APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/tolstoy/war_peace/W_P_BK09

Text File | 1996-07-21 | 212.5 KB | 4,181 lines

                              BOOK NINE: 1812


CHAPTER I


From the close of the year 1811 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 naive 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,
Rumyantsev, 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 England's 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 Napoleon's 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 way 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 England's 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 Smolensk
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
Napoleon's 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 Napoleon's 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 king's heart is in the hands of the Lord."

A king is history's 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 Oldenburg's
wrongs, the movement of troops into Prussia- undertaken (as it
seemed to Napoleon) only for the purpose of securing an armed peace,
the French Emperor's love and habit of war coinciding with his
people's 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 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 does 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 frere,
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 Konigsberg. 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 Emperor's 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
l'Empereur!" 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 we'll go into action. Oh, when he takes it in hand himself,
things get hot... by heaven!... There he is!... Vive l'Empereur! So
these are the steppes of Asia! It's a nasty country all the same. Au
revoir, Beauche; I'll keep the best palace in Moscow for you! Au
revoir. Good luck!... Did you see the Emperor? Vive l'Empereur!...
preur!- If they make me Governor of India, Gerard, I'll make you
Minister of Kashmir- that's settled. Vive l'Empereur! Hurrah!
hurrah! hurrah! The Cossacks- those rascals- see how they run! Vive
l'Empereur! There he is, do you see him? I've seen him twice, as I see
you now. The little corporal... I saw him give the cross to one of the
veterans.... Vive l'Empereur!" 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 Kovno, 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 Viliya, 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
Emperor's 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
Emperor's 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 Legion d'honneur 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 Vilna 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 Vilna 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 Vilna 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 Bennigsen's 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 Bennigsen's 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 Bezukhova was present among other Russian ladies who
had followed the sovereign from Petersburg to Vilna 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.

Boris Drubetskoy, having left his wife in Moscow and being for the
present en garcon (as he phrased it), was also there and, though not
an aide-de-camp, had subscribed a large sum toward the expenses. Boris
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 Helene in Vilna after not having seen
her for a long time and did not recall the past, but as Helene was
enjoying the favors of a very important personage and Boris had only
recently married, they met as good friends of long standing.

At midnight dancing was still going on. Helene, not having a
suitable partner, herself offered to dance the mazurka with Boris.
They were the third couple. Boris, coolly looking at Helene's 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, Boris saw that Adjutant General Balashev,
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 Balashev 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 Balashev begun to
speak before a look of amazement appeared on the Emperor's face. He
took Balashev 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. Boris noticed Arakcheev's excited face when
the sovereign went out with Balashev. Arakcheev 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.
(Boris understood that Arakcheev envied Balashev and was displeased
that evidently important news had reached the Emperor otherwise than
through himself.)

But the Emperor and Balashev passed out into the illuminated
garden without noticing Arakcheev who, holding his sword and
glancing wrathfully around, followed some twenty paces behind them.

All the time Boris was going through the figures of the mazurka,
he was worried by the question of what news Balashev 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 Helene 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 Balashev and the Emperor returning to the
veranda, he stood still. They were moving toward the door. Boris,
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
Boris 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 Boris had overheard it.

"Let no one know of it! " the Emperor added with a frown.

Boris 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.

Boris 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 o'clock that night he sent for his secretary,
Shishkov, and told him to write an order to the troops and a
rescript to Field Marshal Prince Saltykov, 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 frere,

Yesterday I learned that, despite the loyalty 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 Kuragin 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 does 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 Balashev and read him his letter to Napoleon, ordered him
to take it and hand it personally to the French Emperor. When
dispatching Balashev, 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 Balashev to repeat them personally to
Napoleon.

Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied
by a bugler and two Cossacks, Balashev reached the French outposts
at the village of Rykonty, 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 Balashev to halt.
Balashev 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 horse's chest against Balashev, 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? Balashev 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, Balashev 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.

Balashev 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 Balashev's 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 Emperor's quarters were, he believed, not far off.

They rode through the village of Rykonty, 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 Balashev
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 Balashev at a gallop, his
plumes flowing and his gems and gold lace glittering in the bright
June sunshine.

Balashev was only two horses' length from the equestrian with the
bracelets, plunies, 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 don't 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 Balashev's mission, whose name he could not
pronounce.

