessary to abandon the false view (adopted to gratify the heroes) of the efficacy of the directions issued in wartime by commanders, in order to find this unknown quantity. That unknown quantity is the spirit of the army, that is to say, the greater or lesser readiness to fight and face danger felt by all the men composing an army, quite independently of whether they are, or are not, fighting under the command of a genius, in two”or three-line formation, with cudgels or with rifles that repeat thirty times a minute. Men who want to fight will always put themselves in the most advantageous conditions for fighting. The spirit of an army is the factor which multiplied by the mass gives the resulting force. To define and express the significance of this unknown factor”the spirit of an army”is a problem for science. This problem is only solvable if we cease arbitrarily to substitute for the unknown x itself the conditions under which that force becomes apparent”such as the commands of the general, the equipment employed, and so on”mistaking these for the real significance of the factor, and if we recognize this unknown quantity in its entirety as being the greater or lesser desire to fight and to face danger. Only then, expressing known historic facts by equations and comparing the relative significance of this factor, can we hope to define the unknown. Ten men, battalions, or divisions, fighting fifteen men, battalions, or divisions, conquer”that is, kill or take captive”all the others, while themselves losing four, so that on the one side four and on the other fifteen were lost. Consequently the four were equal to the fifteen, and therefore 4x = 15y. Consequently x/y = 15/4. This equation does not give us the value of the unknown factor but gives us a ratio between two unknowns. And by bringing variously selected historic units (battles, campaigns, periods of war) into such equations, a series of numbers could be obtained in which certain laws should exist and might be discovered. The tactical rule that an army should act in masses when attacking, and in smaller groups in retreat, unconsciously confirms the truth that the strength of an army depends on its spirit. To lead men forward under fire more discipline (obtainable only by movement in masses) is needed than is needed to resist attacks. But this rule which leaves out of account the spirit of the army continually proves incorrect and is in particularly striking contrast to the facts when some strong rise or fall in the spirit of the troops occurs, as in all national wars. The French, retreating in 1812”though according to tactics they should have separated into detachments to defend themselves”congregated into a mass because the spirit of the army had so fallen that only the mass held the army together. The Russians, on the contrary, ought according to tactics to have attacked in mass, but in fact they split up into small units, because their spirit had so risen that separate individuals, without orders, dealt blows at the French without needing any compulsion to induce them to expose themselves to hardships and dangers. CHAPTER III The so-called partisan war began with the entry of the French into SmolÃ©nsk. Before partisan warfare had been officially recognized by the government, thousands of enemy stragglers, marauders, and foragers had been destroyed by the Cossacks and the peasants, who killed them off as instinctively as dogs worry a stray mad dog to death. DenÃs DavÃ½dov, with his Russian instinct, was the first to recognize the value of this terrible cudgel which regardless of the rules of military science destroyed the French, and to him belongs the credit for taking the first step toward regularizing this method of warfare. On August 24 DavÃ½dovs first partisan detachment was formed and then others were recognized. The further the campaign progressed the more numerous these detachments became. The irregulars destroyed the great army piecemeal. They gathered the fallen leaves that dropped of themselves from that withered tree”the French army”and sometimes shook that tree itself. By October, when the French were fleeing toward SmolÃ©nsk, there were hundreds of such companies, of various sizes and characters. There were some that adopted all the army methods and had infantry, artillery, staffs, and the comforts of life. Others consisted solely of Cossack cavalry. There were also small scratch groups of foot and horse, and groups of peasants and landowners that remained unknown. A sacristan commanded one party which captured several hundred prisoners in the course of a month; and there was VasÃlisa, the wife of a village elder, who slew hundreds of the French. The partisan warfare flamed up most fiercely in the latter days of October. Its first period had passed: when the partisans themselves, amazed at their own boldness, feared every minute to be surrounded and captured by the French, and hid in the forests without unsaddling, hardly daring to dismount and always expecting to be pursued. By the end of October this kind of warfare had taken definite shape: it had become clear to all what could be ventured against the French and what could not. Now only the commanders of detachments with staffs, and moving according to rules at a distance from the French, still regarded many things as impossible. The small bands that had started their activities long before and had already observed the French closely considered things possible which the commanders of the big detachments did not dare to contemplate. The Cossacks and peasants who crept in among the French now considered everything possible. On October 22, DenÃsov (who was one of the irregulars) was with his group at the height of the guerrilla enthusiasm. Since early morning he and his party had been on the move. All day long he had been watching from the forest that skirted the highroad a large French convoy of cavalry baggage and Russian prisoners separated from the rest of the army, which”as was learned from spies and prisoners”was moving under a strong escort to SmolÃ©nsk. Besides DenÃsov and DÃ³lokhov (who also led a small party and moved in DenÃsovs vicinity), the commanders of some large divisions with staffs also knew of this convoy and, as DenÃsov expressed it, were sharpening their teeth for it. Two of the commanders of large parties”one a Pole and the other a German”sent invitations to DenÃsov almost simultaneously, requesting him to join up with their divisions to attack the convoy. No, bwother, I have gwown mustaches myself, said DenÃsov on reading these documents, and he wrote to the German that, despite his heartfelt desire to serve under so valiant and renowned a general, he had to forgo that pleasure because he was already under the command of the Polish general. To the Polish general he replied to the same effect, informing him that he was already under the command of the German. Having arranged matters thus, DenÃsov and DÃ³lokhov intended, without reporting matters to the higher command, to attack and seize that convoy with their own small forces. On October 22 it was moving from the village of MikÃºlino to that of ShÃ¡mshevo. To the left of the road between MikÃºlino and ShÃ¡mshevo there were large forests, extending in some places up to the road itself though in others a mile or more back from it. Through these forests DenÃsov and his party rode all day, sometimes keeping well back in them and sometimes coming to the very edge, but never losing sight of the moving French. That morning, Cossacks of DenÃsovs party had seized and carried off into the forest two wagons loaded with cavalry saddles, which had stuck in the mud not far from MikÃºlino where the forest ran close to the road. Since then, and until evening, the party had watched the movements of the French without attacking. It was necessary to let the French reach ShÃ¡mshevo quietly without alarming them and then, after joining DÃ³lokhov who was to come that evening to a consultation at a watchmans hut in the forest less than a mile from ShÃ¡mshevo, to surprise the French at dawn, falling like an avalanche on their heads from two sides, and rout and capture them all at one blow. In their rear, more than a mile from MikÃºlino where the forest came right up to the road, six Cossacks were posted to report if any fresh columns of French should show themselves. Beyond ShÃ¡mshevo, DÃ³lokhov was to observe the road in the same way, to find out at what distance there were other French troops. They reckoned that the convoy had fifteen hundred men. DenÃsov had two hundred, and DÃ³lokhov might have as many more, but the disparity of numbers did not deter DenÃsov. All that he now wanted to know was what troops these were and to learn that he had to capture a tongue”that is, a man from the enemy column. That mornings attack on the wagons had been made so hastily that the Frenchmen with the wagons had all been killed; only a little drummer boy had been taken alive, and as he was a straggler he could tell them nothing definite about the troops in that column. DenÃsov considered it dangerous to make a second attack for fear of putting the whole column on the alert, so he sent TÃkhon ShcherbÃ¡ty, a peasant of his party, to ShÃ¡mshevo to try and seize at least one of the French quartermasters who had been sent on in advance. CHAPTER IV It was a warm rainy autumn day. The sky and the horizon were both the color of muddy water. At times a sort of mist descended, and then suddenly heavy slanting rain came down. DenÃsov in a felt cloak and a sheepskin cap from which the rain ran down was riding a thin thoroughbred horse with sunken sides. Like his horse, which turned its head and laid its ears back, he shrank from the driving rain and gazed anxiously before him. His thin face with its short, thick black beard looked angry. Beside DenÃsov rode an esaul, * DenÃsovs fellow worker, also in felt cloak and sheepskin cap, and riding a large sleek Don horse. * A captain of Cossacks. Esaul LovÃ¡yski the Third was a tall man as straight as an arrow, pale-faced, fair-haired, with narrow light eyes and with calm self-satisfaction in his face and bearing. Though it was impossible to say in what the peculiarity of the horse and rider lay, yet at first glance at the esaul and DenÃsov one saw that the latter was wet and uncomfortable and was a man mounted on a horse, while looking at the esaul one saw that he was as comfortable and as much at ease as always and that he was not a man who had mounted a horse, but a man who was one with his horse, a being consequently possessed of twofold strength. A little ahead of them walked a peasant guide, wet to the skin and wearing a gray peasant coat and a white knitted cap. A little behind, on a poor, small, lean KirghÃz mount with an enormous tail and mane and a bleeding mouth, rode a young officer in a blue French overcoat. Beside him rode an hussar, with a boy in a tattered French uniform and blue cap behind him on the crupper of his horse. The boy held on to the hussar with cold, red hands, and raising his eyebrows gazed about him with surprise. This was the French drummer boy captured that morning. Behind them along the narrow, sodden, cut up forest road came hussars in threes and fours, and then Cossacks: some in felt cloaks, some in French greatcoats, and some with horsecloths over their heads. The horses, being drenched by the rain, all looked black whether chestnut or bay. Their necks, with their wet, close-clinging manes, looked strangely thin. Steam rose from them. Clothes, saddles, reins, were all wet, slippery, and sodden, like the ground and the fallen leaves that strewed the road. The men sat huddled up trying not to stir, so as to warm the water that had trickled to their bodies and not admit the fresh cold water that was leaking in under their seats, their knees, and at the back of their necks. In the midst of the outspread line of Cossacks two wagons, drawn by French horses and by saddled Cossack