"De Bal-macheve!" 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 Balashev's 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 Balashev, "my master, the Emperor, does
not desire war and as Your Majesty sees..." said Balashev, using the
words Your Majesty at every opportunity, with the affectation
unavoidable in frequently addressing one to whom the title was still a
novelty.

Murat's face beamed with stupid satisfaction as he listened to
"Monsieur de Bal-macheve." But royaute oblige!* and he felt it
incumbent on him, as a king and an ally, to confer on state affairs
with Alexander's envoy. He dismounted, took Balashev's 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."


Balashev replied that there was nothing offensive in the demand,
because..." but Murat interrupted him.

"Then you don't consider the Emperor Alexander the aggressor?" he
asked unexpectedly, with a kindly and foolish smile.

Balashev 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 won't 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.

Balashev rode on, supposing from Murat's words that he would very
soon be brought before Napoleon himself. But instead of that, at the
next village the sentinels of Davout's 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 Arakcheev was to Alexander- though not a
coward like Arakcheev, 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 Arakcheev, who tore
out a grenadier's 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.

Balashev found Davout seated on a barrel in the shed of a
peasant's 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 Balashev was brought in.
He became still more absorbed in his task when the Russian general
entered, and after glancing over his spectacles at Balashev's 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 Balashev's 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, Balashev 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."

Balashev replied that he had been ordered to hand it personally to
the Emperor.

"Your Emperor's orders are obeyed in your army, but here," said
Davout, "you must do as you're 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.

Balashev took out the packet containing the Emperor's 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 Balashev, "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 Balashev's face.

"You will be treated as is fitting," said he and, putting the packet
in his pocket, left the shed.

A minute later the marshal's adjutant, de Castres, came in and
conducted Balashev 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 Balashev 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 Castres.

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 marshal's baggage and the French army, which occupied
the whole district, Balashev was brought to Vilna- 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 Balashev and informed him of the Emperor Napoleon's wish to
honor him with an audience.

Four days before, sentinels of the Preobrazhensk regiment had
stood in front of the house to which Balashev 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
Balashev in the very house in Vilna from which Alexander had
dispatched him on his mission.


CHAPTER VI


Though Balashev was used to imperial pomp, he was amazed at the
luxury and magnificence of Napoleon's court.

The Comte de Turenne showed him into a big reception room where many
generals, gentlemen-in-waiting, and Polish magnates- several of whom
Balashev 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 Balashev
to follow him.

Balashev 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 Balashav's low and respectful bow, and coming
up to him at once began speaking like a man who values every moment of
his time and does 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 Balashav's face and immediately
looked past him.

It was plain that Balashev's 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, Balashev
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, Balashev began a speech he had prepared long before:
"Sire! The Emperor, my master..." but the sight of the Emperor's
eyes bent on him confused him. "You are flurried- compose yourself!"
Napoleon seemed to say, as with a scarcely perceptible smile he looked
at Balashev's uniform and sword.

Balashev recovered himself and began to speak. He said that the
Emperor Alexander did not consider Kurakin's demand for his
passports a sufficient cause for war; that Kurakin had acted on his
own initiative and without his sovereign's 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 Balashev
might proceed.

After saying all he had been instructed to say, Balashev added
that the Emperor Alexander wished for peace, but would not enter
into negotiations except on condition that... Here Balashev hesitated:
he remembered the words the Emperor Alexander had not written in his
letter, but had specially inserted in the rescript to Saltykov and had
told Balashev to repeat to Napoleon. Balashev remembered these
words, "So long as a single armed foe 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 Balashev's 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, Balashev, who more than once lowered his eyes,
involuntarily noticed the quivering of Napoleon's 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
Balashev.

"The Niemen?" repeated Napoleon. "So now you want me to retire
beyond the Niemen- only the Niemen?" repeated Napoleon, looking
straight at Balashev.

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 Balashev. Balashev 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
Alexander's 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?"

Balashev 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 won't 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 Balashev
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 Alexander's might have been!"

He looked compassionately at Balashev, 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 Alexander's
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, does not know what to decide on, and time
passes bringing no result. Bagration alone is a military man. He's
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 haven't even been
able to defend Vilna. You are cut in two and have been driven out of
the Polish provinces. Your army is grumbling."

"On the contrary, Your Majesty," said Balashev, 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.

Balashev knew how to reply to each of Napoleon's 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, Balashev 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. Balashev 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. Balashev stood with downcast eyes, looking
at the movements of Napoleon's 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 Balashev still stood silently
before him in the same attitude of submission to fate, Napoleon
abruptly turned round, drew close to Balashev's face, and,
gesticulating rapidly and energetically with his white hands, almost
shouted:

"Know that if you stir up Prussia against me, I'll 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 Dvina 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 Balashev.
He paused, looked ironically straight into Balashev's eyes, and said
in a quiet voice:

"And yet what a splendid reign your master might have had!"

Balashev, 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. Balashev said that in Russia the best results were
expected from the war. Napoleon nodded condescendingly, as if to
say, "I know it's your duty to say that, but you don't believe it
yourself. I have convinced you."

When Balashev 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 hima pocket
handkerchief. Napoleon, without giving them a glance, turned to
Balashev:

"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," Balashev 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, Balashev received, through Duroc, an
invitation to dine with the Emperor that day.

Bessieres, Caulaincourt, and Berthier were present at that dinner.

Napoleon met Balashev 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 Balashev. 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 Vilna,
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 Balashev beside him, Napoleon not only
treated him amiably but behaved as if Balashev 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 Balashev about the Russian capital, not merely
as an interested traveler asks about a new city he intends to visit,
but as if convinced that Balashev, 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 Balashev.

"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.

Balashev 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 Majesty's pardon," returned Balashev, "besides Russia
there is Spain, where there are also many churches and monasteries."

This reply of Balashev's, which hinted at the recent defeats of
the French in Spain, was much appreciated when he related it at
Alexander's court, but it was not much appreciated at Napoleon's
dinner, where it passed unnoticed.

The uninterested and perplexed faces of the marshals showed that
they were puzzled as to what Balashev's tone suggested. "If there is a
point we don't 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 naively asked Balashev through what towns
the direct road from there to Moscow passed. Balashev, 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 Poltava, which Charles XII chose."
Balashev involuntarily flushed with pleasure at the aptitude of this
reply, but hardly had he uttered the word Poltava 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 Napoleon's study, which
four days previously had been that of the Emperor Alexander.
Napoleon sat down, toying with his Sevres coffee cup, and motioned
Balashev 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, Balashev 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, isn't it, General?" he said, evidently not doubting that this
remark would be agreeable to his hearer since it went to prove his,
Napoleon's, superiority to Alexander.

Balashev made no reply and bowed 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 can't 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
the same?" and he turned inquiringly to Balashev, and evidently this
thought turned him back on to the track of his morning's 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. "I'll drive all his Wurttemberg,
Baden, and Weimar relations out of Germany.... Yes. I'll drive them
out. Let him prepare an asylum for them in Russia!"

Balashev 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 Balashev not as an envoy from his enemy, but as a man now
fully devoted to him and who must rejoice at his former master's
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 Balashev and with a slight smile, as confidently,
quickly, and simply as if he were doing something not merely
important but pleasing to Balashev, he raised his hand to the
forty-year-old Russian general's face and, taking him by the ear,
pulled it gently, smiling with his lips only.

To have one's 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 don't 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 Balashev's bow. "Let him have mine, he has a
long way to go!"

The letter taken by Balashev 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 Kuragin whom he felt it necessary to encounter. On reaching
Petersburg he inquired for Kuragin but the latter had already left the
city. Pierre had warned his brother-in-law that Prince Andrew was on
his track. Anatole Kuragin promptly obtained an appointment from the
Minister of War and went to join the army in Moldavia. While in
Petersburg Prince Andrew met Kutuzov, his former commander who was
always well disposed toward him, and Kutuzov 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
Kuragin. He thought that if he challenged him without some fresh cause
it might compromise the young Countess Rostova and so he wanted to
meet Kuragin personally in order to find a fresh pretext for a duel.
But he again failed to meet Kuragin 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
Bogucharovo and then in Switzerland and Rome, but he even dreaded to
recall them and 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 Kutuzov's
staff, he applied himself to business with zeal and perseverance and
surprised Kutuzov by his willingness and accuracy in work. Not
having found Kuragin 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 Kuragin, 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 Kutuzov had been living for two months, passing his
days and nights with a Wallachian woman- Prince Andrew asked Kutuzov
to transfer him to the Western Army. Kutuzov, who was already weary of
Bolkonski's 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 Smolensk 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,
Madmoiselle 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 Kamensky's 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 does Prince Andrew,
who sees this, say nothing to me about his sister? Does 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
doesn't 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 daughter's 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 can't 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 sister's 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? You've 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 Tikhon, but asked several times whether his son had gone. Next
day, before leaving, Prince Andrew went to his son's 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 you've decided to go, Andrew?" asked his sister.