horses that had been hitched on in front, rumbled over the tree stumps and branches and splashed through the water that lay in the ruts. DenÃsovs horse swerved aside to avoid a pool in the track and bumped his riders knee against a tree. Oh, the devil! exclaimed DenÃsov angrily, and showing his teeth he struck his horse three times with his whip, splashing himself and his comrades with mud. DenÃsov was out of sorts both because of the rain and also from hunger (none of them had eaten anything since morning), and yet more because he still had no news from DÃ³lokhov and the man sent to capture a tongue had not returned. Therell hardly be another such chance to fall on a transport as today. Its too risky to attack them by oneself, and if we put it off till another day one of the big guerrilla detachments will snatch the prey from under our noses, thought DenÃsov, continually peering forward, hoping to see a messenger from DÃ³lokhov. On coming to a path in the forest along which he could see far to the right, DenÃsov stopped. Theres someone coming, said he. The esaul looked in the direction DenÃsov indicated. There are two, an officer and a Cossack. But it is not presupposable that it is the lieutenant colonel himself, said the esaul, who was fond of using words the Cossacks did not know. The approaching riders having descended a decline were no longer visible, but they reappeared a few minutes later. In front, at a weary gallop and using his leather whip, rode an officer, disheveled and drenched, whose trousers had worked up to above his knees. Behind him, standing in the stirrups, trotted a Cossack. The officer, a very young lad with a broad rosy face and keen merry eyes, galloped up to DenÃsov and handed him a sodden envelope. From the general, said the officer. Please excuse its not being quite dry. DenÃsov, frowning, took the envelope and opened it. There, they kept telling us: ˜Its dangerous, its dangerous, said the officer, addressing the esaul while DenÃsov was reading the dispatch. But KomarÃ³v and I”he pointed to the Cossack”were prepared. We have each of us two pistols.... But whats this? he asked, noticing the French drummer boy. A prisoner? Youve already been in action? May I speak to him? WostÃ³v! PÃ©tya! exclaimed DenÃsov, having run through the dispatch. Why didnt you say who you were? and turning with a smile he held out his hand to the lad. The officer was PÃ©tya RostÃ³v. All the way PÃ©tya had been preparing himself to behave with DenÃsov as befitted a grown-up man and an officer”without hinting at their previous acquaintance. But as soon as DenÃsov smiled at him PÃ©tya brightened up, blushed with pleasure, forgot the official manner he had been rehearsing, and began telling him how he had already been in a battle near VyÃ¡zma and how a certain hussar had distinguished himself there. Well, I am glad to see you, DenÃsov interrupted him, and his face again assumed its anxious expression. Michael FeoklÃtych, said he to the esaul, this is again fwom that German, you know. He”he indicated PÃ©tya”is serving under him. And DenÃsov told the esaul that the dispatch just delivered was a repetition of the German generals demand that he should join forces with him for an attack on the transport. If we dont take it tomowwow, hell snatch it fwom under our noses, he added. While DenÃsov was talking to the esaul, PÃ©tya”abashed by DenÃsovs cold tone and supposing that it was due to the condition of his trousers”furtively tried to pull them down under his greatcoat so that no one should notice it, while maintaining as martial an air as possible. Will there be any orders, your honor? he asked DenÃsov, holding his hand at the salute and resuming the game of adjutant and general for which he had prepared himself, or shall I remain with your honor? Orders? DenÃsov repeated thoughtfully. But can you stay till tomowwow? Oh, please... May I stay with you? cried PÃ©tya. But, just what did the genewal tell you? To weturn at once? asked DenÃsov. PÃ©tya blushed. He gave me no instructions. I think I could? he returned, inquiringly. Well, all wight, said DenÃsov. And turning to his men he directed a party to go on to the halting place arranged near the watchmans hut in the forest, and told the officer on the KirghÃz horse (who performed the duties of an adjutant) to go and find out where DÃ³lokhov was and whether he would come that evening. DenÃsov himself intended going with the esaul and PÃ©tya to the edge of the forest where it reached out to ShÃ¡mshevo, to have a look at the part of the French bivouac they were to attack next day. Well, old fellow, said he to the peasant guide, lead us to ShÃ¡mshevo. DenÃsov, PÃ©tya, and the esaul, accompanied by some Cossacks and the hussar who had the prisoner, rode to the left across a ravine to the edge of the forest. CHAPTER V The rain had stopped, and only the mist was falling and drops from the trees. DenÃsov, the esaul, and PÃ©tya rode silently, following the peasant in the knitted cap who, stepping lightly with outturned toes and moving noiselessly in his bast shoes over the roots and wet leaves, silently led them to the edge of the forest. He ascended an incline, stopped, looked about him, and advanced to where the screen of trees was less dense. On reaching a large oak tree that had not yet shed its leaves, he stopped and beckoned mysteriously to them with his hand. DenÃsov and PÃ©tya rode up to him. From the spot where the peasant was standing they could see the French. Immediately beyond the forest, on a downward slope, lay a field of spring rye. To the right, beyond a steep ravine, was a small village and a landowners house with a broken roof. In the village, in the house, in the garden, by the well, by the pond, over all the rising ground, and all along the road uphill from the bridge leading to the village, not more than five hundred yards away, crowds of men could be seen through the shimmering mist. Their un-Russian shouting at their horses which were straining uphill with the carts, and their calls to one another, could be clearly heard. Bwing the prisoner here, said DenÃsov in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the French. A Cossack dismounted, lifted the boy down, and took him to DenÃsov. Pointing to the French troops, DenÃsov asked him what these and those of them were. The boy, thrusting his cold hands into his pockets and lifting his eyebrows, looked at DenÃsov in affright, but in spite of an evident desire to say all he knew gave confused answers, merely assenting to everything DenÃsov asked him. DenÃsov turned away from him frowning and addressed the esaul, conveying his own conjectures to him. PÃ©tya, rapidly turning his head, looked now at the drummer boy, now at DenÃsov, now at the esaul, and now at the French in the village and along the road, trying not to miss anything of importance. Whether DÃ³lokhov comes or not, we must seize it, eh? said DenÃsov with a merry sparkle in his eyes. It is a very suitable spot, said the esaul. Well send the infantwy down by the swamps, DenÃsov continued. Theyll cweep up to the garden; youll wide up fwom there with the Cossacks”he pointed to a spot in the forest beyond the village”and I with my hussars fwom here. And at the signal shot... The hollow is impassable”theres a swamp there, said the esaul. The horses would sink. We must ride round more to the left.... While they were talking in undertones the crack of a shot sounded from the low ground by the pond, a puff of white smoke appeared, then another, and the sound of hundreds of seemingly merry French voices shouting together came up from the slope. For a moment DenÃsov and the esaul drew back. They were so near that they thought they were the cause of the firing and shouting. But the firing and shouting did not relate to them. Down below, a man wearing something red was running through the marsh. The French were evidently firing and shouting at him. Why, thats our TÃkhon, said the esaul. So it is! It is! The wascal! said DenÃsov. Hell get away! said the esaul, screwing up his eyes. The man whom they called TÃkhon, having run to the stream, plunged in so that the water splashed in the air, and, having disappeared for an instant, scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on. The French who had been pursuing him stopped. Smart, that! said the esaul. What a beast! said DenÃsov with his former look of vexation. What has he been doing all this time? Who is he? asked PÃ©tya. Hes our plastÃºn. I sent him to capture a ˜tongue. Oh, yes, said PÃ©tya, nodding at the first words DenÃsov uttered as if he understood it all, though he really did not understand anything of it. TÃkhon ShcherbÃ¡ty was one of the most indispensable men in their band. He was a peasant from PokrÃ³vsk, near the river Gzhat. When DenÃsov had come to PokrÃ³vsk at the beginning of his operations and had as usual summoned the village elder and asked him what he knew about the French, the elder, as though shielding himself, had replied, as all village elders did, that he had neither seen nor heard anything of them. But when DenÃsov explained that his purpose was to kill the French, and asked if no French had strayed that way, the elder replied that some more-orderers had really been at their village, but that TÃkhon ShcherbÃ¡ty was the only man who dealt with such matters. DenÃsov had TÃkhon called and, having praised him for his activity, said a few words in the elders presence about loyalty to the Tsar and the country and the hatred of the French that all sons of the fatherland should cherish. We dont do the French any harm, said TÃkhon, evidently frightened by DenÃsovs words. We only fooled about with the lads for fun, you know! We killed a score or so of ˜more-orderers, but we did no harm else.... Next day when DenÃsov had left PokrÃ³vsk, having quite forgotten about this peasant, it was reported to him that TÃkhon had attached himself to their party and asked to be allowed to remain with it. DenÃsov gave orders to let him do so. TÃkhon, who at first did rough work, laying campfires, fetching water, flaying dead horses, and so on, soon showed a great liking and aptitude for partisan warfare. At night he would go out for booty and always brought back French clothing and weapons, and when told to would bring in French captives also. DenÃsov then relieved him from drudgery and began taking him with him when he went out on expeditions and had him enrolled among the Cossacks. TÃkhon did not like riding, and always went on foot, never lagging behind the cavalry. He was armed with a musketoon (which he carried rather as a joke), a pike and an ax, which latter he used as a wolf uses its teeth, with equal ease picking fleas out of its fur or crunching thick bones. TÃkhon with equal accuracy would split logs with blows at arms length, or holding the head of the ax would cut thin little pegs or carve spoons. In DenÃsovs party he held a peculiar and exceptional position. When anything particularly difficult or nasty had to be done”to push a cart out of the mud with ones shoulders, pull a horse out of a swamp by its tail, skin it, slink in among the French, or walk more than thirty miles in a day”everybody pointed laughingly at TÃkhon. It wont hurt that devil”hes as strong as a horse! they said of him. Once a Frenchman TÃkhon was trying to capture fired a pistol at him and shot him in the fleshy part of the back. That wound (which TÃkhon treated only with internal and external applications of vodka) was the subject of the liveliest jokes by the whole detachment”jokes in which TÃkhon readily joined. Hallo, mate! Never again? Gave you a twist? the Cossacks would banter him. And TÃkhon, purposely writhing and making faces, pretended to be angry and swore at the French with the funniest curses. The only effect of this incident on TÃkhon was that after being wounded he seldom brought in prisoners. He was the bravest and most useful man in the party. No one found more opportunities for