"Thank God that I can," replied Prince Andrew. "I am very sorry
you can't."

"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). "Don't imagine that sorrow is
the work of men. Men are His tools." She looked a little above
Prince Andrew's 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 woman's virtue.
But a man should not and cannot forgive and forget," he replied, and
though till that moment he had not been thinking of Kuragin, all his
unexpended anger suddenly swelled up in his heart.

"If Mary is already persuading me 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 Kuragin 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
don't 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 Andrew's 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 Bolkonski 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 Kuragin, 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
Kuragin. 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 Vilna, the forces had been
divided into three armies. First, the army under Barclay de Tolly,
secondly, the army under Bagration, and thirdly, the one commanded
by Tormasov. 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 chief's staff but
the imperial headquarters staff. In attendance on him was the head
of the imperial staff, Quartermaster General Prince Volkonski, 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:
Arakcheev, the ex-Minister of War; Count Bennigsen, the senior general
in rank; the Grand Duke Tsarevich Constantine Pavlovich; Count
Rumyantsev, 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 emigre;
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,
Arakcheev, or Prince Volkonski, 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 courtier's point of view (and in an Emperor's
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.
Arakcheev was a faithful custodian to enforce order and acted as the
sovereign's bodyguard. Bennigsen was a landlord in the Vilna
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 Pfuel's
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 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
Vilna 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: Bagration, Ermolov (who was beginning to come to the
front), and others. At that time a famous joke of Ermolov's was
being circulated, that as a great favor he had petitioned the
Emperor to make him a German. The men of that party, remembering
Suvorov, 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
Arakcheev 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 Pfuel's
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 Pfuel's 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
Tsarevich, 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 Vilna and Vitebsk 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, Rumyantsev, 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
Rostov 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 chief's 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 Emperor's
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 Emperor's 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 Emperor's 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 Emperor's 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,
Shishkov, the Secretary of State and one of the chief
representatives of this party, wrote a letter to the Emperor which
Arakcheev and Balashev 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 Russia's triumph in so far as it was produced by the
Tsar's 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 Bolkonski that the sovereign
wished to see him personally, to question him about Turkey, and that
Prince Andrew was to present himself at Bennigsen's quarters at six
that evening.

News was received at the Emperor's 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-d'oeuvre of tactical science which
would ensure Napoleon's destruction, was an absurdity, threatening the
destruction of the Russian army.

Prince Andrew arrived at Bennigsen's quarters- a country gentleman's
house of moderate size, situated on the very banks of the river.
Neither Bennigsen nor the Emperor was there, but Chernyshev, the
Emperor's aide-de-camp, received Bolkonski 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.

Chernyshev 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 Bennigsen's 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 Emperor's 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 Chernyshev.

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 Chernyshev 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 Chernyshev, 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 Chernyshev 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 does 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 does not want to know
anything, since he does not believe that anything can be known. The
German's 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
Great's 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 Auerstadt, 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
theory's 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 Chernyshev 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 Andrew's eyes were still following Pfuel out of the room when
Count Bennigsen entered hurriedly, and nodding to Bolkonski, 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.
Chernyshev 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 Italian's remarks, and as though
not hearing them, the Emperor, recognizing Bolkonski, 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
Mikhaylovich Volkonski and Baron Stein, and the door closed behind
them. Prince Andrew, taking advantage of the Emperor's permission,
accompanied Paulucci, whom he had known in Turkey, into the drawing
room where the council was assembled.

Prince Peter Mikhaylovich Volkonski occupied the position, as it
were, of chief of the Emperor's 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 general's 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 Armfeldt's or Pfuel's 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 Volkonski, 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 gentleman's attack- very
fine, or a retreat, also good! Why ask me?" said he. "Why, you
yourselves know everything better than I do."