attacking, no one captured or killed more Frenchmen, and consequently he was made the buffoon of all the Cossacks and hussars and willingly accepted that role. Now he had been sent by DenÃsov overnight to ShÃ¡mshevo to capture a tongue. But whether because he had not been content to take only one Frenchman or because he had slept through the night, he had crept by day into some bushes right among the French and, as DenÃsov had witnessed from above, had been detected by them. CHAPTER VI After talking for some time with the esaul about next days attack, which now, seeing how near they were to the French, he seemed to have definitely decided on, DenÃsov turned his horse and rode back. Now, my lad, well go and get dwy, he said to PÃ©tya. As they approached the watchhouse DenÃsov stopped, peering into the forest. Among the trees a man with long legs and long, swinging arms, wearing a short jacket, bast shoes, and a KazÃ¡n hat, was approaching with long, light steps. He had a musketoon over his shoulder and an ax stuck in his girdle. When he espied DenÃsov he hastily threw something into the bushes, removed his sodden hat by its floppy brim, and approached his commander. It was TÃkhon. His wrinkled and pockmarked face and narrow little eyes beamed with self-satisfied merriment. He lifted his head high and gazed at DenÃsov as if repressing a laugh. Well, where did you disappear to? inquired DenÃsov. Where did I disappear to? I went to get Frenchmen, answered TÃkhon boldly and hurriedly, in a husky but melodious bass voice. Why did you push yourself in there by daylight? You ass! Well, why havent you taken one? Oh, I took one all right, said TÃkhon. Where is he? You see, I took him first thing at dawn, TÃkhon continued, spreading out his flat feet with outturned toes in their bast shoes. I took him into the forest. Then I see hes no good and think Ill go and fetch a likelier one. You see?... What a wogue”its just as I thought, said DenÃsov to the esaul. Why didnt you bwing that one? What was the good of bringing him? TÃkhon interrupted hastily and angrily”that one wouldnt have done for you. As if I dont know what sort you want! What a bwute you are!... Well? I went for another one, TÃkhon continued, and I crept like this through the wood and lay down. (He suddenly lay down on his stomach with a supple movement to show how he had done it.) One turned up and I grabbed him, like this. (He jumped up quickly and lightly.) ˜Come along to the colonel, I said. He starts yelling, and suddenly there were four of them. They rushed at me with their little swords. So I went for them with my ax, this way: ˜What are you up to? says I. ˜Christ be with you! shouted TÃkhon, waving his arms with an angry scowl and throwing out his chest. Yes, we saw from the hill how you took to your heels through the puddles! said the esaul, screwing up his glittering eyes. PÃ©tya badly wanted to laugh, but noticed that they all refrained from laughing. He turned his eyes rapidly from TÃkhons face to the esauls and DenÃsovs, unable to make out what it all meant. Dont play the fool! said DenÃsov, coughing angrily. Why didnt you bwing the first one? TÃkhon scratched his back with one hand and his head with the other, then suddenly his whole face expanded into a beaming, foolish grin, disclosing a gap where he had lost a tooth (that was why he was called ShcherbÃ¡ty”the gap-toothed). DenÃsov smiled, and PÃ©tya burst into a peal of merry laughter in which TÃkhon himself joined. Oh, but he was a regular good-for-nothing, said TÃkhon. The clothes on him”poor stuff! How could I bring him? And so rude, your honor! Why, he says: ˜Im a generals son myself, I wont go! he says. You are a bwute! said DenÃsov. I wanted to question... But I questioned him, said TÃkhon. He said he didnt know much. ˜There are a lot of us, he says, ˜but all poor stuff”only soldiers in name, he says. ˜Shout loud at them, he says, ˜and youll take them all, TÃkhon concluded, looking cheerfully and resolutely into DenÃsovs eyes. Ill give you a hundwed sharp lashes”thatll teach you to play the fool! said DenÃsov severely. But why are you angry? remonstrated TÃkhon, just as if Id never seen your Frenchmen! Only wait till it gets dark and Ill fetch you any of them you want”three if you like. Well, lets go, said DenÃsov, and rode all the way to the watchhouse in silence and frowning angrily. TÃkhon followed behind and PÃ©tya heard the Cossacks laughing with him and at him, about some pair of boots he had thrown into the bushes. When the fit of laughter that had seized him at TÃkhons words and smile had passed and PÃ©tya realized for a moment that this TÃkhon had killed a man, he felt uneasy. He looked round at the captive drummer boy and felt a pang in his heart. But this uneasiness lasted only a moment. He felt it necessary to hold his head higher, to brace himself, and to question the esaul with an air of importance about tomorrows undertaking, that he might not be unworthy of the company in which he found himself. The officer who had been sent to inquire met DenÃsov on the way with the news that DÃ³lokhov was soon coming and that all was well with him. DenÃsov at once cheered up and, calling PÃ©tya to him, said: Well, tell me about yourself. CHAPTER VII PÃ©tya, having left his people after their departure from Moscow, joined his regiment and was soon taken as orderly by a general commanding a large guerrilla detachment. From the time he received his commission, and especially since he had joined the active army and taken part in the battle of VyÃ¡zma, PÃ©tya had been in a constant state of blissful excitement at being grown-up and in a perpetual ecstatic hurry not to miss any chance to do something really heroic. He was highly delighted with what he saw and experienced in the army, but at the same time it always seemed to him that the really heroic exploits were being performed just where he did not happen to be. And he was always in a hurry to get where he was not. When on the twenty-first of October his general expressed a wish to send somebody to DenÃsovs detachment, PÃ©tya begged so piteously to be sent that the general could not refuse. But when dispatching him he recalled PÃ©tyas mad action at the battle of VyÃ¡zma, where instead of riding by the road to the place to which he had been sent, he had galloped to the advanced line under the fire of the French and had there twice fired his pistol. So now the general explicitly forbade his taking part in any action whatever of DenÃsovs. That was why PÃ©tya had blushed and grown confused when DenÃsov asked him whether he could stay. Before they had ridden to the outskirts of the forest PÃ©tya had considered he must carry out his instructions strictly and return at once. But when he saw the French and saw TÃkhon and learned that there would certainly be an attack that night, he decided, with the rapidity with which young people change their views, that the general, whom he had greatly respected till then, was a rubbishy German, that DenÃsov was a hero, the esaul a hero, and TÃkhon a hero too, and that it would be shameful for him to leave them at a moment of difficulty. It was already growing dusk when DenÃsov, PÃ©tya, and the esaul rode up to the watchhouse. In the twilight saddled horses could be seen, and Cossacks and hussars who had rigged up rough shelters in the glade and were kindling glowing fires in a hollow of the forest where the French could not see the smoke. In the passage of the small watchhouse a Cossack with sleeves rolled up was chopping some mutton. In the room three officers of DenÃsovs band were converting a door into a tabletop. PÃ©tya took off his wet clothes, gave them to be dried, and at once began helping the officers to fix up the dinner table. In ten minutes the table was ready and a napkin spread on it. On the table were vodka, a flask of rum, white bread, roast mutton, and salt. Sitting at table with the officers and tearing the fat savory mutton with his hands, down which the grease trickled, PÃ©tya was in an ecstatic childish state of love for all men, and consequently of confidence that others loved him in the same way. So then what do you think, VasÃli DmÃtrich? said he to DenÃsov. Its all right my staying a day with you? And not waiting for a reply he answered his own question: You see I was told to find out”well, I am finding out.... Only do let me into the very... into the chief... I dont want a reward.... But I want... PÃ©tya clenched his teeth and looked around, throwing back his head and flourishing his arms. Into the vewy chief... DenÃsov repeated with a smile. Only, please let me command something, so that I may really command... PÃ©tya went on. What would it be to you?... Oh, you want a knife? he said, turning to an officer who wished to cut himself a piece of mutton. And he handed him his clasp knife. The officer admired it. Please keep it. I have several like it, said PÃ©tya, blushing. Heavens! I was quite forgetting! he suddenly cried. I have some raisins, fine ones; you know, seedless ones. We have a new sutler and he has such capital things. I bought ten pounds. I am used to something sweet. Would you like some?... and PÃ©tya ran out into the passage to his Cossack and brought back some bags which contained about five pounds of raisins. Have some, gentlemen, have some! You want a coffeepot, dont you? he asked the esaul. I bought a capital one from our sutler! He has splendid things. And hes very honest, thats the chief thing. Ill be sure to send it to you. Or perhaps your flints are giving out, or are worn out”that happens sometimes, you know. I have brought some with me, here they are”and he showed a bag”a hundred flints. I bought them very cheap. Please take as many as you want, or all if you like.... Then suddenly, dismayed lest he had said too much, PÃ©tya stopped and blushed. He tried to remember whether he had not done anything else that was foolish. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French drummer boy. Its capital for us here, but what of him? Where have they put him? Have they fed him? Havent they hurt his feelings? he thought. But having caught himself saying too much about the flints, he was now afraid to speak out. I might ask, he thought, but theyll say: ˜Hes a boy himself and so he pities the boy. Ill show them tomorrow whether Im a boy. Will it seem odd if I ask? PÃ©tya thought. Well, never mind! and immediately, blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared ironical, he said: May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to eat?... Perhaps... Yes, hes a poor little fellow, said DenÃsov, who evidently saw nothing shameful in this reminder. Call him in. His name is Vincent Bosse. Have him fetched. Ill call him, said PÃ©tya. Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow, DenÃsov repeated. PÃ©tya was standing at the door when DenÃsov said this. He slipped in between the officers, came close to DenÃsov, and said: Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid! And having kissed DenÃsov he ran out of the hut. Bosse! Vincent! PÃ©tya cried, stopping outside the door. Who do you want, sir? asked a voice in the darkness. PÃ©tya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that day. Ah, VesÃ©nny? said a Cossack. Vincent, the boys name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into VesÃ©nny (vernal) and into VesÃ©nya by the peasants and soldiers. In both these adaptations the reference to spring (vesnÃ¡) matched the impression made by the young lad. He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, VesÃ©nya! VesÃ©nya!”VesÃ©nny! laughing voices were heard calling to one another in the darkness. Hes a smart lad, said an hussar standing near PÃ©tya. We gave him something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry! The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door. Ah, cest vous! said PÃ©tya. Voulez-vous manger? Nayez pas peur, on ne vous fera pas de mal, * he added shyly and affectionately, touching the boys hand. Entrez, entrez. *(2) * Ah, its you! Do you want something to eat? Dont be afraid, they wont hurt you. * (2) Come in, come in. Merci, monsieur, * said the drummer boy in a trembling almost childish voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold. * Thank you, sir. There were many things PÃ©tya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in the darkness he took the boys hand and pressed it. Come in, come in! he repeated in a gentle whisper. Oh, what can I do for him? he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first. When the boy had entered the hut, PÃ©tya sat down at a distance from him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy. CHAPTER VIII The arrival of DÃ³lokhov diverted PÃ©tyas attention from the drummer boy, to whom DenÃsov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and not sent away with the other prisoners. PÃ©tya had heard in the army many stories of DÃ³lokhovs extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the French, so from the moment he entered the hut PÃ©tya did not take his eyes from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head high, that he might not be unworthy even of such company. DÃ³lokhovs appearance amazed PÃ©tya by its simplicity. DenÃsov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he did indicated his unusual position. But DÃ³lokhov, who in Moscow had worn a Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of the Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsmans padded coat with an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of the room, and without greeting anyone went up to DenÃsov and began questioning him about the matter in hand. DenÃsov told him of the designs the large detachments had on the transport, of the message PÃ©tya had brought, and his own replies to both generals. Then he told him all he knew of the French detachment. Thats so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers, said DÃ³lokhov. It will be necessary to go there. We cant start the affair without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work accurately. Here now”wouldnt one of these gentlemen like to ride over to the French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform. I, I... Ill go with you! cried PÃ©tya. Theres no need for you to go at all, said DenÃsov, addressing DÃ³lokhov, and as for him, I wont let him go on any account. I like that! exclaimed PÃ©tya. Why shouldnt I go? Because its useless. Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and thats all. Youll take me, wont you? he said, turning to DÃ³lokhov. Why not? DÃ³lokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the French drummer boy. Have you had that youngster with you long? he asked DenÃsov. He was taken today but he knows nothing. Im keeping him with me. Yes, and where do you put the others? inquired DÃ³lokhov. Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them, shouted DenÃsov, suddenly flushing. And I say boldly that I have not a single mans life on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining”I speak bluntly”staining the honor of a soldier? That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of sixteen, said DÃ³lokhov with cold irony, but its time for you to drop it. Why, Ive not said anything! I only say that Ill certainly go with you, said PÃ©tya shyly. But for you and me, old fellow, its time to drop these amenities, continued DÃ³lokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of this subject which irritated DenÃsov. Now, why have you kept this lad? he went on, swaying his head. Because you are sorry for him! Dont we know those ˜receipts of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty get there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isnt it all the same not to send them? The esaul, screwing up his light-colored eyes, nodded approvingly. Thats not the point. Im not going to discuss the matter. I do not wish to take it on my conscience. You say theyll die. All wight. Only not by my fault! DÃ³lokhov began laughing. Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? But if they did catch me theyd string me up to an aspen tree, and with all your chivalry just the same. He paused. However, we must get to work. Tell the Cossack to fetch my kit. I have two French uniforms in it. Well, are you coming with me? he asked PÃ©tya. I? Yes, yes, certainly! cried PÃ©tya, blushing almost to tears and glancing at DenÃsov. While DÃ³lokhov had been disputing with DenÃsov what should be done with prisoners, PÃ©tya had once more felt awkward and restless; but again he had no time to grasp fully what they were talking about. If grown-up, distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right, thought he. But above all DenÃsov must not dare to imagine that Ill obey him and that he can order me about. I will certainly go to the French camp with DÃ³lokhov. If he can, so can I! And to all DenÃsovs persuasions, PÃ©tya replied that he too was accustomed to do everything accurately and not just anyhow, and that he never considered personal danger. For youll admit that if we dont know for sure how many of them there are... hundreds of lives may depend on it, while there are only two of us. Besides, I want to go very much and certainly will go, so dont hinder me, said he. It will only make things worse.... CHAPTER IX Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, PÃ©tya and DÃ³lokhov rode to the clearing from which DenÃsov had reconnoitered the French camp, and emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they descended into the hollow. On reaching the bottom, DÃ³lokhov told the Cossacks accompanying him to await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the road to the bridge. PÃ©tya, his heart in his mouth with excitement, rode by his side. If were caught, I wont be taken alive! I have a pistol, whispered he. Dont talk Russian, said DÃ³lokhov in a hurried whisper, and at that very moment they heard through the darkness the challenge: Qui vive? * and the click of a musket. * Who goes there? The blood rushed to PÃ©tyas face and he grasped his pistol. Lanciers du 6-me, * replied DÃ³lokhov, neither hastening nor slackening his horses pace. * Lancers of the 6th Regiment. The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge. Mot dordre. * * Password. DÃ³lokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk. Dites donc, le colonel GÃ©rard est ici? * he asked. * Tell me, is Colonel GÃ©rard here? Mot dordre, repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying. Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le mot dordre... cried DÃ³lokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight at the sentinel. Je vous demande si le colonel est ici. * * When an officer is making his round, sentinels dont ask him for the password.... I am asking you if the colonel is here. And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had stepped aside, DÃ³lokhov rode up the incline at a walk. Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, DÃ³lokhov stopped him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man, a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came close up to DÃ³lokhovs horse, touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in a friendly way that the commander and the officers were higher up the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the landowners house. Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be heard around the campfires, DÃ³lokhov turned into the courtyard of the landowners house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily. Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod. Oh, hes a hard nut to crack, said one of the officers who was sitting in the shadow at the other side of the fire. Hell make them get a move on, those fellows! said another, laughing. Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the sound of DÃ³lokhovs and PÃ©tyas steps as they advanced to the fire leading their horses. Bonjour, messieurs! * said DÃ³lokhov loudly and clearly. * Good day, gentlemen. There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the fire, and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire, came up to DÃ³lokhov. Is that you, ClÃ©ment? he asked. Where the devil...? But, noticing his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown, greeted DÃ³lokhov as a stranger, asking what he could do for him. DÃ³lokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake their regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether they knew anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and PÃ©tya thought the officers were beginning to look at him and DÃ³lokhov with hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent. If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come too late, said a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh. DÃ³lokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on farther that night. He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring the pot and squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the officer with the long neck. That officer did not take his eyes from DÃ³lokhov and again asked to what regiment he belonged. DÃ³lokhov, as if he had not heard the question, did not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road before them was safe from Cossacks. Those brigands are everywhere, replied an officer from behind the fire. DÃ³lokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers such as his companion and himself, but probably they would not dare to attack large detachments? he added inquiringly. No one replied. Well, now hell come away, PÃ©tya thought every moment as he stood by the campfire listening to the talk. But DÃ³lokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion, how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian prisoners with that detachment, DÃ³lokhov said: A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be better to shoot such rabble, and burst into loud laughter, so strange that PÃ©tya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise, and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire. No one replied a word to DÃ³lokhovs laughter, and a French officer whom they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered something to a companion. DÃ³lokhov got up and called to the soldier who was holding their horses. Will they bring our horses or not? thought PÃ©tya, instinctively drawing nearer to DÃ³lokhov. The horses were brought. Good evening, gentlemen, said DÃ³lokhov. PÃ©tya wished to say Good night but could not utter a word. The officers were whispering together. DÃ³lokhov was a long time mounting his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a footpace. PÃ©tya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or not the French were running after them, but not daring to. Coming out onto the road DÃ³lokhov did not ride back across the open country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened. Do you hear? he asked. PÃ©tya recognized the sound of Russian voices and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires. When they had descended to the bridge PÃ©tya and DÃ³lokhov rode past the sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them. Well now, good-by. Tell DenÃsov, ˜at the first shot at daybreak, said DÃ³lokhov and was about to ride away, but PÃ©tya seized hold of him. Really! he cried, you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how splendid! How I love you! All right, all right! said DÃ³lokhov. But PÃ©tya did not let go of him and DÃ³lokhov saw through the gloom that PÃ©tya was bending toward him and wanted to kiss him. DÃ³lokhov kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and vanished into the darkness. CHAPTER X Having returned to the watchmans hut, PÃ©tya found DenÃsov in the passage. He was awaiting PÃ©tyas return in a state of agitation, anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go. Thank God! he exclaimed. Yes, thank God! he repeated, listening to PÃ©tyas rapturous account. But, devil take you, I havent slept because of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before morning. But... no, said PÃ©tya, I dont want to sleep yet. Besides I know myself, if I fall asleep its finished. And then I am used to not sleeping before a battle. He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day. Then, noticing that DenÃsov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors. It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still falling from the trees. Near the watchmans hut the black shapes of the Cossacks shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red. Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the sounds of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be heard low voices which seemed to be whispering. PÃ©tya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons. Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses munching their oats. In the dark PÃ©tya recognized his own horse, which he called KarabÃ¡kh though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it. Well, KarabÃ¡kh! Well do some service tomorrow, said he, sniffing its nostrils and kissing it. Why arent you asleep, sir? said a Cossack who was sitting under a wagon. No, ah... LikhachÃ«v”isnt that your name? Do you know I have only just come back! Weve been into the French camp. And PÃ©tya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life than to act just anyhow. Well, you should get some sleep now, said the Cossack. No, I am used to this, said PÃ©tya. I say, arent the flints in your pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Dont you want any? You can have some. The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at PÃ©tya. Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately, said PÃ©tya. Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then theyre sorry for it afterwards. I dont like that. Just so, said the Cossack. Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my saber for me? Its got bl... (PÃ©tya feared to tell a lie, and the saber never had been sharpened.) Can you do it? Of course I can. LikhachÃ«v got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon PÃ©tya heard the warlike sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon. I say! Are the lads asleep? asked PÃ©tya. Some are, and some arent”like us. Well, and that boy? VesÃ©nny? Oh, hes thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep after his fright. He was that glad! After that PÃ©tya remained silent for a long time, listening to the sounds. He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared. What are you sharpening? asked a man coming up to the wagon. Why, this gentlemans saber. Thats right, said the man, whom PÃ©tya took to be an hussar. Was the cup left here? There, by the wheel! The hussar took the cup. It must be daylight soon, said he, yawning, and went away. PÃ©tya ought to have known that he was in a forest with DenÃsovs guerrilla band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under it LikhachÃ«v was sitting sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark blotch to the right was the watchmans hut, and the red blotch below to the left was the dying embers of a campfire, that the man who had come for the cup was an hussar who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor waited to know anything of all this. He was in a fairy kingdom where nothing resembled reality. The big dark blotch might really be the watchmans hut or it might be a cavern leading to the very depths of the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire, or it might be the eye of an enormous monster. Perhaps he was really sitting on a wagon, but it might very well be that he was not sitting on a wagon but on a terribly high tower from which, if he fell, he would have to fall for a whole day or a whole month, or go on falling and never reach the bottom. Perhaps it was just the Cossack, LikhachÃ«v, who was sitting under the wagon, but it might be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful, most splendid man in the world, whom no one knew of. It might really have been that the hussar came for water and went back into the hollow, but perhaps he had simply vanished”disappeared altogether and dissolved into nothingness. Nothing PÃ©tya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a fairy kingdom where everything was possible. He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth. It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly sailing as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds were passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as if the black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising high, high overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could touch it with ones hand. PÃ©tyas eyes began to close and he swayed a little. The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and jostled one another. Someone snored. Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg... hissed the saber against the whetstone, and suddenly PÃ©tya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown, sweetly solemn hymn. PÃ©tya was as musical as NatÃ¡sha and more so than Nicholas, but had never learned music or thought about it, and so the melody that unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly fresh and attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody grew and passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was a fugue”though PÃ©tya had not the least conception of what a fugue is. Each instrument”now resembling a violin and now a horn, but better and clearer than violin or horn”played its own part, and before it had finished the melody merged with another instrument that began almost the same air, and then with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into one and again became separate and again blended, now into solemn church music, now into something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant. Oh”why, that was in a dream! PÃ©tya said to himself, as he lurched forward. Its in my ears. But perhaps its music of my own. Well, go on, my music! Now!... He closed his eyes, and, from all sides as if from a distance, sounds fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all mingled into the same sweet and solemn hymn. Oh, this is delightful! As much as I like and as I like! said PÃ©tya to himself. He tried to conduct that enormous orchestra. Now softly, softly die away! and the sounds obeyed him. Now fuller, more joyful. Still more and more joyful! And from an unknown depth rose increasingly triumphant sounds. Now voices join in! ordered PÃ©tya. And at first from afar he heard mens voices and then womens. The voices grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and PÃ©tya listened to their surpassing beauty in awe and joy. With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the trees, and the hissing of the saber, Ozheg-zheg-zheg... and again the horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but joining in it. PÃ©tya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the time, wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to share it. He was awakened by LikhachÃ«vs kindly voice. Its ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it! PÃ©tya woke up. Its getting light, its really getting light! he exclaimed. The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches. PÃ©tya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it to LikhachÃ«v; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed it. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle girths. And heres the commander, said LikhachÃ«v. DenÃsov came out of the watchmans hut and, having called PÃ©tya, gave orders to get ready. CHAPTER XI The men rapidly picked out their horses in the semidarkness, tightened their saddle girths, and formed companies. DenÃsov stood by the watchmans hut giving final orders. The infantry of the detachment passed along the road and quickly disappeared amid the trees in the mist of early dawn, hundreds of feet splashing through the mud. The esaul gave some orders to his men. PÃ©tya held his horse by the bridle, impatiently awaiting the order to mount. His face, having been bathed in cold water, was all aglow, and his eyes were particularly brilliant. Cold shivers ran down his spine and his whole body pulsed rhythmically. Well, is evwything weady? asked DenÃsov. Bwing the horses. The horses were brought. DenÃsov was angry with the Cossack because the saddle girths were too slack, reproved him, and mounted. PÃ©tya put his foot in the stirrup. His horse by habit made as if to nip his leg, but PÃ©tya leaped quickly into the saddle unconscious of his own weight and, turning to look at the hussars starting in the darkness behind him, rode up to DenÃsov. VasÃli DmÃtrich, entrust me with some commission! Please... for Gods sake...! said he. DenÃsov seemed to have forgotten PÃ©tyas very existence. He turned to glance at him. I ask one thing of you, he said sternly, to obey me and not shove yourself forward anywhere. He did not say another word to PÃ©tya but rode in silence all the way. When they had come to the edge of the forest it was noticeably growing light over the field. DenÃsov talked in whispers with the esaul and the Cossacks rode past PÃ©tya and DenÃsov. When they had all ridden by, DenÃsov touched his horse and rode down the hill. Slipping onto their haunches and sliding, the horses descended with their riders into the ravine. PÃ©tya rode beside DenÃsov, the pulsation of his body constantly increasing. It was getting lighter and lighter, but the mist still hid distant objects. Having reached the valley, DenÃsov looked back and nodded to a Cossack beside him. The signal! said he. The Cossack raised his arm and a shot rang out. In an instant the tramp of horses galloping forward was heard, shouts came from various sides, and then more shots. At the first sound of trampling hoofs and shouting, PÃ©tya lashed his horse and loosening his rein galloped forward, not heeding DenÃsov who shouted at him. It seemed to PÃ©tya that at the moment the shot was fired it suddenly became as bright as noon. He galloped to the bridge. Cossacks were galloping along the road in front of him. On the bridge he collided with a Cossack who had fallen behind, but he galloped on. In front of him soldiers, probably Frenchmen, were running from right to left across the road. One of them fell in the mud under his horses feet. Cossacks were crowding about a hut, busy with something. From the midst of that crowd terrible screams arose. PÃ©tya galloped up, and the first thing he saw was the pale face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman, clutching the handle of a lance that had been aimed at him. Hurrah!... Lads!... ours! shouted PÃ©tya, and giving rein to his excited horse he galloped forward along the village street. He could hear shooting ahead of him. Cossacks, hussars, and ragged Russian prisoners, who had come running from both sides of the road, were shouting something loudly and incoherently. A gallant-looking Frenchman, in a blue overcoat, capless, and with a frowning red face, had been defending himself against the hussars. When PÃ©tya galloped up the Frenchman had already fallen. Too late again! flashed through PÃ©tyas mind and he galloped on to the place from which the rapid firing could be heard. The shots came from the yard of the landowners house he had visited the night before with DÃ³lokhov. The French were making a stand there behind a wattle fence in a garden thickly overgrown with bushes and were firing at the Cossacks who crowded at the gateway. Through the smoke, as he approached the gate, PÃ©tya saw DÃ³lokhov, whose face was of a pale-greenish tint, shouting to his men. Go round! Wait for the infantry! he exclaimed as PÃ©tya rode up to