But when Volkonski said, with a frown, that it was in the
Emperor's 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
Volkonski 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 Napoleon's 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 other's 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 Pfuel's 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 enemy's armies will be in a day's
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 Schon 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 does not possess.
The best generals I have known were, on the contrary, stupid or
absent-minded men. Bagration 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 does a good army commander
not need any special qualities, on the contrary he needs the absence
of the highest and best human attributes- love, poetry, 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 sovereign's
person, but for permission to serve in the army.


CHAPTER XII


Before the beginning of the campaign, Rostov had received a letter
from his parents in which they told him briefly of Natasha's illness
and the breaking off of her engagement to Prince Andrew (which they
explained by Natasha's 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
Natasha was ill and her engagement broken off, and that he would do
all he could to meet their wishes. To Sonya 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 Rostov from returning home as he had promised and marrying
Sonya. The autumn in Otradnoe with the hunting, and the winter with
the Christmas holidays and Sonya's 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 Rostov, 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 goes with the
commencement of a war, and Rostov, 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 Vilna 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 Pavlograd 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 anyone's 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 Vilna, 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 Sventsyani
and destroy any provisions they could not carry away with them.
Sventsyani 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. Rostov remembered Sventsyani,
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 Sventsyani 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 Pavlograds 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 18l2 was
remarkable for its storms.

The two Pavlograd 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 Rostov,
with a young officer named Ilyin, his protege, 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 Rostov's shelter.

"I have come from the staff, Count. Have you heard of Raevski's
exploit?"

And the officer gave them details of the Saltanov battle, which he
had heard at the staff.

Rostov, smoking his pipe and turning his head about as the water
trickled down his neck, listened inattentively, with an occasional
glance at Ilyin, 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 Denisov seven years
before. Ilyin tried to imitate Rostov in everything and adored him
as a girl might have done.

Zdrzhinski, the officer with the long mustache, spoke
grandiloquently of the Saltanov dam being "a Russian Thermopylae," and
of how a deed worthy of antiquity had been performed by General
Raevski. He recounted how Raevski had led his two sons onto the dam
under terrific fire and had charged with them beside him. Rostov heard
the story and not only said nothing to encourage Zdrzhinski's
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 Rostov 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 Zdrzhinski's 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 Rostov in the narrow shanty. Rostov 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 Raevski 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 Raevski 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 Raevski's 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 Saltanov 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 Petya there, or even Ilyin, who's 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 can't stand this any more," said Ilyin, noticing that Rostov
did not relish Zdrzhinski's conversation. "My stockings and shirt...
and the water is running on my seat! I'll go and look for shelter. The
rain seems less heavy."

Ilyin went out and Zdrzhinski rode away.

Five minutes later Ilyin, splashing through the mud, came running
back to the shanty.

"Hurrah! Rostov, come quick! I've found it! About two hundred
yards away there's a tavern where ours have already gathered. We can
at least get dry there, and Mary Hendrikhovna's there."

Mary Hendrikhovna 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.

Rostov threw his cloak over his shoulders, shouted to Lavrushka to
follow with the things, and- now slipping in the mud, now splashing
right through it- set off with Ilyin in the lessening rain and the
darkness that was occasionally rent by distant lightning.

"Rostov, where are you?"

"Here. What lightning!" they called to one another.


CHAPTER XIII


In the tavern, before which stood the doctor's covered cart, there
were already some five officers. Mary Hendrikhovna, 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. Rostov and Ilyin, on entering the room, were welcomed with
merry shouts and laughter.

"Dear me, how jolly we are!" said Rostov laughing.

"And why do you stand there gaping?"

"What swells they are! Why, the water streams from them! Don't
make our drawing room so wet."

"Don't mess Mary Hendrikhovna's dress!" cried other voices.

Rostov and Ilyin hastened to find a corner where they could change
into dry clothes without offending Mary Hendrikhovna's 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 Hendrikhovna
obliged them with the loan of a petticoat to be used as a curtain, and
behind that screen Rostov and Ilyin, helped by Lavrushka 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 Hendrikhovna 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 husband's face, lest he should
wake up.

"Leave him alone," said Mary Hendrikhovna, smiling timidly and
happily. "He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night."