him. Wait?... Hurrah-ah-ah! shouted PÃ©tya, and without pausing a moment galloped to the place whence came the sounds of firing and where the smoke was thickest. A volley was heard, and some bullets whistled past, while others plashed against something. The Cossacks and DÃ³lokhov galloped after PÃ©tya into the gateway of the courtyard. In the dense wavering smoke some of the French threw down their arms and ran out of the bushes to meet the Cossacks, while others ran down the hill toward the pond. PÃ©tya was galloping along the courtyard, but instead of holding the reins he waved both his arms about rapidly and strangely, slipping farther and farther to one side in his saddle. His horse, having galloped up to a campfire that was smoldering in the morning light, stopped suddenly, and PÃ©tya fell heavily on to the wet ground. The Cossacks saw that his arms and legs jerked rapidly though his head was quite motionless. A bullet had pierced his skull. After speaking to the senior French officer, who came out of the house with a white handkerchief tied to his sword and announced that they surrendered, DÃ³lokhov dismounted and went up to PÃ©tya, who lay motionless with outstretched arms. Done for! he said with a frown, and went to the gate to meet DenÃsov who was riding toward him. Killed? cried DenÃsov, recognizing from a distance the unmistakably lifeless attitude”very familiar to him”in which PÃ©tyas body was lying. Done for! repeated DÃ³lokhov as if the utterance of these words afforded him pleasure, and he went quickly up to the prisoners, who were surrounded by Cossacks who had hurried up. We wont take them! he called out to DenÃsov. DenÃsov did not reply; he rode up to PÃ©tya, dismounted, and with trembling hands turned toward himself the bloodstained, mud-bespattered face which had already gone white. I am used to something sweet. Raisins, fine ones... take them all! he recalled PÃ©tyas words. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the sound, like the yelp of a dog, with which DenÃsov turned away, walked to the wattle fence, and seized hold of it. Among the Russian prisoners rescued by DenÃsov and DÃ³lokhov was Pierre BezÃºkhov. CHAPTER XII During the whole of their march from Moscow no fresh orders had been issued by the French authorities concerning the party of prisoners among whom was Pierre. On the twenty-second of October that party was no longer with the same troops and baggage trains with which it had left Moscow. Half the wagons laden with hardtack that had traveled the first stages with them had been captured by Cossacks, the other half had gone on ahead. Not one of those dismounted cavalrymen who had marched in front of the prisoners was left; they had all disappeared. The artillery the prisoners had seen in front of them during the first days was now replaced by Marshal Junots enormous baggage train, convoyed by Westphalians. Behind the prisoners came a cavalry baggage train. From VyÃ¡zma onwards the French army, which had till then moved in three columns, went on as a single group. The symptoms of disorder that Pierre had noticed at their first halting place after leaving Moscow had now reached the utmost limit. The road along which they moved was bordered on both sides by dead horses; ragged men who had fallen behind from various regiments continually changed about, now joining the moving column, now again lagging behind it. Several times during the march false alarms had been given and the soldiers of the escort had raised their muskets, fired, and run headlong, crushing one another, but had afterwards reassembled and abused each other for their causeless panic. These three groups traveling together”the cavalry stores, the convoy of prisoners, and Junots baggage train”still constituted a separate and united whole, though each of the groups was rapidly melting away. Of the artillery baggage train which had consisted of a hundred and twenty wagons, not more than sixty now remained; the rest had been captured or left behind. Some of Junots wagons also had been captured or abandoned. Three wagons had been raided and robbed by stragglers from Davouts corps. From the talk of the Germans Pierre learned that a larger guard had been allotted to that baggage train than to the prisoners, and that one of their comrades, a German soldier, had been shot by the marshals own order because a silver spoon belonging to the marshal had been found in his possession. The group of prisoners had melted away most of all. Of the three hundred and thirty men who had set out from Moscow fewer than a hundred now remained. The prisoners were more burdensome to the escort than even the cavalry saddles or Junots baggage. They understood that the saddles and Junots spoon might be of some use, but that cold and hungry soldiers should have to stand and guard equally cold and hungry Russians who froze and lagged behind on the road (in which case the order was to shoot them) was not merely incomprehensible but revolting. And the escort, as if afraid, in the grievous condition they themselves were in, of giving way to the pity they felt for the prisoners and so rendering their own plight still worse, treated them with particular moroseness and severity. At DorogobÃºzh while the soldiers of the convoy, after locking the prisoners in a stable, had gone off to pillage their own stores, several of the soldier prisoners tunneled under the wall and ran away, but were recaptured by the French and shot. The arrangement adopted when they started, that the officer prisoners should be kept separate from the rest, had long since been abandoned. All who could walk went together, and after the third stage Pierre had rejoined KaratÃ¡ev and the gray-blue bandy-legged dog that had chosen KaratÃ¡ev for its master. On the third day after leaving Moscow KaratÃ¡ev again fell ill with the fever he had suffered from in the hospital in Moscow, and as he grew gradually weaker Pierre kept away from him. Pierre did not know why, but since KaratÃ¡ev had begun to grow weaker it had cost him an effort to go near him. When he did so and heard the subdued moaning with which KaratÃ¡ev generally lay down at the halting places, and when he smelled the odor emanating from him which was now stronger than before, Pierre moved farther away and did not think about him. While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity. And now during these last three weeks of the march he had learned still another new, consolatory truth”that nothing in this world is terrible. He had learned that as there is no condition in which man can be happy and entirely free, so there is no condition in which he need be unhappy and lack freedom. He learned that suffering and freedom have their limits and that those limits are very near together; that the person in a bed of roses with one crumpled petal suffered as keenly as he now, sleeping on the bare damp earth with one side growing chilled while the other was warming; and that when he had put on tight dancing shoes he had suffered just as he did now when he walked with bare feet that were covered with sores”his footgear having long since fallen to pieces. He discovered that when he had married his wife”of his own free will as it had seemed to him”he had been no more free than now when they locked him up at night in a stable. Of all that he himself subsequently termed his sufferings, but which at the time he scarcely felt, the worst was the state of his bare, raw, and scab-covered feet. (The horseflesh was appetizing and nourishing, the saltpeter flavor of the gunpowder they used instead of salt was even pleasant; there was no great cold, it was always warm walking in the daytime, and at night there were the campfires; the lice that devoured him warmed his body.) The one thing that was at first hard to bear was his feet. After the second days march Pierre, having examined his feet by the campfire, thought it would be impossible to walk on them; but when everybody got up he went along, limping, and, when he had warmed up, walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet were more terrible to look at than before. However, he did not look at them now, but thought of other things. Only now did Pierre realize the full strength of life in man and the saving power he has of transferring his attention from one thing to another, which is like the safety valve of a boiler that allows superfluous steam to blow off when the pressure exceeds a certain limit. He did not see and did not hear how they shot the prisoners who lagged behind, though more than a hundred perished in that way. He did not think of KaratÃ¡ev who grew weaker every day and evidently would soon have to share that fate. Still less did Pierre think about himself. The harder his position became and the more terrible the future, the more independent of that position in which he found himself were the joyful and comforting thoughts, memories, and imaginings that came to him. CHAPTER XIII At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of the way. Occasionally he glanced at the familiar crowd around him and then again at his feet. The former and the latter were alike familiar and his own. The blue-gray bandy legged dog ran merrily along the side of the road, sometimes in proof of its agility and self-satisfaction lifting one hind leg and hopping along on three, and then again going on all four and rushing to bark at the crows that sat on the carrion. The dog was merrier and sleeker than it had been in Moscow. All around lay the flesh of different animals”from men to horses”in various stages of decomposition; and as the wolves were kept off by the passing men the dog could eat all it wanted. It had been raining since morning and had seemed as if at any moment it might cease and the sky clear, but after a short break it began raining harder than before. The saturated road no longer absorbed the water, which ran along the ruts in streams. Pierre walked along, looking from side to side, counting his steps in threes, and reckoning them off on his fingers. Mentally addressing the rain, he repeated: Now then, now then, go on! Pelt harder! It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing, but far down and deep within him his soul was occupied with something important and comforting. This something was a most subtle spiritual deduction from a conversation with KaratÃ¡ev the day before. At their yesterdays halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire, Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better. There PlatÃ³n KaratÃ¡ev was sitting covered up”head and all”with his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew. It was already past midnight, the hour when KaratÃ¡ev was usually free of his fever and particularly lively. When Pierre reached the fire and heard PlatÃ³ns voice enfeebled by illness, and saw his pathetic face brightly lit up by the blaze, he felt a painful prick at his heart. His feeling of pity for this man frightened him and he wished to go away, but there was no other fire, and Pierre sat down, trying not to look at PlatÃ³n. Well, how are you? he asked. How am I? If we grumble at sickness, God wont grant us death, replied PlatÃ³n, and at once resumed the story he had begun. And so, brother, he continued, with a smile on his pale emaciated face and a particularly happy light in his eyes, you see, brother... Pierre had long been familiar with that story. KaratÃ¡ev had told it to him alone some half-dozen times and always with a specially joyful emotion. But well as he knew it, Pierre now listened to that tale as to something new, and the quiet rapture KaratÃ¡ev evidently felt as he told it communicated itself also to Pierre. The story was of an old merchant who lived a good and God-fearing life with his family, and who went once to the NÃzhni fair with a companion”a rich merchant. Having put up at an inn they both went to sleep, and next morning his companion was found robbed and with his throat cut. A bloodstained knife was found under the old merchants pillow. He was tried, knouted, and his nostrils having been torn off, all in due form as KaratÃ¡ev put it, he was sent to hard labor in Siberia. And so, brother (it was at this point that Pierre came up), ten years or more passed by. The old man was living as a convict, submitting as he should and doing no wrong. Only he prayed to God for death. Well, one night the convicts were gathered just as we are, with the old man among them. And they began telling what each was suffering for, and how they had sinned against God. One told how he had taken a life, another had taken two, a third had set a house on fire, while another had simply been a vagrant and had done nothing. So they asked the old man: ˜What are you being punished for, Daddy?”˜I, my dear brothers, said he, ˜am being punished for my own and other mens sins. But I have not killed anyone or taken anything that was not mine, but have only helped my poorer brothers. I was a merchant, my dear brothers, and had much property. ˜And he went on to tell them all about it in due order. ˜I dont grieve for myself, he says, ˜God, it seems, has chastened me. Only I am sorry for my old wife and the children, and the old man began to weep. Now it happened that in the group was the very man who had killed the other merchant. ˜Where did it happen, Daddy? he said. ˜When, and in what month? He asked all about it and his heart began to ache. So he comes up to the old man like this, and falls down at his feet! ˜You are perishing because of me, Daddy, he says. ˜Its quite true, lads, that this man, he says, ˜is being tortured innocently and for nothing! I, he says, ˜did that deed, and I put the knife under your head while you were asleep. Forgive me, Daddy, he says, ˜for Christs sake! KaratÃ¡ev paused, smiling joyously as he gazed into the fire, and he drew the logs together. And the old man said, ˜God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His sight. I suffer for my own sins, and he wept bitter tears. Well, and what do you think, dear friends? KaratÃ¡ev continued, his face brightening more and more with a rapturous smile as if what he now had to tell contained the chief charm and the whole meaning of his story: What do you think, dear fellows? That murderer confessed to the authorities. ˜I have taken six lives, he says (he was a great sinner), ˜but what I am most sorry for is this old man. Dont let him suffer because of me. So he confessed and it was all written down and the papers sent off in due form. The place was a long way off, and while they were judging, what with one thing and another, filling in the papers all in due form”the authorities I mean”time passed. The affair reached the Tsar. After a while the Tsars decree came: to set the merchant free and give him a compensation that had been awarded. The paper arrived and they began to look for the old man. ˜Where is the old man who has been suffering innocently and in vain? A paper has come from the Tsar! so they began looking for him, here KaratÃ¡evs lower jaw trembled, but God had already forgiven him”he was dead! Thats how it was, dear fellows! KaratÃ¡ev concluded and sat for a long time silent, gazing before him with a smile. And Pierres soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself but by its mysterious significance: by the rapturous joy that lit up KaratÃ¡evs face as he told it, and the mystic significance of that joy. CHAPTER XIV Ã€ vos places! * suddenly cried a voice. * To your places. A pleasant feeling of excitement and an expectation of something joyful and solemn was aroused among the soldiers of the convoy and the prisoners. From all sides came shouts of command, and from the left came smartly dressed cavalrymen on good horses, passing the prisoners at a trot. The expression on all faces showed the tension people feel at the approach of those in authority. The prisoners thronged together and were pushed off the road. The convoy formed up. The Emperor! The Emperor! The Marshal! The Duke! and hardly had the sleek cavalry passed, before a carriage drawn by six gray horses rattled by. Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face. It was one of the marshals. His eye fell on Pierres large and striking figure, and in the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy. The general in charge of the stores galloped after the carriage with a red and frightened face, whipping up his skinny horse. Several officers formed a group and some soldiers crowded round them. Their faces all looked excited and worried. What did he say? What did he say? Pierre heard them ask. While the marshal was passing, the prisoners had huddled together in a crowd, and Pierre saw KaratÃ¡ev whom he had not yet seen that morning. He sat in his short overcoat leaning against a birch tree. On his face, besides the look of joyful emotion it had worn yesterday while telling the tale of the merchant who suffered innocently, there was now an expression of quiet solemnity. KaratÃ¡ev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something to him. But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself. He made as if he did not notice that look and moved hastily away. When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. KaratÃ¡ev was still sitting at the side of the road under the birch tree and two Frenchmen were talking over his head. Pierre did not look round again but went limping up the hill. From behind, where KaratÃ¡ev had been sitting, came the sound of a shot. Pierre heard it plainly, but at that moment he remembered that he had not yet finished reckoning up how many stages still remained to SmolÃ©nsk”a calculation he had begun before the marshal went by. And he again started reckoning. Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of whom carried a lowered and smoking gun. They both looked pale, and in the expression on their faces”one of them glanced timidly at Pierre”there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of the young soldier at the execution. Pierre looked at the soldier and remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him. Behind him, where KaratÃ¡ev had been sitting, the dog began to howl. What a stupid beast! Why is it howling? thought Pierre. His comrades, the prisoner soldiers walking beside him, avoided looking back at the place where the shot had been fired and the dog was howling, just as Pierre did, but there was a set look on all their faces. CHAPTER XV The stores, the prisoners, and the marshals baggage train stopped at the village of ShÃ¡mshevo. The men crowded together round the campfires. Pierre went up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his back to the fire, and immediately fell asleep. He again slept as he had done at MozhÃ¡ysk after the battle of BorodinÃ³. Again real events mingled with dreams and again someone, he or another, gave expression to his thoughts, and even to the same thoughts that had been expressed in his dream at MozhÃ¡ysk. Life is everything. Life is God. Everything changes and moves and that movement is God. And while there is life there is joy in consciousness of the divine. To love life is to love God. Harder and more blessed than all else is to love this life in ones sufferings, in innocent sufferings. KaratÃ¡ev! came to Pierres mind. And suddenly he saw vividly before him a long-forgotten, kindly old man who had given him geography lessons in Switzerland. Wait a bit, said the old man, and showed Pierre a globe. This globe was alive”a vibrating ball without fixed dimensions. Its whole surface consisted of drops closely pressed together, and all these drops moved and changed places, sometimes several of them merging into one, sometimes one dividing into many. Each drop tried to spread out and occupy as much space as possible, but others striving to do the same compressed it, sometimes destroyed it, and sometimes merged with it. That is life, said the old teacher. How simple and clear it is, thought Pierre. How is it I did not know it before? God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect Him to the greatest extent. And it grows, merges, disappears from the surface, sinks to the depths, and again emerges. There now, KaratÃ¡ev has spread out and disappeared. Do you understand, my child? said the teacher. Do you understand, damn you? shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up. He lifted himself and sat up. A Frenchman who had just pushed a Russian soldier away was squatting by the fire, engaged in roasting a piece of meat stuck on a ramrod. His sleeves were rolled up and his sinewy, hairy, red hands with their short fingers deftly turned the ramrod. His brown morose face with frowning brows was clearly visible by the glow of the charcoal. Its all the same to him, he muttered, turning quickly to a soldier who stood behind him. Brigand! Get away! And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned away and gazed into the darkness. A prisoner, the Russian soldier the Frenchman had pushed away, was sitting near the fire patting something with his hand. Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog, sitting beside the soldier, wagging its tail. Ah, hes come? said Pierre. And Plat” he began, but did not finish. Suddenly and simultaneously a crowd of memories awoke in his fancy”of the look PlatÃ³n had given him as he sat under the tree, of the shot heard from that spot, of the dogs howl, of the guilty faces of the two Frenchmen as they ran past him, of the lowered and smoking gun, and of KaratÃ¡evs absence at this halt”and he was on the point of realizing that KaratÃ¡ev had been killed, but just at that instant, he knew not why, the recollection came to his mind of a summer evening he had spent with a beautiful Polish lady on the veranda of his house in Kiev. And without linking up the events of the day or drawing a conclusion from them, Pierre closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the country in summertime mingled with memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibrating globe, and he sank into water so that it closed over his head. Before sunrise he was awakened by shouts and loud and rapid firing. French soldiers were running past him. The Cossacks! one of them shouted, and a moment later a crowd of Russians surrounded Pierre. For a long time he could not understand what was happening to him. All around he heard his comrades sobbing with joy. Brothers! Dear fellows! Darlings! old soldiers exclaimed, weeping, as they embraced Cossacks and hussars. The hussars and Cossacks crowded round the prisoners; one offered them clothes, another boots, and a third bread. Pierre sobbed as he sat among them and could not utter a word. He hugged the first soldier who approached him, and kissed him, weeping. DÃ³lokhov stood at the gate of the ruined house, letting a crowd of disarmed Frenchmen pass by. The French, excited by all that had happened, were talking loudly among themselves, but as they passed DÃ³lokhov who gently switched his boots with his whip and watched them with cold glassy eyes that boded no good, they became silent. On the opposite side stood DÃ³lokhovs Cossack, counting the prisoners and marking off each hundred with a chalk line on the gate. How many? DÃ³lokhov asked the Cossack. The second hundred, replied the Cossack. Filez, filez! * DÃ³lokhov kept saying, having adopted this expression from the French, and when his eyes met those of the prisoners they flashed with a cruel light. * Get along, get along! DenÃsov, bareheaded and with a gloomy face, walked behind some Cossacks who were carrying the body of PÃ©tya RostÃ³v to a hole that had been dug in the garden. CHAPTER XVI After the twenty-eighth of October when the frosts began, the flight of the French assumed a still more tragic character, with men freezing, or roasting themselves to death at the campfires, while carriages with people dressed in furs continued to drive past, carrying away the property that