"Oh, no, Mary Hendrikhovna," replied the officer, "one must look
after the doctor. Perhaps he'll 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 one's tumbler from Mary
Hendrikhovna's 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 Hendrikhovna. 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
Hendrikhovna should stir the sugar for everyone in turn. Rostov
received his tumbler, and adding some rum to it asked Mary
Hendrikhovna 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 Hendrikhovna assented and began looking for the spoon which
someone meanwhile had pounced on.

"Use your finger, Mary Hendrikhovna, it will be still nicer," said
Rostov.

"Too hot!" she replied, blushing with pleasure.

Ilyin put a few drops of rum into the bucket of water and brought it
to Mary Hendrikhovna, asking her to stir it with her finger.

"This is my cup," said he. "Only dip your finger in it and I'll
drink it all up."

When they had emptied the samovar, Rostov took a pack of cards and
proposed that they should play "Kings" with Mary Hendrikhovna. They
drew lots to settle who should make up her set. At Rostov's suggestion
it was agreed that whoever became "King" should have the right to kiss
Mary Hendrikhovna's hand, and that the "Booby" should go to refill and
reheat the samovar for the doctor when the latter awoke.

"Well, but supposing Mary Hendrikhovna is 'King'?" asked Ilyin.

"As it is, she is Queen, and her word is law!"

They had hardly begun to play before the doctor's disheveled head
suddenly appeared from behind Mary Hendrikhovna. 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 Hendrikhovna 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 I'll send an orderly.... Two of them!" said Rostov. "What an
idea, doctor!"

"I'll stand guard on it myself!" said Ilyin.

"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 doctor's uneasiness
and his wife's delight, now they ran out into the porch and reported
what was taking place in the covered trap. Several times Rostov,
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 o'clock but no one was yet asleep, when the
quartermaster appeared with an order to move on to the little town
of Ostrovna. Still laughing and talking, the officers began
hurriedly getting ready and again boiled again boiled some muddy water
in the samovar. But Rostov 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,
Rostov and Ilyin both glanced under the wet and glistening leather
hood of the doctor's cart, from under the apron of which his feet were
sticking out, and in the middle of which his wife's nightcap was
visible and her sleepy breathing audible.

"She really is a dear little thing," said Rostov to Ilyin, who was
following him.

"A charming woman!" said Ilyin, 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. Rostov 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 night's 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. Rostov, always closely followed by Ilyin, rode along the side
of the road between two rows of birch trees.

When campaigning, Rostov 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,
Donets 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
doctor's wife, but not once of the impending danger.

Formerly, when going into action, Rostov 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 Ilyin under
the birch trees, occasionally plucking leaves from a branch that met
his hand, sometimes touching his horse's 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 Ilyin, 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 Rostov had had time to consider and determine the distance of
that firing, Count Ostermann-Tolstoy's adjutant came galloping from
Vitebsk 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 enemy's 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, Rostov's 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 Rostov 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


Rostov, with his keen sportsman's 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.

Rostov 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 Sevastyanych!" said Rostov. "You know, we could crush
them...."

"A fine thing too!" replied the captain, "and really..."

Rostov, 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. Rostov 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, Rostov gave rein to his
Donets 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. Rostov, 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
Rostov's horse dashed its breast against the hindquarters of the
officer's horse, almost knocking it over, and at the same instant
Rostov, without knowing why, raised his saber and struck the Frenchman
with it.

The instant he had done this, all Rostov's 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. Rostov reined in his horse, and his eyes sought his foe 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 Rostov 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 enemy's face at all suited to a
battlefield, but a most ordinary, homelike face. Before Rostov 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 Rostov's 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. Rostov 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-Tolstoy met the returning hussars, sent for
Rostov, thanked him, and said he would report his gallant deed to
the Emperor and would recommend him for a St. George's Cross. When
sent for by Count Ostermann, Rostov, remembering that he had charged
without orders, felt sure his commander was sending for him to
punish him for breach of discipline. Ostermann's 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. "Ilyin? No, he's safe.
Have I disgraced myself in any way? No, that's 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."

Rostov 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 Rostov with a feigned smile and waved his
hand in greeting. Rostov still had the same indefinite feeling, as
of shame.

All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that
Rostov, 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.

Rostov was always thinking about that brilliant exploit of his,
which to his amazement had gained him the St. George's 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 that's all there is in what is called heroism!
And heroism! And did I do it for my country's 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. George's Cross.... I can't 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 Ostrovna 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 Natasha's illness, the countess, though not
quite well yet and still weak, went to Moscow with Petya and the
rest of the household, and the whole family moved from Marya
Dmitrievna's house to their own and settled down in town.

Natasha's 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 Natasha 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 Rostov 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 mother's sympathy while she rubs
the bump comforts it. The doctors were of use to Natasha because
they kissed and rubbed her bump, assuring her that it would soon
pass if only the coachman went to the chemist's in the Arbat and got a
powder and some pills in a pretty box of 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 Sonya 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
daughter's 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 Metivier and Feller
had not understood the symptoms, but Frise had, and Mudrov 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 doctor's orders?

"You'll never get well like that," she would say, forgetting her
grief in her vexation, "if you won't obey the doctor and take your
medicine at the right time! You mustn't 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 Sonya 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 doctor's 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 Natasha 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 Natasha's 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 Rostovs 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. Natasha's 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


Natasha 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 Nastasya
Ivanovna, 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 Otradnoe 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. Natasha 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 Petya. 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 Bezukhov. Natasha 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 Pierre's 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 Natasha 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 Natasha 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 Natasha felt very strongly with him that
moral barrier the absence of which she had experienced with Kuragin
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, Agrafena Ivanovna Belova, a
country neighbor of the Rostovs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions
at the shrines of the Moscow saints. She suggested that Natasha should
fast and prepare for Holy Communion, and Natasha gladly welcomed the
idea. Despite the doctor's orders that she should not go out early
in the morning, Natasha insisted on fasting and preparing for the
sacrament, not as they generally prepared for it in the Rostov
family by attending three services in their own house, but as Agrafena
Ivanovna did, by going to church every day for a week and not once
missing Vespers, Matins, or Mass.

The countess was pleased with Natasha's 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
Natasha's wish and entrusted her to Belova. Agrafena Ivanovna used
to come to wake Natasha 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, Natasha, shivering in the fresh air, went out into the
deserted streets lit by the clear light of dawn. By Agrafena
Ivanovna's advice Natasha prepared herself not in their own parish,
but at a church where, according to the devout Agrafena Ivanovna,
the priest was a man of very severe and lofty life. There were never
many people in the church; Natasha always stood beside Belova 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, Natasha 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 Agrafena
Ivanovna, joyously playing with the word, called it, seemed to Natasha
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 Smolensk 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
Rostovs', promised to come to dinner next day, Sunday, and bring a
copy of the manifesto and appeal, which he would obtain from Count
Rostopchin.

That Sunday, the Rostovs went to Mass at the Razumovskis' private
chapel as usual. It was a hot July day. Even at ten o'clock, when
the Rostovs 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 Rostovs'
acquaintances, were at the Razumovskis' 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 Natasha, at
her mother's 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.

"That's Rostova, the one who..."

"She's much thinner, but all the same she's pretty!"

She heard, or thought she heard, the names of Kuragin and Bolkonski.
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, Natasha 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. "It's 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. I'm pretty, I'm 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 mother's 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 Natasha'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 Natasha.

"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 Natasha.

When they prayed for the warriors, she thought of her brother and
Denisov. 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 Sonya, 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," Natasha 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 Natasha, 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 Natasha 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 Pavlovich;
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 Natasha'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 Rostovs' with
Natasha'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. 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
Rostovs' 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 Natasha'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 Napoleon in numbers, it appears that
the sum of them is 666, and that Napoleon 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 Natasha, Antichrist, Napoleon, the invasion, the comet,
666, L'Empereur Napoleon, 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 Rostovs to bring them, from Count Rostopchin 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 Rostopchin'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 Rostov to his father.
Pierre took that letter, and Rostopchin 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 Rostov, awarded a St. George's Cross of
the Fourth Class for courage shown in the Ostrovna affair, and in
the same order the name of Prince Andrew Bolkonski, appointed to the
command of a regiment of Chasseurs. Though he did not want to remind
the Rostovs of Bolkonski, 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 Rostovs,
keeping the appeal, the bulletin, and the other orders to take with
him when he went to dinner.

His conversation with Count Rostopchin 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 Rostovs 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 Rostovs' he stayed till midnight. The Rostovs'
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 Natasha. 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 along 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.

Natasha 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," Natasha 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, Bolkonski" (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 Petya came running in from the drawing room.