had been stolen by the Emperor, kings, and dukes; but the process of the flight and disintegration of the French army went on essentially as before. From Moscow to VyÃ¡zma the French army of seventy-three thousand men not reckoning the Guards (who did nothing during the whole war but pillage) was reduced to thirty-six thousand, though not more than five thousand had fallen in battle. From this beginning the succeeding terms of the progression could be determined mathematically. The French army melted away and perished at the same rate from Moscow to VyÃ¡zma, from VyÃ¡zma to SmolÃ©nsk, from SmolÃ©nsk to the BerÃ«zina, and from the BerÃ«zina to VÃlna”independently of the greater or lesser intensity of the cold, the pursuit, the barring of the way, or any other particular conditions. Beyond VyÃ¡zma the French army instead of moving in three columns huddled together into one mass, and so went on to the end. Berthier wrote to his Emperor (we know how far commanding officers allow themselves to diverge from the truth in describing the condition of an army) and this is what he said: I deem it my duty to report to Your Majesty the condition of the various corps I have had occasion to observe during different stages of the last two or three days march. They are almost disbanded. Scarcely a quarter of the soldiers remain with the standards of their regiments, the others go off by themselves in different directions hoping to find food and escape discipline. In general they regard SmolÃ©nsk as the place where they hope to recover. During the last few days many of the men have been seen to throw away their cartridges and their arms. In such a state of affairs, whatever your ultimate plans may be, the interest of Your Majestys service demands that the army should be rallied at SmolÃ©nsk and should first of all be freed from ineffectives, such as dismounted cavalry, unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer in proportion to the present forces. The soldiers, who are worn out with hunger and fatigue, need these supplies as well as a few days rest. Many have died these last days on the road or at the bivouacs. This state of things is continually becoming worse and makes one fear that unless a prompt remedy is applied the troops will no longer be under control in case of an engagement. November 9: twenty miles from SmolÃ©nsk. After staggering into SmolÃ©nsk which seemed to them a promised land, the French, searching for food, killed one another, sacked their own stores, and when everything had been plundered fled farther. They all went without knowing whither or why they were going. Still less did that genius, Napoleon, know it, for no one issued any orders to him. But still he and those about him retained their old habits: wrote commands, letters, reports, and orders of the day; called one another sire, mon cousin, prince dEckmÃ¼hl, roi de Naples, and so on. But these orders and reports were only on paper, nothing in them was acted upon for they could not be carried out, and though they entitled one another Majesties, Highnesses, or Cousins, they all felt that they were miserable wretches who had done much evil for which they had now to pay. And though they pretended to be concerned about the army, each was thinking only of himself and of how to get away quickly and save himself. CHAPTER XVII The movements of the Russian and French armies during the campaign from Moscow back to the Niemen were like those in a game of Russian blindmans buff, in which two players are blindfolded and one of them occasionally rings a little bell to inform the catcher of his whereabouts. First he rings his bell fearlessly, but when he gets into a tight place he runs away as quietly as he can, and often thinking to escape runs straight into his opponents arms. At first while they were still moving along the KalÃºga road, Napoleons armies made their presence known, but later when they reached the SmolÃ©nsk road they ran holding the clapper of their bell tight”and often thinking they were escaping ran right into the Russians. Owing to the rapidity of the French flight and the Russian pursuit and the consequent exhaustion of the horses, the chief means of approximately ascertaining the enemys position”by cavalry scouting”was not available. Besides, as a result of the frequent and rapid change of position by each army, even what information was obtained could not be delivered in time. If news was received one day that the enemy had been in a certain position the day before, by the third day when something could have been done, that army was already two days march farther on and in quite another position. One army fled and the other pursued. Beyond SmolÃ©nsk there were several different roads available for the French, and one would have thought that during their stay of four days they might have learned where the enemy was, might have arranged some more advantageous plan and undertaken something new. But after a four days halt the mob, with no maneuvers or plans, again began running along the beaten track, neither to the right nor to the left but along the old”the worst”road, through KrÃ¡snoe and OrshÃ¡. Expecting the enemy from behind and not in front, the French separated in their flight and spread out over a distance of twenty-four hours. In front of them all fled the Emperor, then the kings, then the dukes. The Russian army, expecting Napoleon to take the road to the right beyond the Dnieper”which was the only reasonable thing for him to do”themselves turned to the right and came out onto the highroad at KrÃ¡snoe. And here as in a game of blindmans buff the French ran into our vanguard. Seeing their enemy unexpectedly the French fell into confusion and stopped short from the sudden fright, but then they resumed their flight, abandoning their comrades who were farther behind. Then for three days separate portions of the French army”first Murats (the vice-kings), then Davouts, and then Neys”ran, as it were, the gauntlet of the Russian army. They abandoned one another, abandoned all their heavy baggage, their artillery, and half their men, and fled, getting past the Russians by night by making semicircles to the right. Ney, who came last, had been busying himself blowing up the walls of SmolÃ©nsk which were in nobodys way, because despite the unfortunate plight of the French or because of it, they wished to punish the floor against which they had hurt themselves. Ney, who had had a corps of ten thousand men, reached Napoleon at OrshÃ¡ with only one thousand men left, having abandoned all the rest and all his cannon, and having crossed the Dnieper at night by stealth at a wooded spot. From OrshÃ¡ they fled farther along the road to VÃlna, still playing at blindmans buff with the pursuing army. At the BerÃ«zina they again became disorganized, many were drowned and many surrendered, but those who got across the river fled farther. Their supreme chief donned a fur coat and, having seated himself in a sleigh, galloped on alone, abandoning his companions. The others who could do so drove away too, leaving those who could not to surrender or die. CHAPTER XVIII This campaign consisted in a flight of the French during which they did all they could to destroy themselves. From the time they turned onto the KalÃºga road to the day their leader fled from the army, none of the movements of the crowd had any sense. So one might have thought that regarding this period of the campaign the historians, who attributed the actions of the mass to the will of one man, would have found it impossible to make the story of the retreat fit their theory. But no! Mountains of books have been written by the historians about this campaign, and everywhere are described Napoleons arrangements, the maneuvers, and his profound plans which guided the army, as well as the military genius shown by his marshals. The retreat from MÃ¡lo-YaroslÃ¡vets when he had a free road into a well-supplied district and the parallel road was open to him along which KutÃºzov afterwards pursued him”this unnecessary retreat along a devastated road”is explained to us as being due to profound considerations. Similarly profound considerations are given for his retreat from SmolÃ©nsk to OrshÃ¡. Then his heroism at KrÃ¡snoe is described, where he is reported to have been prepared to accept battle and take personal command, and to have walked about with a birch stick and said: Jai assez fait lempereur; il est temps de faire le gÃ©nÃ©ral, * but nevertheless immediately ran away again, abandoning to its fate the scattered fragments of the army he left behind. * I have acted the Emperor long enough; it is time to act the general. Then we are told of the greatness of soul of the marshals, especially of Ney”a greatness of soul consisting in this: that he made his way by night around through the forest and across the Dnieper and escaped to OrshÃ¡, abandoning standards, artillery, and nine tenths of his men. And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic army is presented to us by the historians as something great and characteristic of genius. Even that final running away, described in ordinary language as the lowest depth of baseness which every child is taught to be ashamed of”even that act finds justification in the historians language. When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving conception of greatness. Greatness, it seems, excludes the standards of right and wrong. For the great man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a great man can be blamed. Cest grand! * say the historians, and there no longer exists either good or evil but only grand and not grand. Grand is good, not grand is bad. Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some special animals called heroes. And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que cest grand, *(2) and his soul is tranquil. * It is great. * (2) That it is great. Du sublime (he saw something sublime in himself) au ridicule il ny a quun pas, * said he. And the whole world for fifty years has been repeating: Sublime! Grand! NapolÃ©on le Grand! Du sublime au ridicule il ny a quun pas. * From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit ones own nothingness and immeasurable meanness. For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent. CHAPTER XIX What Russian, reading the account of the last part of the campaign of 1812, has not experienced an uncomfortable feeling of regret, dissatisfaction, and perplexity? Who has not asked himself how it is that the French were not all captured or destroyed when our three armies surrounded them in superior numbers, when the disordered French, hungry and freezing, surrendered in crowds, and when (as the historians relate) the aim of the Russians was to stop the French, to cut them off, and capture them all? How was it that the Russian army, which when numerically weaker than the French had given battle at BorodinÃ³, did not achieve its purpose when it had surrounded the French on three sides and when its aim was to capture them? Can the French be so enormously superior to us that when we had surrounded them with superior forces we could not beat them? How could that happen? History (or what is called by that name) replying to these questions says that this occurred because KutÃºzov and TormÃ¡sov and ChichagÃ³v, and this man and that man, did not execute such and such maneuvers.... But why did they not execute those maneuvers? And why if they were guilty of not carrying out a prearranged plan were they not tried and punished? But even if we admitted that KutÃºzov, ChichagÃ³v, and others were the cause of the Russian failures, it is still incomprehensible why, the position of the Russian army being what it was at KrÃ¡snoe and at the BerÃ«zina (in both cases we had superior forces), the French army with its marshals, kings, and Emperor was not captured, if that was what the Russians aimed at.

May 9, 2023

Leo Master Contest WP Page Solemn JUN 2021 360K