Petya was now a handsome rosy lad of fifteen with full red lips
and resembled Natasha. He was preparing to enter the university, but
he and his friend Obolenski had lately, in secret, agreed to join
the hussars.

Petya 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
Petya was saying.

Petya pulled him by the arm to attract his attention.

"Well, what about my plan? Peter Kirilych, for heaven's sake! You
are my only hope " said Petya.

"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 Razumovskis' 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 Smolensk,"
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 Natasha, 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.

Natasha 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 Sonya, 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, Shinshin told them the town news, of the
illness of the old Georgian princess, of Metivier's disappearance from
Moscow, and of how some German fellow had been brought to Rostopchin
and accused of being a French "spyer" (so Count Rostopchin had told
the story), and how Rostopchin 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?" Shinshin asked. "Prince Golitsyn has engaged a
master to teach him Russian. It is becoming dangerous to speak
French in the streets."

"And how about you, Count Peter Kirilych? 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 Sonya, 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,"


Sonya read painstakingly in her high-pitched voice. The count
listened with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages.

Natasha 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. Shinshin,
with a sarcastic smile on his lips, was evidently preparing to make
fun of anything that gave him the opportunity: Sonya'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, Sonya, 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 others 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 Shinshin had time to utter the joke he was ready to make on
the count's patriotism, Natasha 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 Shinshin.

"Not a patriot at all, but simply..." Natasha 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, Petya, 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. Fedya Obolenski is younger than I, and
he's going too. Besides, all the same I can't study now when..." Petya
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."

"Petya! 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 Kirilych 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 Kirilych, let's go and have a smoke," he said.

Pierre was agitated and undecided. Natasha'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 Natasha, "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 Natasha, 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!" Natasha 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 Rostovs' any more.


CHAPTER XXI


After the definite refusal he had received, Petya 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
Rostovs' domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him.
That morning Petya 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. Petya 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 Rostov, 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, Petya 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 Petya 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
Kremlin, the less he remembered to walk with the sedateness and
deliberation of a man. As he approached the Kremlin 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 Petya stood a peasant woman, a
footman, two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing
some time in the gateway, Petya 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 Petya into a very filthy corner
of the gateway.

Petya 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 Rostovs', and
Petya 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 Petya with it, streamed forward into the
Kremlin 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 Petya found himself in the square he clearly heard the sound
of bells and the joyous voices of the crowd that filled the whole
Kremlin.

For a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were
bared, and everyone rushed forward in one direction. Petya was being
pressed so that he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted,
"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Petya 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 Petya 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, Petya, 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 Petya. "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 Petya 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 Petya- pale and
breathless- to the Tsar-cannon. Several people were sorry for Petya,
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.

Petya 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. Petya 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
kvas, gingerbread, and poppyseed sweets (of which Petya 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 Petya 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 Petya 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 Petya 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. Petya 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 Petya in a tearful voice, of those
around him, but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and
Petya, 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 Petya 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, Valuev, 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 Petya among them,
rushed toward the balcony.

"Angel! Dear one! Hurrah! Father!..." cried the crowd, and Petya
with it, and again the women and men of weaker mold, Petya 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. Petya'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. Petya 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 Petya 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 Kremlin, but called on his friend Obolenski, who was
fifteen and was also entering the regiment. On returning home Petya
announced resolutely and firmly that if he was not allowed to enter
the service he would run away. And next day, Count Ilya Rostov- though
he had not yet quite yielded- went to inquire how he could arrange for
Petya 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 Sloboda 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 Petya 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, Zinaida Dmitrievna'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 etats generaux (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 Ilya Rostov, 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 Smolensk people have offahd to waise militia for the
Empewah? Ah we to take Smolensk 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 Ilya Rostov 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 Rostov'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 tres honorable preopinant"- "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 a 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 Rostov
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, Stepan Stepanovich Adraksin. Adraksin 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, Adraksin 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 Adraksin.

"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, every one 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 Rostov 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 Rostov 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.

Glinka, 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 Rostopchin 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
Rostopchin. "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 Smolensk 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 Rostov, 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
otkupshchik. 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 otkupshchik 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 Mamonov was furnishing a regiment, Bezukhov at
once informed Rostopchin that he would give a thousand men and their
maintenance.

Old Rostov could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears,
and at once consented to Petya'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.